The Death of Jane Lawrence(71)

“There was an emergency,” she said, before she could stop herself.

“Of course, of course. You do him proud.” Mrs. Purl smiled, but Mrs. Luthbright sloshed out of the water with a scowl on her face.

“Well, and now we have our own emergency. No running water until we can fetch somebody to fix it from town.”

“Of course. Can I help?”

“Stay out of the way and watch for the storm to lighten.”

Cowed, Jane retreated up to Augustine’s study. She could see the road more clearly from there. She stared out at the storm and the road, willing herself to wake up. This was a nightmare. This had to be a nightmare. There was no other logic for it, beyond the impossible.

A door could not become stone. A voice could not be imprisoned in the plumbing. And yet …

She was still standing there, two hours later, when a horse appeared in the sheeting rain. Atop it, a broad man in a cap.

The walls closed in around her.

Mr. Lowell.

She was back down the stairs in what felt like an instant, pressed up against the blank stone that had been the crypt door. Her fingers scrabbled at the margins, where the stone met the wood paneling of the hall without the slightest gap, and she whispered pleas to the rock over and over. It did not budge. She wished it open with all her heart, thinking glancing thoughts of magic, but the stone remained, unmoving. Even as she heard the squeaking hinges of the main door, the rain spilling into the foyer, she tried to pry it open.

“Augustine, they need you. I can’t do this. I can’t—”

“Mrs. Lawrence! Come quick!”

She was out of time.

Shivering, Jane stepped away from the door. She marshaled all her poise and tried to drag on a shroud of cool remove, like she’d felt when seeing Mr. Renton for the first time. It came in tatters, but it came, and she emerged into the foyer to meet her fate.

Mr. Lowell’s cheeks were as flushed as if he had galloped the whole way himself, instead of the horse that panted out in the yard, unshielded from the weather. Mrs. Luthbright had gone to offer food to the animal, but it ignored her, stamping impatiently. Mr. Lowell looked much the same, gaze fixed on Jane from the moment she entered the space, ignoring Mrs. Purl at his side.

“The doctor,” Mr. Lowell said. “He is needed. Where is he?”

“Out at an emergency,” Mrs. Purl said, echoing Jane’s earlier excuse, and Jane found herself only able to nod, voice seizing in her throat.

“He is not at Thorndell,” Mr. Lowell snapped, looking away from Jane for just a moment to cast his ire on the older woman. She retreated, scowling. “Mrs. Lawrence, please, the boy is turning more poorly by the minute.”

Jane’s jaw trembled. What could she tell him? How could she give an excuse that would mean this child’s death? “He’s not here,” she said weakly.

The house gave an echoing groan.

“Not here,” Mr. Lowell repeated. “Not here?”

“He rode out last night,” she said, fisting her quaking hands in her skirts. “I don’t—I don’t know where—”

Mr. Lowell cursed. “Then it must be you, ma’am.”

“What?” She paled.

“I cannot handle this myself, and you are the next thing to a doctor Larrenton has.”

“I’m hardly a doctor,” she said, looking to Mrs. Purl, hoping for help. But Mrs. Purl was nodding with Mr. Lowell.

“You can handle yourself,” Mr. Lowell said.

“You know far more than I—”

“I carry bodies,” Mr. Lowell said sharply. “I clean up the mess.”

“I do the books!”

“A child is dying, Mrs. Lawrence. We must try. We must.”

Her protests all seemed weak, pointless, and she crumpled, covering her face with her hands. She tried to breathe. She tried to think of Mr. Renton, of her steadiness then. But she could only see his death the next morning.

But Abigail. Abigail, she had saved. She had known that Abigail would live, and so the woman had. If it was necessary—if there was no other option—

Jane grabbed her hat from where it had been placed by the door, no doubt retrieved from where it had fallen the night before. Discovered, likely, incongruously, in the kitchen. Jane shuddered but donned it all the same, ignoring the faint whiff of ether that still clung to it. Mrs. Purl supplied her with one of Augustine’s oiled overcoats, and then she was out of Lindridge Hall, following after Mr. Lowell, hoisting herself onto the horse just behind him. The two of them barely fit together, and the horse danced to the side in irritation.

But Jane was outside of Lindridge Hall. A sudden wash of relief flooded her, followed by peace, and she fought the urge to lean forward against Mr. Lowell’s broad back. The horse began picking its way down the muddy road, and she rocked with each step, her nerves subsiding.

She was not a doctor, not a nurse, either, but she would find something that could be done. Abigail was proof of that.



* * *



THE BOY, NO more than ten, was curled by the fire on a hastily made nest of blankets. He had sweated through them already, though, and his cheeks were flushed red. The ceramic basin beside him was filled with an oily, thin vomit, and his mother hurried to clean it out when she saw Mr. Lowell and Jane appear in the doorway.