How to Heal the Marquess by Sally Forbes
Chapter Five
“How long have you been feeling ill, your lordship?” Arthur Gibson asked as he examined the ailing duke.
Lord Berbrook shrugged weakly, looking away from Arthur.
“I have been suffering from an annoying cough for a couple of weeks,” he said, almost mumbling. “But apart from that, I am perfectly healthy.”
Arthur tried to study the duke’s face, but he kept it turned away from the physician. However, a glimpse at the duke’s eyes told Arthur the truth. Lord Berbrook had been ill for at least a couple of months and likely longer than that.
Arthur had seen many cases like the dukes in his career, and he knew he would have to find some way to determine the truth about the duration of the illness. Of course, it was not the sole key to discovering what ailed the duke, but it was certainly instrumental. Moreover, it could render a diagnosis much faster than if Arthur had to proceed without such a piece of useful information.
Deciding honesty might beget honesty, Arthur allowed his concern for the duke’s health to show on his face.
“I am afraid that perfectly healthy is one thing you are not just now,” he said.
The duke’s eyes widened, and his already white face paled even further.
“Will I die?” he asked.
Arthur carefully examined the duke’s chest, immediately discerning how weak it was. That, combined with his high fever, further heightened Arthur’s concern. He silently confirmed his previous theory about the duke lying about his health, mentally changing his estimate of how long the duke had been sickly to around twelve weeks. In his experience, no patient’s health had deteriorated so far, especially with a weak chest, in any less than ten to twelve weeks. He was almost certain that Lord Berbrook had influenza, but he would not know for sure until he began treatment and monitored the duke’s condition from then on.
“My daughter and I will take the best of care of you, my lord,” Arthur said, finishing his exam. “You need only rest and relax, and we shall take care of the rest.”
He turned from the ill duke and looked at his daughter, feeling a tug at his heart because of the distressed expression on her face. She looked so much like her mother, especially when tending to the patients.
Though, unlike her mother, Daisy was adept at pushing aside her emotions for the moment and rendering aid in any way she could. Though Arthur knew she could never practice medicine on her own, he would always be proud of her medical skills and aptitude.
Quickly, he motioned for Daisy to bring him his medical bag, which she did promptly. She stood silently as he rummaged through his supplies, searching intently for the herbal tonic he used to help his patients with a wheezing, weak chest. When he did not find it, his heart and his hopes sank.
He doubted the duke would expire so suddenly, but it certainly was not impossible. Patients always fared at least marginally better if there was no delay in administering their medicine. However, it was a gamble Arthur was now forced to take.
With an agitated sigh, he turned to face his daughter.
“I must go and fetch some more tonic from Ambrose’s shop,” he said, cursing himself silently for allowing himself to run out without replenishing his supply.
Daisy nodded immediately, touching his arm gently and giving him a reassuring smile.
“You have been very busy as of late, Father,” she said as though reading his thoughts. “Do not blame yourself for running out. And do not fret. I shall watch over the duke while you are gone, and I will care for him very diligently.”
Arthur smiled at his daughter gratefully. He knew he had no choice and that the duke would, indeed, be in the best care possible. But he also knew that the duke and his family likely would not be pleased that a woman was caring for him. There was nothing to be done for it, however. He must go into town and get the tonic. Without it, the duke would surely die, and rather soon.
“You are such a good daughter, Daisy,” he said, giving her a quick farewell kiss on the cheek. “I shall return straightaway.”
Daisy nodded again, giving her father a bright, confident smile. He could not help noticing her eyes looked fatigued, despite her apparent eagerness to help as much as she could. She was always eager to help him, and he never ceased to be thankful for and proud of her.
As exhausted as he was, he would do twice the work he was currently doing if it meant his daughter would not experience a moment of fatigue. He loved her dearly, and he did not wish her to experience the discomfort of having too little rest as he did.
Without further delay, Arthur exited the duke’s bedchambers, stepping into the passageway. As he did so, he walked almost straight into Lord and Lady Penwell.
“Oh, Dr. Gibson,” the dowager marchioness said, wringing her hands. “How is he?”
The marquess raised an eyebrow, no doubt wondering why Arthur was in the hallway instead of at the duke’s bedside.
“Will he be all right?” he asked, glancing at the door that Arthur had just closed.
Briefly, Arthur explained his suspicions about how long he believed the duke had been ill. He did not yet give them any diagnosis because, in part, he could not yet be sure precisely what was wrong with the duke.
But part of him also believed the duke did not have long enough to live to be concerned with a precise diagnosis. He said none of this, however. Instead, he finished simply by explaining where he was going and why and that Daisy would tend to Lord Berbrook and bring down his fever in his absence.
“No,” the marquess said firmly and loudly enough for his voice to echo down the hallway in which they stood. “It is utterly unacceptable for my grandfather to be left in the care of a woman.”
Arthur drew in a deep breath, holding it for a moment before expelling it gently. He knew well to expect such reactions, especially from gentlemen. It was no secret that it was considered inappropriate and unacceptable for women to tend to a patient’s medical needs.
He personally found such beliefs to be ludicrous, as Daisy had proven herself adept in many medical situations and, in some, to be even more skilled than he himself was. However, under normal circumstances, he would set aside his beliefs and stay with the duke rather than leaving Daisy with him.
This was far from a normal circumstance, though. He was out of the medicine the duke desperately needed, and he had to be the one to go out and get it. And he was far too exhausted and drained of energy to argue with anyone about the situation. If the marquess and his family wanted the duke to get the treatment he so desperately needed, they would simply have to make do with the situation as it was.
He stood up as straight as his fatigue would allow and looked the marquess of Penwell in the eye.
“Your grandfather is in very capable hands,” he said. “I do not need to tell you how critical it is that I get this tonic as quickly as possible. Every moment counts when a patient is as sick as your grandfather, and we must not spend those moments bickering. Daisy will take excellent care of the duke. You have my word on that, my lord.”
Arthur started to step around the marquess to leave, but the young man blocked his path.
“I respect that you are a physician,” he said, his voice clearly indicating he did not respect that fact right then. “But how can you, as a man and a doctor, be certain that she will not let him die in your absence? Why can you not send her for this tonic that you need?”
Arthur did not bother to hide his agitation as he met the marquess’s gaze once more.
“Because she is my daughter,” he said, as though that should have been obvious. Surely, they were not the only the people in the ton who did not know that he brought his daughter to help many patients. “She is more qualified than many doctors, and I am certain of that because I taught her personally. Now, please, allow me to fetch your grandfather’s medicine.”
To his surprise, the marquess stepped aside, wearing an expression of both shock and shame. Before Lord Penwell could try to stop him again, he moved past him, rushing down the stairs and back out of the front door to the manor. He could feel eyes on his as he went, but he did not worry about it just then. He had spoken out of turn, but time truly was of the essence. The gentry did not always know best, as they thought they did. He had been speaking the truth: time was of the essence.
He was also angered by the implication that his dear daughter was not capable enough to be trusted with the task of looking after a sick man for an hour or so, though he would never say as much.
But nor was he worried about the consequences of his actions. He could deal with any tongue lashings and angry nobility when he returned. His only concern at that moment was fetching the medicine the ailing duke needed and trying to save his life.
