C. Harris - Why Kings Confess

The liveried coachman brought his horses to a standstill.

Jarvis chose his words carefully, obviously conscious of the listening servants. “I’ve no doubt that by now you know what’s at stake here. Given your oft-stated attitudes toward this war, I should think you would be anxious not to do anything that might interfere with a process that could save lives. Millions of lives.”

“Oh? And when have you ever cared about saving lives?”

Jarvis’s face lit up with what looked like a genuine smile. “Seldom. However, I am well aware of which arguments are most likely to appeal to you. And what is at stake here is real.”

Sebastian studied his father-in-law’s arrogant, self-satisfied face, the aquiline nose and brutally intelligent gray eyes that were so much like Hero’s. Sebastian knew of no one who was a more ardent supporter of the institution of hereditary monarchy than Jarvis. In Jarvis’s thinking, Napoleon Bonaparte was an upstart Corsican soldier of fortune whose ambition-fueled ascension to the throne of France threatened to undermine every foundation of civilization and the social order. All of which made it exceedingly difficult for Sebastian to believe that Jarvis would countenance any peace treaty that might result in Britain’s retirement from the field of battle, leaving Napoleon still enshrined as Emperor.

Sebastian said, “I fail to understand how my simple inquiries could possibly threaten even such a delicate process.”

“You don’t know everything.”

“Oh? So enlighten me.”

But Jarvis simply tightened his jaw and signaled his coachman to drive on, the horses’ hooves clattering over the paving stones, the body of the carriage swaying with well-sprung delicacy as the team picked up speed.

L ater that afternoon, when none of the older women Gibson typically hired to sit with his most critically ill patients was available for the approaching night, he had Alexandrie Sauvage wrapped in a blanket and carried next door to the inner chamber of his own house.

“You don’t need to do this,” she whispered hoarsely as he tucked his worn quilt around her.

“Yes, I do.”

She was showing hopeful signs of improvement, but her eyes were still dull with fever, her cheeks hollow, her flesh like hot, dry parchment to the touch. She let her lids flutter closed, and he thought she slept. Then she said, “My woman, Karmele, is a good nurse. You could send for her.”

“I will.” He started to move away, then barely bit back a gasp when, without warning, a burning jolt of agony shot up his leg, as brutal and real as if someone had thrust a red-hot poker into the sole of his left foot.

The foot that was no longer there.

She opened her eyes and fixed her gaze on his face. “You’re in pain. Why?”

He shook his head. “I’m fine.” And when he knew from the incredulity of her expression that she didn’t believe him, he said, “I sometimes get pains from my missing foot and leg. It will pass.”

“There is a way-”

“Hush,” he said, smoothing the covers over her. “Go to sleep.”

He didn’t expect her to listen to him, because he was learning that she was not the most cooperative of patients. But to his surprise, she did.

He went to settle in the chair beside the fire and carefully removed his peg leg. It did no good; the pain persisted, so intense now that if his left foot had still been attached to his body, he’d have been tempted to whack it off himself, just to end the agony. But you can’t amputate a limb that isn’t there.

He felt the sweat start on his face, and a fine trembling made his hand shake as he brought up one crooked arm to swipe his sleeve across his forehead. The urge to set his mind free from the pain, to escape into the sweetly hued dreams of laudanum, was damned near overwhelming. He had to grit his teeth, his hands clutching the arms of the chair, his gaze fixed on the fever-racked woman who lay in his bed.

And he found himself wondering if this was why he had brought her here, why he resisted sending for her woman. If he were only fooling himself, convincing himself that he was fighting to save her life when the truth was that by her very presence, she was saving him.

“T he problem, my lady, is that your humors are out of balance.”

Richard Croft, the most distinguished and respected accoucheur in Britain, stood with his back to the fire, his chin sunk deep into the folds of his snowy white cravat. In his early fifties, he was a slight man with wisps of fading pale hair that fell from a slightly receding hairline. Like his face, his nose was long, his chin pronounced, his lips thin and drawn, as if he were constantly tightening and sucking them in disapproval.

Hero sat in a nearby chair, her hands in her lap, her maid standing behind her. “I feel fine,” she said.

“Ah.” Croft tsked and shook his head with a deprecating smile that filled Hero with an undignified urge to box his ears. “You may feel fine, but unfortunately that does not mean that all is as it should be. What did you eat yesterday?”

Hero told him.

Croft fluttered his soft white hands in horror. “But that is far too much! You must take only a cup of tea for breakfast, and not before ten. Then, at two, you may have a bite of cold meat or some fruit-but not both. Your dinner must be equally sparse-a thin soup, perhaps, or some fowl with a small serving of well-cooked vegetables. Bland, of course.”

“If I reduce myself to the regime you suggest, I shall soon be too weak to walk across the room.”

“But that is precisely the idea, my lady!”

“I was reading an article yesterday written by a Dr. Agostina DeFiore at the University of Padua-”

“A woman?” sputtered Croft. “An Italian woman?”

“-who argues that while a woman should take care not to gain too much weight, it is nevertheless important that she continue to consume a varied and adequate amount of healthy foods. To do otherwise not only debilitates the health of the mother, but also puts the child at risk.”

“Utter nonsense, I’m afraid.” He cleared his throat. “I trust you have been taking the purges I prescribed?”

“They don’t agree with me.”

“They are not supposed to agree with you! They are designed to bring your humors back into balance. My lady, I beg of you; you must trust me in this.” He brought up his hands, palms together, as if he were praying. “Your color is too robust, and you have far too much energy. At this point, patients who follow my strictures are pale and languid, as befits a woman about to give birth. I shall have to bleed you again.”

Hero watched in silence as he turned to remove a basin and lancet from his satchel.

“Most severely, I’m afraid,” he said. “Under the circumstances, I suspect that to take any less than two pints would be folly.”

“Two pints?”

“Yes, my lady,” he said, advancing on her with his lips cinched tight and his eyes weary with benign contempt for the weaker sex, with whose folly he struggled daily.

• • •

By the time Sebastian reached Brook Street, a light snow had begun to fall, big, soft, white flakes that fluttered down to stick to the pavement and the iron railing guarding the area steps.

“Bit wet out there, my lord?” asked his majordomo, Morey, as he took Sebastian’s hat, greatcoat, and gloves.

“I suspect we’re in for a good deal more of this before nightfall.” Sebastian’s gaze fell on the modest gentleman’s hat resting on a nearby chair. “I take it Richard Croft is here?”

“Yes, my lord. He-”

The majordomo broke off as a loud rattling clatter sounded from above.