Page 76 of Trouble

It was on the tip of Emily’s tongue to say that it was almost the same thing, but she stopped herself. That was not fair.

If the Edwards family had shown her anything these past months, it was that everybody wore their grief differently: Grace, inclined to love even harder; Aster, feeling angry and alone; the captain, retreating into himself, not able to reach out for his own family, who would understand the most.

Emily had always been the sort to leap into action – to see what could be done, to make plans and try to think ten steps ahead.

But that wasEmily’s way, not her mother’s. And while Emily would never be able to completely forgive her for her lack of effort, she could at least understand that mourning her father had been something entirely different for her mother, who had lost a husband. She was mourning still, in a way that Emily was not.

If forgiveness was out of reach, she could at least extend a little grace.

‘Thank you,’ Emily said quietly.

Her mother nodded, short and sharp, and then went back to her vegetables.

Emily did not sleep. She sat in the chair, watching Amy breathing, and did sums in her head. They could summon the doctor again a handful more times, but it would do no good if he had nothing useful to say. They could put their hopes into whatever thismedicinewas that he was selling, but it would likely use up every last bit of her wages. The two sovereigns she had sent home had already been spent. They at least had good food from Fairmont to sustain them for a few days; if only Amy was able to sit up and eat it.

In the morning, not long after the muted peach of sunrise, there was a firm rap at the front door. Emily’s mother answered it, and a minute later a man in a very nice coat with a polished leather bag knocked on the half-open bedroom door and waited to be admitted.

‘Miss Laurence?’ he said. ‘And Miss Laurence. I suppose I can assume that the one abed is the one in need of assistance.’

‘Who .?.?. are you?’ Emily said, confused.

‘Dr Abingley,’ said the man, putting down his bag and opening it with a snap. ‘Your mother mentioned that you have already seen a local doctor, but I wonder if you might be in need of a second opinion.’

‘Yes,’ said Amy. Emily hadn’t realised she was awake. Her face was flushed and her voice was thin, but at least she was talking. ‘Dr .?.?. Johnson. He said there was nothing to be done but rest, but then .?.?. we did lack the means to pay him to say much more.’

‘All right,’ said Dr Abingley, ignoring this obvious indication that they certainly had no more money to payhimthan they did Dr Johnson. ‘Let’s have a look at you, then. Miss Laurence, you are very welcome to stay and chaperone, but if you could move aside .?.?.’

Emily watched, stilling the questions on her tongue, as he subjected Amy to a gentle, thorough examination, and then quizzed her for upwards of half an hour about the nature of her illness. She had never known a doctor so willing to stay put for so long, without glancing pointedly at his pocket watch or implying that more funds would need to be forthcoming if he were to stay any longer.

‘Right,’ Dr Abingley said, once he had finished. ‘I can give you something for the fever and inflammation, and that should calm things down. You’ll need to take medicine daily, and a change in diet is in order. Miss Laurence, I will speak with you downstairs in a moment.’

‘Am I dying?’ Amy said, with a sort of calm, measured interest that made Emily’s heart hurt.

‘No,’ said Dr Abingley. ‘I don’t expect so, unless you plan on colliding with a carriage or leaning too far out of your window after I’m gone. There are a few things I want to discuss with some colleagues of mine, to get their recommendations. I will return in a few days with my findings, and to see how you are getting on. How does that sound?’

Amy blinked at him, and then closed her eyes. ‘That sounds just fine.’

Emily walked from the room and burst into tears in the darkness of the corridor, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth to try to stifle her sobs. She could still hear Dr Abingley talking to Amy in that brusque, reassuring voice. She could have listened to it forever.

She went downstairs and took a drink to compose herself, and then wiped her face and stood up straight and listened attentively when Dr Abingley came down to give her instructions, nodding and agreeing as if she had the means to produce endless fresh vegetables and good quality meat for Amy to eat.

Mrs Laurence sat in the corner, listening, and after he had departed, she looked at Emily with a frown.

‘Where did he come from, then?’

‘I .?.?. don’t know,’ said Emily.

‘And how on earth are we to pay him?’

‘He didn’t seem to want paying,’ said Emily.

The days continued in a strange fug, during which Emily was practically glued to the chair at Amy’s bedside. She helped her to drink, and to take her medicine. She helped their mother clean her as best she could with a damp cloth, ignoring Amy’s weak complaints. She spent what felt like months, or years, watching for the rise and fall of Amy’s chest and being grateful every time it came, and only slept when her mother relieved her.

‘Stop watching me, you crackpot,’ Amy murmured a few days later, as day slipped into evening outside the window. ‘I cannot sleep if I’m worried you’ll be looming over me the entire time.’

‘Come over here and fight me, then,’ Emily said.

‘I will in a moment,’ said Amy. ‘Just gathering my strength, and then you’re in a world of trouble.’