Page 116 of The Summer Country
“All right, all right.” Mr. Turner rose. He bowed courteously, but Emily noticed he kept his distance, making no attempt to shake hands. “Mr. Fenty, Miss Dawson, if you’ll forgive me? I’ve overstayed my time. Nathaniel—”
Dr. Braithwaite stepped back, away from him, holding up a hand to ward off contact. “Give my most sincere expressions of affection to Aunt Ada and my cousins. Tell them to drink no water that isn’t first boiled.”
“We’ll hardly have to worry at Belle View. But yes, I’ll tell her. She can blame you when the servants leave us.”
“Tell them they’ll be glad for it by and by. Better to sweat and live.”
“Emily?” Emily’s attention was abruptly wrenched back to her cousin as he tugged at her sleeve. “I might—I might have had one too many.”
Emily regarded Adam with dawning alarm. “I thought you only had one cup.”
“I’m not—I’m not feeling so clever.”
Adam’s face looked more green than pink. Doubling over, he sprayed the contents of his stomach all over Mrs. Turner’s Aubusson rug.
Emily started forward, but Dr. Braithwaite flung out an imperious arm. “Don’t. I’ll see to him.”
“It might just be the rum.”
Dr. Braithwaite made an attempt to hold her back. “Would you stake your life on that?”
Emily pushed him impatiently aside. “If that’s what it is, I’ve already been exposed.” She knelt by her cousin, feeling his head with the back of her hand, supporting him with her arm. “Adam? Adam, how are you feeling?”
Adam groaned. “I’ve been sick, haven’t I?”
“All over the rug,” said Emily, with a cheerfulness she was far from feeling. Outside, she could hear the cry of Mr. Turner’s coachman, the crack of the whip, the clatter of hoofbeats as Mr. Turner’s carriage rattled away, fleeing the sickness. “Just like the time you gobbled all the jam tarts, you big greedyguts. We’re going to get you cleaned up and get you to bed.”
She looked to Braithwaite, and he nodded. “You’d best keep him here. I’ve my rounds to make, but I’ll attend him when I can.”
“The servants . . . ?”
“All gone to Belle View except for one kitchen maid and a boy to tend my horse and gig.” Sliding an arm under Adam’s shoulders, Dr. Braithwaite said, “Come along, Mr. Fenty. Do you think you can stand?”
“Dizzy.” With Dr. Braithwaite’s help, Adam lurched to his feet, wincing in pain. “Christ, my stomach.”
“Let’s get you upstairs.”
Emily looked back over her shoulder. “The rug—”
“I’ll burn it.” At Emily’s expression, he added, “My uncle can afford another.”
Together, they managed to get Adam out of his coat and boots and into a bed in a small bedroom at the back of the house, away from the street side.
They stood looking at each other across the foot of the bed. Dr. Braithwaite said, “It’s no use to try to persuade you to go, I imagine.”
Emily shook her head. “What would be the point now?”
“You’re not concerned about your reputation?”
“If I were to put my reputation before my responsibilities, then I would be a poor character, indeed,” said Emily warmly. “I don’t care what busybodies think, but I do care for my own good opinion.”
Dr. Braithwaite raised his brows. “There’s no possible answer to that. I’ll leave laudanum for you. It will help him rest—and it does seem to do some good. I’m not sure why, but it does.” He looked at Emily’s vomit-splashed skirt and jabbed a finger at it. “Burn that too. Or at least boil it.”
“And wear what?” Emily looked down at her own maltreated frock. “I wasn’t intending to make an extended visit.”
“I have to get back,” said Dr. Braithwaite, beating a hasty retreat. “Help yourself to anything you need from my aunt’s wardrobe.”
Emily remembered Mrs. Turner’s gown, a miracle of French fashion. Aside from being entirely impractical for tending sickbed, it most likely cost enough to rebuild the roof of Peverills.
