Prescription and Proscription
Jane woke to the light of a single candle. She lay on the bed with her feet upon a pile of pillows. Blankets and quilts covered her, but in spite of them she felt cold. She slid her hand under the blankets to press against her stomach. It still belled outward, but she held her breath, waiting for the baby to move. Vincent’s stocking feet were propped on the edge of the bed. She followed the length of his legs up to where he sat in a chair, reading a book. A book. After sending that man to bleed her, Vincent was reading a book. Her heart raced with anger, and the room spun about her.
Her body weighed on her, and even breathing seemed to take too much effort. She tried to moisten her lips but her tongue felt stuck to the roof of her mouth. The question she most wanted to know—if the baby was all right—was too frightening to begin with, so she swallowed her fear and held on to her anger for a moment longer. “Why?”
Vincent dropped the book, sitting up with a speed that threatened to upset his chair. “Jane!” He turned his head and spoke to the wall. “She is awake!”
Outside their room, someone ran down the hall towards the back of the house. Vincent sat on the edge of the bed, taking possession of her hand with such care that he seemed afraid he might break her.
“I am furious with you.” She tried to pull her hand away.
Vincent let her, but leaned closer. “I am so sorry. I should never have left you alone.”
“You should not have sent him at all.”
“I did not. He lied to you.” Vincent shook his head, eyes glimmering in the candlelight. Above the open collar of his shirt, his neck was flushed an angry red. “I asked Frank to send for Dr. Jones, then my father engaged me in a discussion, which seemed sincere. I can only apologise again, and again, for leaving you alone. But I did not send Sir Ronald to you.”
“You did not?”
“Unequivocally.”
“Oh.” Jane reached for his hand.
He raised her hand to his lips, kissed it, and held it there with his eyes closed. His fatigue and strain had pressed dark circles under his eyes. The mask he had worn cracked into deep furrows across his brow. Underneath that lay anguish and rage.
Light, rapid footsteps sounded in the hall, followed by a knock at the door.
“Enter.” Vincent stood, retaining Jane’s hand.
The door opened and Dr. Jones entered, wrapped in a white dressing gown. Her heavy dark hair hung down over her shoulders in a pair of braids. A young man in shirtsleeves followed her.
“How is she?”
“She is alert, this time.”
“Good. Will you light more candles, Zeus?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Without his livery on, she had not immediately recognised him.
The memory of being held down returned. The weight on her legs. His firm grip on her shoulders. Her heart beat wildly, and Jane could barely draw breath. Spots of grey swam over her vision as though she were working glamour. Jane pressed back in the bed with a low moan.
Zeus lit the candle near her, but paused after lighting the one on the far side of the bed. “Should I go out, sir?”
“Yes … I think you had better.” Vincent squeezed Jane’s hand before releasing it to walk around the bed. He took the taper from Zeus. “I will finish the candles.”
At the door, the young man paused. “I am so very sorry, madam. I did not think it would be that bad. Sir Ronald, he bleeds Lord Verbury nearly every visit.”
The doctor snorted. “There is a good deal of difference between bleeding a man who is sitting up and a reclining woman who is with child.”
The door shut behind Zeus and Jane slowly relaxed. Sir Ronald had threatened to beat Zeus. Jane was aware of that fact and knew that the young man had little choice, but she could not forget the strength of his grip so readily.
As Vincent lit candles around the room, Dr. Jones leaned over Jane and felt the pulse at her wrist. She frowned, shaking her head. “Mm. How is your hand, by the way?”
Vincent flexed his right hand, the knuckles of which were swollen and bruised. “Better, thank you.”
Jane frowned. “What happened?”
“I … I hit the wall.” He nodded to a place by the door where the plaster was cracked.
The doctor said, “I wish you had followed your original impulse.”
“My original impulse was murder.”
With a chill, Jane understood that “murder” was not a figure of speech.
“As I said…” The doctor reached for a little pot sitting on a small copper brazier and poured some of the steaming liquid into a mug. “Mrs. Hamilton, I have some beef tea. I want you to drink as much of this as you can.”
“Delightful.”