Chapter Four
“You want to search every room in the house?” Christian sat back in the chair and stared at Dr Taylor and Reverend Wilmslow seated on the opposite side of the desk. “For what purpose?”
“To determine if the source of the contagion is inside as opposed to somewhere else on the grounds.” Dr Taylor pointed to the long list of names and dates in the leather-bound book lying open on the desk. “At some point or other everyone in the house has been ill. You cannot carry on like this, my lord. Something must be done.”
“But you’ve searched the house twice, some areas more times than he cared to count.” And he’d not have them rummaging through the rooms again. “Besides, you said the sickness stems from contact with a poisonous plant.”
Dr Taylor had dragged him around the grounds of Everleigh numerous times, examining various species looking for a reason to account for the strange illness.
“Based on the symptoms — lethargy, fever, stiffness of joints — I can think of no other explanation.”
Wilmslow took another sip of his tea and placed the cup and saucer on the desk. “There’s a botanist, Hudson, who’s just returned from the Indies, spent years studying all manner of species. His theory is that the spores from some plants can get caught in clothes, can hide in all sorts of strange places.”
Christian failed to keep abreast of scientific developments. Since Cassandra’s death, his children’s happiness and the smooth running of Everleigh monopolised his time. Even so, the theory sounded improbable.
“If you’re suggesting that there are spores from dangerous plants somewhere in this house I’d have to disagree.” The idea was ludicrous. “The illness started almost two years ago. Surely nothing could survive indoors for that long.”
And yet Cassandra’s restless behaviour and constant fatigue bore a resemblance to the symptoms shown by his staff. If so, it meant that she’d come into contact with the source long before the spate of illnesses began. If only he could be sure. Perhaps he could have prevented her demise. Perhaps then he wouldn’t feel so guilty for not loving her as he should have.
Dr Taylor pushed his hand through his mop of hair. “Then we shall have to interview the staff again. We must take our search beyond the perimeter of Everleigh.”
“Dare I suggest you seek permission to venture onto Morton Manor’s land?” Wilmslow said, despite knowing how Christian felt about the old place. “And perhaps a more thorough examination of the patients might offer a clue. Any sign of a rash or swelling on the chest might help with the diagnosis.”
Dr Taylor shuffled uncomfortably in the chair. “Mrs Hibbet assured us that was not the case.”
As the youngest son of a baron, Wilmslow went to Cambridge, while Taylor attended Oxford and then studied under the previous doctor of the par
ish. Consequently, the reverend outranked him and often used the fact to press his point.
As a viscount and master of the house, Christian was grateful he outranked them both.
“Mrs Hibbet is neither a doctor nor a man of God,” Wilmslow countered. He turned his attention to Christian. “Was that a new maid I saw hovering at the bottom of the stairs? I don’t recall seeing her at church last Sunday.”
“Rose joined the staff yesterday,” Christian said as his thoughts returned to the moment he’d flagrantly ignored the rules of propriety and brushed ash from her chin.
Damn it all. He’d have to avoid her where possible.
Something happened in the air when they were in the same room. The hairs on his nape prickled sending delicious waves of excitement rippling through his body. When Rose smiled, he felt a tug deep in his core. While every fibre of his being longed for a distraction from the months of misery, he would not degrade himself or his staff by succumbing to the weaknesses of the flesh.
For heaven’s sake, she was a maid! Strictly off limits. Out of bounds. He should be blind to her full lips and beguiling blue eyes.
Guilt flared.
But he was not to blame. He was attracted to the educated lady, to the gentleman’s daughter who had no choice but to work for a living. Damn. Rose should not be working as a maid, regardless of her financial struggles. It had taken a tremendous amount of strength not to race to her aid and offer to carry the scuttle, to assist her in the mundane task. Perhaps he should offer her the job of governess, at least until he found a more permanent solution. The position would suit her gentle breeding, and he needed someone to watch over the children. But what decent father would trust his children to a stranger without references?
“My lord?” The sound of Dr Taylor clearing his throat dragged Christian from his musings. “Would you like me to examine the new maid? I suggest she takes a tonic to prevent her from contracting the illness.”
The last thing Christian needed was another member of his staff becoming ill. “Rose must give her permission before I can allow you to administer any medicine.”
Dr Taylor nodded. “Well, I’m due at the Browns to check on young Harold’s leg. Speak to your maid while I see how the rest of your staff are faring. The illness usually lasts a little more than a week, so I expect both the maids and the groom to be up and about in a few days.”
Christian stood, tugged on the bell cord and instructed Foster to find Mrs Hibbet. Since the misunderstanding with Wilmslow and another maid, Jane, Christian insisted on a chaperone.
“Of course, if one believes the gossip, there is another explanation for the bad luck you encounter here at Everleigh.” The reverend spoke in the elevated tone of those schooled by the Divine.
Wilmslow referred to the old asylum. They’d discussed the sinister goings-on there many times during the past two years. “I agree there is something morbid about Morton Manor,” Christian said, eager to put paid to any lengthy conversation on the subject. “But I do not believe in witchcraft or superstition.”
That was not entirely true. He did not believe a house could be evil but often contemplated whether the adverse experiences of its occupants had a lasting effect on any future inhabitants.