Page 6 of As Many Stars
But this wasn’t the time to push. Ashley needed to rest.Perhaps later Blake could ask again what that had been, what Ash had been reading, here in this sunlit literary oasis. He did not expect it to be particularly depraved, but it’d been enough for embarrassment, and Ashhadheard some of Blake’s own stories; perhaps this poem went beyond kisses and into outright sex.
Ashley had shut his eyes, supported by pillows; Blake took the teacup away from still hands, gently. Ash said, not moving, “I’m awake.”
“Of course you are.”
“I’m not an invalid.”
“Of course you’re not. Just rest for a few moments. The doctor will be here soon.” And if he wasn’t, Blake was fully prepared to kick down doors and shout and live up to his own reckless wild adventurer’s reputation.
He promised, “I’ll be right here,” and watched Ashley sleep, and thought about unspoken words, and secrets, and the depths of his own heart, which he could never reveal. And he thought about penance, and about devotion, and about his own general hedonism and unworthiness; but unworthy or not, he was here, and he would do everything in his power to see Ash awake and healthy and smiling at a book of poetry once again.
Chapter 4
The doctor arrived about an hour later, stiff-necked and bristling with self-importance; he wore a silk cravat and had snow-white cuffs, and he swept into the room exactly like a man who knew he was the most expensive Blake’s money could request.
He looked at Blake, sitting in a large dragged-over chair at Ash’s bedside; he took in the room, the roaring fire, the slightly open window. He sniffed at that. “Outside air is not recommended. Unhealthy. Insalubrious, particularly in London.”
“I’m sorry,” Blake said, getting up to shut the window. “I didn’t know.” He’d thought some flow of air might be useful—Ash had been complaining of cold, so the fire was hot, but that plus sickness made the air close and stuffy—but obviously he wasn’t a physician. “Can you help?”
“Young man.” Doctor Prym glowered at him. “This is my field, if you please. Move aside. In fact, you may remove yourself entirely; he is my patient now.”
Ash, who was more or less awake, objected drowsily, “Blake is my friend, he can stay…” and coughed.
The doctor focused upon him, rather too much like a hunting-dog upon the sight of a wealthy fox who could afford exorbitant fees. “Ah. A weakness in the lungs. Perhaps inherited? Tell me, how did your parents die?”
“A boating accident,” Blake said. “Not likely to be inherited.”
Doctor Prym’s annoyance spun toward him. “I believe I ordered you to leave.”
“The Duke of Auburndale wants me to stay.” He’d used Ash’s title on purpose; it got him some surprise from Ashley, and a glare from the doctor, but it worked.
The doctor poked at Ash for a while—listening to his heart, checking his breathing, noting his elevated temperature, asking about other symptoms—and Ash put up with this, and Blake listened, and did not interrupt. Though he wanted to. Especially when the man kept barking questions, or talking over Ash’s answers, rude and preemptory. Blake got more and more irritated.
But this would be worth the irritation. The doctor would help. He had to.
“Well.” Doctor Prym finished with Ash, and brushed his hands together as if dismissing unpleasant sensations. “You are indeed gravely ill.”
Blake, unable to stop himself, said, “Yes, which is why we sent for you.”
That earned him another scowl. “In my medical opinion, you ought not be here. I know who you are, young man. No doubt you’ve infected him with some dreadful tropical disease. Or an even more shameful complaint, given your frequenting of so many trollops’ beds.”
“I haven’t—” Blake couldn’t finish the objection. He was fairly sure Ash had already been ill. That wasn’t his fault. But maybe the doctor was right, and he was somehow making it worse. Hehadbeen to faraway places. Hehadbeen in numerous beds. Ash had been upright and working, only yesterday.
He could not say anything else. He stared at the carpet, a modern Axminster with a blue-and-cream floral pattern. The pattern mirrored the plasterwork along the walls. Good detail. Well planned.
“Blake?” Ash tried to sit up. Coughed. “Of course this isn’t your fault—”
“Maybe I should go.” The flowers and vines committed nothing either way. Thoroughly unhelpful, this carpet. “In case of—anything.”
“That’s ridiculous—” More coughing, violent, broke into Ash’s words. He finished, more shaky, “And you know it. You didn’t do this.”
Blake looked up from useless flowers, couldn’t look at Ash, shoved himself up from his chair. Paced a few steps, turned back. Toward the person who might offer aid. “Doctor Prym…what would you recommend? For him.”
The physician’s eyes gleamed. “I would recommend bloodletting. To draw out the excess. To balance the heat.”
Blake had to look at Ash, this time. At paleness, and exhaustion. “Wouldn’t that weaken his constitution further?”
“I’m right here,” Ash protested. “And I don’t like the idea either.”
