Page 10 of The Heir
The doctor, of course, had been summoned. It was not the familiar Dr. Maton who came in when the door opened, but a new man.
“Dr. Clarke, ma’am,” he said as he bowed crisply, polite and businesslike. He had a frank manner about him, and when he looked her up and down, that examination was entirely objective. Victoria found herself pleased with this. Dash sniffed around his shoes and trouser cuffs and must have been satisfied, because he returned to Victoria’s side without a sound.
“Where is Dr. Maton?” Victoria asked. The “medical household” attached to the palace and her family was extensive. But since she was a child, Dr. Maton had always been the one to attend her.
“Dr. Maton is ill, I’m afraid.” Dr. Clarke set his bag down and brought out his watch and stethoscope. “He has been suffering from a stomach complaint. Now, if Your Highness will hold still while I take your pulse . . . Thank you. Now. If I may see the back of your head . . . Thank you.” His fingers were hard and impersonal as he prodded her scalp. Victoria winced and bit the inside of her cheek to hold herself still.
“Is she fevered, Dr. Clarke?” Mama wrung her hands. “Is there cough? Oh, what will I do? What will I do?” She turned to Lady Flora, but not without a swift glance back at the doctor to see how he responded.
Dr. Clarke’s demeanor did not change. Victoria decided she liked this man.
“We shall know shortly,” he said. “Did Your Highness faint at all? Does Your Highness see stars now? Face me, if you please, ma’am, so I may see your eyes . . . Thank you. Will Your Highness do me the favor of standing? Of walking to the other side of the room? And back . . . Thank you. Now, I must ask if Your Highness’s dresser may loosen the gown so I may observe the back and spine . . . Thank you.” Again, the touch on her back was firm, impersonal, unsparing. “Yes. Yes. Is there any pain here? Perhaps here? If I may, I will listen to Your Highness’s breathing . . . yes. Thank you. Your dresser may do the gown up again.”
“How is my daughter?” demanded Mama. “Must she be bled? Is there fever?”
“Her Highness is very well, your grace.” The doctor returned his watch to his pocket and his stethoscope to his bag. “I think we may count ourselves quite lucky, and thankful to God, for soft grass and perhaps the reputed hardness of the family heads. Ha ha. Ahem.” He coughed. “I detect no sign of fever nor any obstruction of the lungs. There will be some bruising, which is likely to turn a number of alarming shades before it is finished healing. But ribs, spine, and skull are all quite sound.”
“But surely she should be bled,” said Mama. “Dr. Maton would recommend an ounce at least to restore the balance of the humors after such a horrible fall.”
“With all due respect to Dr. Maton, I see no occasion for it. Her Highness is young and healthy and has sustained no serious hurt. She will be sore and has perhaps had a bit of a scare. That combination, in my opinion, can be beneficial for any rider.”
“Any other rider, perhaps, not the heir to the British throne!” cried Mama.
Dr. Clarke bowed. “I would not presume, ma’am, to comment on the heir to the throne. My recommendation for Her Highness is plain food, plenty of rest, and a slower pace going down hills.” He winked at Victoria.
“Thank you for your kind attention, Dr. Clarke.” Victoria put extra warmth into her voice, which made Mama frown harder, as she had known it would.
He bowed once more. “Your Highness. Your grace. I am, of course, at your command should Her Highness have any further complaint.”
Mama nodded coolly, by which Dr. Clarke understood—quite correctly—that he was dismissed. He left with as little fuss as he had arrived. Through the open door, Victoria saw Jane huddled alone on her stool with a mug of tea, staring into it, looking as if she was starved to death.
Mama gestured to Lady Flora, who immediately shut the door.
Victoria braced herself. The muscles in her back cried out as they tensed. She winced again. She couldn’t help it. Mama noticed, and her eyes glittered, but Victoria could not tell whom the tears were for.
“What on earth were you thinking, Victoria?” demanded Mama in German. “Were you trying to kill yourself? To ruin me?”
“Is that all?” Victoria shot back. “Your aria has one note, Mama—What have I done to you? Will you for once listen to what happened to me!”
“I know what happened! You were disobedient, petulant. You risked your life—”
“Isaw—”
Before she could get any further, Victoria heard another voice out in the sitting room. The words were not clear, but they all knew who it was. Sir John had returned.
Mama gave a grateful cry and ran out to meet him.
Victoria watched Mama fall against Sir John and weep on his shoulder. Her teeth ground together as his arm curled protectively about her shoulders. Victoria glared daggers at him, hoping he would see and let her go.
But Sir John’s attention was elsewhere.
“Go home, Jane.”
Jane made no protest. When did she ever? She simply stood and rang for the maid. Sir John watched as Betty arrived to bring her rain-dampened things. All the while, he held Mama close. Mama wept noisily, wretchedly, as if she was the one who might die. Sir John, satisfied his daughter was doing as she was told, turned his attention fully to the woman who cried her eyes out against his chest. He curled his arms protectively around Mama and patted her back, crooning to her as if she was the child.
Jane turned and walked out the door. Victoria sincerely wished she could do the same.
At last, Mama appeared to regain her strength. She pushed away from Sir John’s shoulder, and he, as if indulging a delicate child, let her go.
