Unveiled (Turner, #1)

“I don’t know anything. He’s not thrashing about. If he had gone mad, wouldn’t he be thrashing?”


Tollin looked at her, frozen in horror. And that much recalled her to her position. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t really a nurse. It certainly didn’t matter that she wasn’t Lady Anna Margaret any longer. She had to act like her today. An untrained, inefficient girl would be of no use here, and so she couldn’t be an untrained girl. There was no room for her anxiety.

She took a deep breath.

Miss Lowell, you magnificent creature, I want you to paint your own canvas. I want you to unveil yourself before the world.

Margaret straightened her spine and walked briskly forwards.

She took his wrist and felt for his pulse. His hand trembled in hers, but she found the beat, steady despite the tumultuous flow of his words. “No,” she pronounced, with more sureness than she felt. “He’s not mad.” She laid her hand against his forehead. “The only thing he’s doing is talking, and there’s no harm in that.”

“But—”

Margaret looked behind her to discover that Tollin was no longer alone. Several other servants had joined him—two of the upstairs maids, their hands clasped together, and behind them, Mrs. Benedict. Word would spread. This was how panic started. The last thing she needed was a household in chaos. She had to hold them together, to make sure that her father lived until the physician could come and see what was wrong. The physician would fix everything.

Until then, she needed to keep the servants orderly. They all needed something to do.

Margaret pulled her hand from her father’s forehead. “He’s overly warm. Tollin, I am going to need you to fetch some ice water. And extra ice from the icehouse, while you are down there.”

A few seconds of faint patter at the windows, and then came the sound of rain, pelting from the sky. Margaret shut her eyes and thought of Josephs, who was no doubt riding for the physician on horseback through the breaking storm. She felt that thread of fear pulling at her, and tamped it down. He would arrive safely. He had to.

Tollin nodded, his muscles relaxing slightly. He seemed grateful to be given something to do. She would have to assign them all tasks until the physician arrived. Yet another wave of people crowded through the door. If Margaret didn’t act, her father would be smothered by well-meaning servants.

“Mrs. Benedict,” Margaret said, “we’ll need a posset. Something sustaining—the duke will need to keep up his strength. I’m sure that Mrs. Lorens can arrange something suitable. Please send someone to the kitchens.” Mrs. Benedict met her eyes and then nodded.

Margaret leaned over her father. He was still speaking, but he was no longer shouting. Now his words came out on a whisper, a wistful stream of babble flowing over her with as much meaning as the passing water of a brook.

“I believe,” she announced with as much conviction as she could muster, “that his chest has taken an ill humor, which has caused his lungs to react in this unfavorable manner.”

Nobody contradicted this blatant idiocy; instead, heads nodded, pleased to be able to put words to his condition. Even she felt better, and she knew that she’d just invented the mysterious problem herself. Not madness, nor failure; just a lung condition, like a cough or a cold.

“We’re going to need to prepare something to draw the inflammation from his chest.” Something harmless. Something with a great many ingredients, which would keep everyone occupied until the physician arrived. “I’m going to need a brazier for the fire and some heated water. Willow water,” she said, because that would take longer to fetch. “Then cloves. A handful of crushed calendula flowers…”

She rattled off every innocuous ingredient that came to mind. So long as they kept him cool and comfortable, it was unlikely to hurt.

Outside, thunder rumbled again, and rain continued to splash down.

As an afterthought, Margaret tasked two of the maids with standing outside the room and barring entry to anyone else.

As the servants streamed out to fetch their respective items, one more person ducked his head in. It was Ash.

He frowned at Margaret and leaned against the door frame. “Miss Lowell. What’s happened?”

For the first time, a thread of fear crept through her. She’d stayed behind in part to watch over her father. The notion that Ash might do the duke harm seemed ludicrous now that she knew him. And so she didn’t fear Ash himself. But she did fear for him. She pointed her finger at him. “Don’t come any farther into the room than that chair, Mr. Turner. I mean it. Stop moving.”

“Good God, Margaret.”

“The duke is in serious condition. If anything happens while you’re present, they will say you killed him. If he dies before Parliament votes on the Dalrymples’ Act of Legitimation, you’ll inherit everything. You have a reason to harm him. I’ll not let anyone say you took the opportunity.”