Page 56 of Destined to be a Duchess
But if I meet my end here because of our two-second lapse of judgement, I will be sure to choose Moorhaven Manor as my haunting grounds,she thought bitterly.
Her attempt at humour did little to distract her. She continued her observation, waiting for De Laurier to finish his task. It wasdifficult to make out much more from her seat. Drapes hung heavily over the windows, admitting only a sliver of light inside.
The sun cast onto a wooden examination table. Suddenly, Marianne’s mind flashed with the image of a man who looked like Anthony—the late duke—lying helplessly on the table as De Laurier used his tools on him.
She gulped as a drawer groaned open, and De Laurier slipped the journal inside. Finally, he placed his elbows on the desk and looked at Marianne with steely grey eyes.
“Mrs Battersby,” he began. “Your husband wrote concerning a recent onset of migraines and swelling around the skull and ears. He suspected the King’s Evil.” At this, De Laurier grinned. “I fail to see why you have come to me and not to London if your husband writes true.”
Marianne assumed that was a joke and attempted to laugh. The sound came out strangled, and she promptly cleared her throat.
“Yes, precisely that.” She could not bring herself to look at the doctor, worried he would see the deception in her eyes. “It started a few weeks ago, and the symptoms have come on rapidly. My husband heard through word of mouth that you were one of the most talented healers in all of Norfolk—perhaps all of England.”
“I have known my share of successes, certainly.” He looked down his nose at her. “Though I would not call myself ahealer, so much as a disciple of science. And you are not my usual clientele, I will admit. Alas, your husband promised to meet my fare.”
At this, he held out his hand. Marianne nodded and retrieved the five pounds Anthony had given her to cover the cost of the consultation.
She placed them in his palm, slipping her fingers out before he could close his hand around hers. He counted the coins, filling the air with a softchink, chink, chink. Marianne’s eyes flicked to the clock behind De Laurier. She needed to keep the charade going long enough to convince him she genuinely needed his help.
“All seems to be in order,” he announced, placing the coins into a small bowl beside him. He took out a different journal, flicking to a new page as he scribbled down Marianne’s symptoms.
“That’s an impressive collection of tools,” Marianne noted, nodding towards the cabinet. “Do all disciples of science use similar instruments?”
“Only those who are interested in progress, Mrs Battersby.” He paused his writing, turning to admire his cabinet. “You need not worry. Those are not for you.”
“No?” She tried to sound nonchalant, unsure whether she had succeeded. “Do you only use those on your most special customers?”
“On men who hold science in as high esteem as I do,” he corrected, setting the quill back in its stand. “Now, Mrs. Battersby, I can understand why you might be alarmed by your symptoms, but there could be numerous explanations for what ails you.”
De Laurier narrowed his eyes, leaning forward to inspect her. Marianne recoiled on instinct, relieved when he pulled back. “We will need to examine the neck. First, have you experienced any fever or malaise in the last few weeks?”
“I don’t think so ... Frankly, I’m not sure,” she replied, looking at the instruments on his worktable. The sight of bottled tinctures with worn labels brought back memories of her mother’s illness. She took in a fortifying breath. “It really is just the swelling that concerns us. Perhaps there is something you can give me to reduce it without the need for an examination?”
The physician’s lips formed a hard line. This man was not used to being defied, and Marianne being a woman likely didn’t help matters. In the end, De Laurier didn’t dignify her question with a response. He rose from his desk and flexed his bony fingers, signalling for Marianne to tilt her head back.
The floorboard creaked beneath him as he approached with his fingers outstretched. Marianne shivered at the thought of De Laurier’s hands on her—still not knowing what he had done, if anything, to the Duke of Westden. She scooted the chair back, prepared to make an excuse and leave or shout for help when the sound of a door slamming open in the adjoining room made her launch into a stand.
De Laurier blinked. “What the devil was that?” he murmured to himself. “A moment, Mrs Battersby.”
As if I'm going anywhere.
The physician stormed out of the room, closing the door behind him. Raised voices filtered through the wall—where Anthony was exacting his own portion of the plan, keeping De Laurier busy long enough for Marianne to search his office thoroughly.
“It might help if I knew what I was looking for,” she said through gritted teeth, shivering as she processed her near escape from De Laurier’s clutches.
Anthony had told her to look through De Laurier’s journals, hoping he would find notes on his father. That seemed a decent place to start. Marianne tore through the drawers of the physician’s desk, her heart hammering in her ears.
There was nothing to be discovered in the first drawer: empty journals, a book on something called Galvanism, and letters that would have taken hours to sort through. The second yielded just as little evidence, and Marianne begged silently for divine assistance as she yanked free the bottom drawer.
“Just my luck ... it’s empty,” she hissed, pressing it shut.
The argument raged on outside the office. Whatever Anthony was saying to De Laurier kept him irate and distracted. Marianne hummed in frustration, turning in a circle as she looked around the room ...
The tinctures in their little bottles. She hurried over to the doctor’s worktable, shifting through the flasks on display. Worn paper labels hung from strings, reading crude ingredients in some instances and the names of medicines in others. She found familiar-sounding names: laudanum, a carminative, cordials ... and others she knew nothing about, like blue mass.
Nothing led back to the late duke. She opened the glass cabinet, scanning the shelves for something of interest.
Many of the bottles on the second shelf had the same label, numbered and sporting different initials, and were organised by date. Marianne turned one of the flasks towards her, scrutinizing the chicken scrawl writing.
