Page 56 of A Murder on London Bridge
“You fainted,” Robert said quietly. His voice was measured, but the tautness about his mouth betrayed him. “I carried you upstairs. The doctor is on his way.”
I tried for levity, though my throat felt parched. “It was merely the shock. You must not fuss.”
“You call it fuss,” he returned, his gaze fixed upon me with uncompromising intensity. “I call it nearly losing you before my very eyes.”
I reached for his hand, squeezing it, partly to comfort him and partly to assure myself that I was, indeed, still here. “Do not bar me from the committee. They need my guidance. They need my knowledge.”
“No, Catherine.” The word fell like the gavel of a magistrate. “You will not return. The matter is ended.”
Normally, I might have launched into protest. Instead, I found the strength leached from my limbs. My head still swam as though I were adrift at sea. Yet one thought burned brighter than all the rest. “Then at least ask Hollingsworth about his ancestor. I must know what became of Edmund Hollingsworth. He is the key, I am certain of it.”
His brows drew together, a thundercloud gathering. “Catherine …”
“Promise me,” I urged. Though my voice was faint, the urgency in it could not be mistaken.
For a long moment, he stared down at me, jaw clenched. At length he exhaled, resigned. “Very well. But only if you promise me this—you will rest. No tricks. No slipping back into the meeting. Rest and rest only.”
I nodded solemnly. “I promise.”
A moment later, a knock came and Grace ushered in Doctor Larson. He was as brisk as ever, spectacles sliding down the bridge of his nose as he crossed to my bedside.
“A fainting spell?” he asked, as though I were a schoolgirl guilty of malingering.
“Merely a trifle,” I replied, attempting to sound airy.
But Robert snitched on me. “She was presiding over an investigative committee meeting.”
The doctor froze, then fixed me with a look sharp enough to pierce a cuirass. “An investigation? In your condition?”
I sat up straighter, filled with indignation. “I am not an invalid, doctor.”
“You will be, Lady Rutledge, if you continue in this fashion.” He set his bag upon the night table and produced a stethoscope and then gestured me to sit forward. “Now—breathe.”
I obeyed, if only to prove how hale and hearty I remained. He listened gravely, tapped my chest, and frowned as though my very lungs had offended him. And then he took my blood pressure with the dreaded cuff.
“Your lungs haven’t been compromised, but your heart races still. And your blood pressure is a little high. You must allow yourself to recover, Lady Rutledge. Rest. Broths, teas, no stimulants. And above all, no more investigations for at least a few days.”
I cast a glance at Robert, who looked altogether too satisfied. “It seems you and my husband are conspiring against me.”
“Conspiring to preserve your health,” he replied, tucking his instruments away.
When he had gone, Grace took up her post with all the zeal of a jailer. She brought broth upon a tray, scolded me for drinking too quickly, and fussed with pillows until I thought I might suffocate in goose down.
“Grace,” I said firmly, when at last I could bear it no longer, “I am not an invalid. You need not stand guard at my bedside.”
“But, my lady?—”
“I promise to sleep. There, you see? I’m being a dutiful patient.”
She looked unconvinced, but after smoothing the coverlet one last time, she withdrew. At last, I lay back, and—despite my intentions—drifted into slumber.
When next I opened my eyes, it was evening. The soft light from a lamp the only illumination. My body felt steadier, though my mind leapt instantly to the questions that had tormented me. Edmund Hollingsworth. The Fire. The Queen.
Almost as if he’d sensed I’d awakened, Robert came through the door, his step purposeful, his expression unreadable.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Well rested,” I assured him, though my pulse had quickened at the sight of him. Could he have news? By the gleam in his eye, he did. “You know something.”
