The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,40
asked. “You
mentioned intervention?”
Young chose to answer Constance, rather than
Marcus. “There is a new medicine that helps regulate
the pulse. Devised by a Mr. William Withering, an
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extract from the foxglove plant.”
“Foxglove is poisonous,” Marcus snapped.
“Many varieties are toxic,” the physician agreed.
“But digitalis purpurea has proven effective in the
treatment of heart complaints. Folklorists have long
known it but the medical profession is newer to the
remedy.”
“Folklorists!” Marcus practically choked on the word.
“You think it could help Lady Spenford?” Constance
asked.
“For some patients, the effects have been
remarkable,” Young confirmed. “Something close to
full health has been restored with ongoing treatment. In
Lady Spenford’s case, I would hope for at least a
recovery from her excessive fatigue, and an easing of
the strain on her heart. Whether digitalis can strengthen
a deteriorating heart, such as I suspect your mother
has…” He clearly didn’t know the answer.
Quackery, Marcus thought. “If such restoration was
possible, Mr. Bird would have said.” Although Mr. Bird
did not, as far as Marcus knew, have a steth—whatever
that device was.
“Not all physicians favor the remedy,” Mr. Young
said. “Careless preparation reduces its efficacy, so some
haven’t found it useful. I don’t employ a chemist to
prepare my medicines. I make them myself to ensure
they’re up to standard.”
Reassuring words. But…his mother couldn’t be as ill
as Young claimed; just two days ago Mr. Bird had said
he could see no reason why Marcus’s mother shouldn’t
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continue on as she was, improving and declining by
turns.
Marcus realized now he’d ignored the declining and
focused on the improving. He’d seen Bird’s uncertainty
as confirmation that everything was in God’s
hands…and he had every reason to believe God would
keep their bargain. He’d chosen to ignore Constance’s
warnings about his mother’s deterioration. If Mama
died now…
“How do you wish to proceed?” the doctor asked
Marcus. “My own recommendation is we discuss this
with the dowager countess. Don’t be afraid, my lord,
that you will shock her. She knows the severity of her
condition.”
Unable to speak, unable to find a more palatable
alternative, Marcus jerked his head toward his mother’s
bed in agreement.
The quack was right; his mother seemed unsurprised
to learn of her limited time remaining on this earth. She
must feel worse than she’d admitted.
His mother listened carefully to the doctor, and asked
a breathless question or two.
“I wish to try this new medicine,” she said at last,
with sudden strength. “It may be a slim hope, but that is
better than no hope.”
“You have only this man’s word that there’s no
hope,” Marcus reminded her quickly.
The physician nodded at the dowager. “I will return
this evening with your first tincture. Then each day until
we determine if it is helping.” He addressed Marcus: “I
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trust that meets with your approval.”
His mother didn’t need his consent for medical
treatment, unlike his wife. But Marcus knew that if he
decreed against it, she would follow his wishes.
He’d never felt such shocking responsibility. Not
even when news of his brother’s death had been
brought to him, and he’d known he, the inadequate
second son, would one day have to step into his father’s
shoes. Not even when his father had died and made that
prospect a reality.
Nothing came close to this.
Please, God, tell me what to say.
Clear, divine instruction was not forthcoming.
Marcus cleared his throat. “Very well,” he said. “It
can’t hurt to try a new medicine.”
Mr. Young’s gaze didn’t waver. “All medical
treatment carries a risk, my lord. It’s essential to
calculate the correct dose of digitalis for each patient.
Too little, and it won’t work. Too much, and the heart
will slow too far—to the point of death.”
“No!” Marcus exploded. This was God’s answer? It
might work, or else it might hasten his mother’s death?
“My mother will not take a drug that might kill her.”
His mother looked shaken.
“Mr. Young says she has only a few days in any
case,” Constance reminded him. “If she still wishes
it…”
“Mr. Bird has given no cause for such alarm,” he
said. “Mama, I forbid you.”
Silence fell over the group.
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As Marcus watched, what little light remained in his
mother’s face went out so suddenly and completely, it
was as if someone had extinguished a lamp, leaving
them in gray, featureless twilight.
“Mama?” he said uncertainly.
“Are you certain I must not take it?” she asked. The
hand she extended trembled, and Marcus enfolded it in
his.
“It’s dangerous. You could die,” he said.
“Marcus,” she said, “every breath is harder than the
one before. Every word brings pain.”
“Then don’t talk,” he urged her.
“There are things…” She beckoned Constance,
standing behind him. Constance moved closer. “I fear
each word will be my last and I will not have said the
most…” She closed her eyes. “I love you, Marcus.”
“Mama, don’t!” He chafed her hand. She hadn’t said
that since he was twelve years old—to