Page 72 of Taken By the Broken Duke
The address that Horatio had been given was the first of those houses. It nestled upon a raised bank of grass with a tumbling stream winding around it before joining the river. A horse grazed contentedly on the grass to one side of the house and a trap was visible on the other side under the cover of a low brick building with an open front. A man was digging in a flower bed at the head of the garden, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. He glanced up as Horatio strode up the stone steps that led a winding path up to the house. His horse, he tied to a wooden fence that separated the house from the road.
“Good morning to you, sir,” he said cheerily.
His accent was English and similar to that of Mr. Barstow. Horatio supposed it must be local to this part of Cumbria.
“Good morning to you. I am looking for aDoctor Alistair Carmichael. Is this his home?”
The man straightened, revealing a young face, round and red-cheeked, with fair hair and sky-blue eyes.
“It was. My father built this house in 1790. But he passed away three years ago. Malaria, contracted during his travels in the tropics.” Wiping his dirtied hands on his apron, he extended one in greeting, “I am Malcolm Carmichael, his only son.”
Horatio's dismay must have been plain on his face because Malcolm immediately put a hand to his shoulder, forehead creasing.
“I am sorry, sir, if I spoke bluntly,” he frowned. “I did not expect the news to produce such a reaction. Did you know my father?”
Horatio shook his head, throat tightening, unable to find words for a moment. “No,” he finally choked, “I had never met him, but my wife is ill. Gravely ill. And your father was our last hope.”
Malcolm’s brows knit in concern. “Well, I am also a physician,” he said quickly. “Perhaps I can help? What are her symptoms?”
Horatio stared at him for a moment, feeling stupid that he had not even enquired about the man’s occupation.
“I… I do not know if it has a name. She suffers a terrible weakness, accompanied by coughing and great difficulty in getting warm. She is deathly pale and has been having fainting fits.”
Malcolm listened intently, stroking his chin with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, leaving a smudge of dirt behind. “It could be close to anything with those symptoms,” he mused. “What does her own doctor think?”
“She has no doctor,” Horatio admitted grimly. “She has hidden her illness for... I don’t know how long. Her mother died of the same condition.”
“Ah, a hereditary condition? That narrows it down,” Malcolm said, brightening. “Well, I shall be happy to consult. Forgive me, I have not asked your name or that of your wife.”
“I am Horatio Templeton, Duke of Ravenscourt. She is Miss Juliet Semphill… and well, we are—”
Horatio was about to explain why he referred to Juliet as his wife when they were not yet wed, when Malcolm suddenly grabbed at his arm, fingers digging in. His eyes were wide and mouth slack.
“Semphill? Did you just saySemphill?”
“Yes. Her mother was Judith...”
“Judith, yes!” Malcolm shouted, “My father wrote of her extensively. He never solved the problem of her illness during his lifetime and he died seeking the cure. I carried on his work based on his notes. But I did not know that any had survived from that family. I knew that Judith and her husband were deadand the house destroyed in a fire. This is remarkable! How far along is she?”
“I… I do not know,” Horatio blinked, momentarily taken aback. “She is very weak and I could not wake her this morning—”
“Pale? Thready pulse? …Err, wheezing when she breathes?”
“Yes! All of those things,” Horatio quickly nodded.
“And you could not wake her. There is no time to waste. This is a disease of the blood, a wasting disease that atrophies the lungs and heart. The weakness comes from lack of blood reaching the brain in sufficient quantities. At least, a lack of healthy blood. I do not know if I can reverse the decline, but there is an experimental process that I devised that might work. It will either help her or kill her.”
“Anything! If we do nothing, she will die anyway. Anything!” Horatio pressed.
Malcolm's jaw firmed and he grabbed Horatio's hand, squeezing it tightly.
“I will gather my equipment and follow you in the trap.”
It took moments for Malcolm to gather the required equipment in a battered leather bag and to harness his horse to the trap. But to Horatio, it felt like an hour, during which he begrudged every second.
Finally, he was leading the trap back through the streets of Carlisle for the inn,the Swan. In the stable yard, Horatio wasted no time, swinging out of the saddle and tossing the reins to a bewildered stable hand. Malcolm did likewise after the trap had clattered into the yard. He leaped from his seat, bag in one hand. The two men raced for the inn and Horatio led the way up to the room in which Juliet lay. Graeme sat on the floor outside the door. He scrambled to his feet as Horatio approached.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but the landlady turfed me out—said it wasn't decent for me to be in there. She's watching over Miss Semphill with her daughter.”
