She slumped over the chamber pot, forehead resting upon her arm, half of her wine-and-brandy curls tumbling randomly from dislodged pins. On one skein, two pins still clung to the length, having failed in their duty.
He knelt beside her, gently brushing a silken strand from her cheek. Her color fell somewhere between paper and cabbage.
“Oh, God,” she panted. “Mr. Shaw? Please … you must leave …” Her right arm clutched her middle. “I am going to be …”
For the next two minutes, she heaved terribly, her fragile bones shaking until he thought she might shatter. He stroked her back, feeling the delicate latticework of her ribs and spine through thin, pink muslin.
From behind him came a hiss of outrage. “Mr. Shaw, it is most improper—”
“Mrs. Frelling, would you be so good as to fetch a shawl?” He did not care that his tone was clipped. He used his strength to brace Phoebe Widmore against the rough spasms. “Tea and bread, as well.”
As the storm began to calm, he gently gathered her half-loosened hair in his hand, then began unpinning the rest from her unraveled knot. Soon, he was able to plait the cool, silken mass.
He’d done this for his mother countless times. Toward the end, her skin had been more gray than green or white, as though life had already departed and left cold ash in its stead.
Blinking, he forced the memories back into their box. He sent the box back across the sea to India, where it belonged.
Phoebe Widmore was not his mother. She was a girl who was dreadfully ill, panting and weak. She needed his help.
He continued stroking her back.
“You are—you are good at this,” she rasped. “But you shouldn’t be here. It is improper.”
“I am merely a servant, Miss Widmore. Much like a butler or footman. Pay me no mind.”
Her shoulders shuddered again, this time with dry, rusty laughter. “Servant. Not likely.”
“Mmm. What makes you think so?”
“I just do.”
She was beginning to relax. That was good, but he did not wish for her to fall asleep hunched over the chamber pot.
“Come.” Looping her slack arm around his neck, he gently repositioned her so he could lift her in his arms. She made a few protesting noises, but did not struggle.
She was exhausted. Pale and small-boned and hollow-eyed. He carried her to the bed, wondering what her sister had been thinking to leave her in that miserable house, alone and ill.
Why would Glassington’s markers be more important to Augusta Widmore than her sister’s welfare?
As he laid her upon the coverlet, blue eyes caught his. They were underscored by dark circles and already listing closed every few seconds. “Mr. Shaw,” she whispered, grasping his hand in her soft, cold grip.
He glanced down, wondering how her skin would look next to his, should he remove his gloves.
“Thank you for taking care of me, but I really must see Mr. Reaver.”
“He is not here.”
“Augusta, then. I want to speak with my sister.”
He searched the room for a spare blanket, finding one at the foot of the bed. Carefully, he drew it over her.
“Please, Mr. Shaw.”
“I shall send a message to your sister. One imagines she will wish to speak with you, as well, when she discovers you are residing here.”
“Here? Don’t be silly.”
He sniffed. “Well, it hasn’t a jot of feminine charm, I admit, but it’s a cut above that rat-ridden hovel—”
“I cannot stay here, Mr. Shaw. It is a gentleman’s club. I may be from Hampshire, but even I know a young lady should not be lodging in a gaming hell.”
“Reaver’s is hardly a hell. And no one will know.” He heard the clink of the tea tray as Mrs. Frelling returned. “Now, don’t fret about it. Mrs. Frelling’s father is a physician. He should arrive momentarily.”
Blue eyes flared. The waifish girl propped herself up on her elbows. “Physician?”
“Dr. Young. He’s advanced in years, but the old man still knows what he’s about. I can attest to that. He saved my life last summer.”
Mrs. Frelling came to stand at Miss Widmore’s bedside. “My father is a kind man, Miss Widmore. I think you will like him.”
The girl shook her head slowly, her eyes round and alarmed and … pleading. “No. No physician.”
Adam frowned. “You are quite ill. A physician is precisely what you need.”
She shook her head with more vigor. “Absolutely not. I refuse to see him.” Her eyes darted to Frelling’s wife. “I am sorry. I mean no insult.”
Mrs. Frelling grew quiet and thoughtful.
Adam grew frustrated. “Miss Widmore, with all due courtesy, only a halfwit would decline the services of a competent physician after spending the majority of the afternoon paying homage to the chamber pot.”
A tiny, delicate chin elevated. Blue eyes narrowed and sparked. “Then call me a halfwit if it pleases you, Mr. Shaw. Because that remains my answer.”
“Your answer is rubbish,” he snapped.
Mrs. Frelling cleared her throat. “Mr. Shaw, perhaps you could keep Mr. Frelling company in the sitting room whilst Miss Widmore and I have a chat, hmm?”
He frowned at both women, wondering what the devil was going on.
Mrs. Frelling wrinkled her freckled nose and nodded toward the door.
Weary of dueling with intractable females, he released a hiss and exited the chamber. Frelling sat on a small settee, examining his watch. He looked up when Adam strode to the fireplace and crossed his arms.
“Trouble?”
“She’s refusing to see a physician.”
“Rather odd. From the sound of things, she needs one.”
“Precisely what I told her. Confounding chit.”
For a while, they both fell quiet. Then Frelling offered, “Perhaps it is a female complaint.”
“Perhaps. Even so, she cannot go on like this much longer.” Adam remembered the feel of her spine and ribs. “I shan’t allow it.”
Frelling murmured his agreement and adjusted his spectacles.
Before long, his wife exited the chamber. “Miss Widmore has agreed to see my father.”
“At last,” Adam said wryly. “Sanity has prevailed.”
Mrs. Frelling shot him a strange look. “She was concerned about confidentiality. I assured her that Papa prizes discretion and will share his findings only with those she wishes to be informed.”
A knock sounded. Frelling moved to answer it.
Adam approached Mrs. Frelling and lowered his head. “Unacceptable. I cannot help her if I do not know what is amiss.”
She patted his elbow. “You may be accustomed to directing everyone and everything here at Reaver’s, Mr. Shaw. But I daresay you’ll find a young lady is quite another matter.”
He might have taken offense, except that her tone was amused and gentle. She obviously thought he was overreacting. But he wasn’t. Phoebe Widmore needed help. His help. And he’d be damned if he would permit her pointless desire for privacy to prevent him from taking action.
“Adam. It is good to see you looking so well.” Stooped and wizened, Dr. Everett Young came toward him with a smile and a palsied, outstretched hand.
Adam clasped it and gave the gray-haired physician a broad smile. “Good to see you awake, old man. Mrs. Frelling tells me you’ve taken up napping.”