Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels #2) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,96
cuffs of cream lace.
“Lady Berwick,” Rhys said, “this is my private secretary, Mrs. Fernsby. She’s here to assist with anything you require.”
Within five minutes, Lady’s Berwick’s apprehensions had melted into bemused pleasure as Mrs. Fernsby and the sales assistants devoted themselves to gratifying her every wish. While Lady Berwick was shepherded to the glove counter, Pandora and Cassandra roamed among the first-floor displays.
Rhys came to Helen’s side. “What’s the matter?” he asked quietly.
The bright lighting seemed to pierce into her brain. She tried to smile, but the effort was excruciating. “My head is aching,” she confessed.
With a sympathetic murmur, he turned her toward him. His big hand shaped to her forehead and the side of her face as if testing her temperature. “Have you taken medicine for it?”
“No,” she whispered.
“Come with me.” Rhys drew her arm through his. “We’ll find something at the apothecary counter to make you feel better.”
Helen doubted that anything would help, now that the migraine had sunk its claws and fangs into her. “Lady Berwick will want me to stay within her sight.”
“She won’t notice anything. They’re going to keep her busy for at least two hours.”
Helen was in too much distress to argue as Rhys pulled her away with him. Mercifully, he didn’t ask questions or try to make conversation.
They reached the apothecary hall, where the flooring changed to polished black-and-white tile. It was much dimmer here, as most of the lighting had been turned down at closing. Both sides of the hall were lined with cabinets, shelves, and tables, with a countertop peninsula extending from one of the walls. Every shelf was crowded with jars of powders, pills, liniments, and creams, as well as bottles and vials of tinctures, syrups, and tonics. Assorted medicated confectionaries had been arranged on tables; herbal cough drops, cayenne lozenges, maple sugar, and gum Arabic. Ordinarily Helen wouldn’t have minded the blend of astringent and earthy scents in the air, but in her current misery, it was nauseating.
Someone was at the peninsula, sorting through drawers and pausing to make notes. As they drew closer, Helen saw that it was a woman not much older than herself, her slim form dressed in a dark burgundy walking suit, her brown hair topped with a sensible hat.
Glancing up, the woman smiled pleasantly. “Good evening, Mr. Winterborne.”
“Still working?” he asked.
“No, I’m about to leave for a local orphanage, to visit the infirmary. I’m low on supplies, and Dr. Havelock told me to take them from the store apothecary. Naturally I’ll pay for them tomorrow.”
“The store will assume the expense,” Rhys said without hesitation. “It’s a worthy cause. Take whatever you need.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Lady Helen,” Rhys said, “this is Dr. Garrett Gibson, one of our two staff physicians.”
“Good evening,” Helen murmured with a strained smile, pressing her fingers against her right temple as a searing knot throbbed inside her skull.
“An honor,” the other woman said automatically, but she regarded Helen with concern. “My lady, you appear to be in discomfort. Is there something I can do?”
“She needs a headache powder,” Rhys said.
Dr. Gibson looked at Helen across the counter, her vivid green eyes assessing. “Is the pain all through your head, or is it focused in one area?”
“My temples.” Helen paused, taking inventory of the various searing pains in her head, as if burning coals had been randomly inserted. “Also behind my right eye.”
“A migraine, then,” Dr. Gibson said. “How long ago did it start?”
“Only a few minutes ago, but it’s rushing at me like a locomotive.”
“I’d recommend a neuralgic powder—it’s far more effective for migraines, as it includes caffeine citrate. Let me fetch a box—I know exactly where they are.”
“I’m sorry to be a bother,” Helen said weakly, bracing against the counter.
Rhys settled a reassuring hand low on her back.
“Migraines are torture,” Dr. Gibson said, striding to a nearby cabinet and rummaging through boxes and tins. “My father is afflicted with them. He’s as tough as hippopotamus hide, but he takes to his bed as soon as they begin.” Pulling out a green-painted tin with a nod of satisfaction, she brought it to the counter. “You may feel a trifle lightheaded after taking one, but I daresay that’s better than splitting pain.”
Helen liked her manner immensely, capable and friendly, not at all dispassionate as one might expect of a doctor.
While Dr. Gibson pried off the lid of the tin, Rhys took hold of a sliding wood section of the counter, pushed it back, and reached down to extract a wire stand holding four