The Wish (The Blooms of Norfolk Book 3) Read online

  His parents had married for love. Devoted to their offspring as they were, they still liked to plan some outings without their children. That day was one such outing.

  There was a small lake on the estate. His parents enjoyed taking a boat out on the water. Dusk came and went. Ambrose began to worry when his parents didn’t return home. Taking several footmen with him, he rode out to the lake.

  It had rained lightly on and off that afternoon. Now the rain came down in a torrent, making visibility difficult. The men circled the lake looking for any sign of Lord and Lady Norfolk.

  They found his father laying on the muddy shore, his wife huddled next to him. His father was dead, his mother was unconscious.

  His mother died that night of a fever. Ambrose pled with her to stay with him, with his sisters.

  “Please, mother, we need you,” he said through tears. He wasn’t sure she heard his words as she slipped quietly away.

  The doctor concluded that Lord Norfolk had died of a heart attack. It looked as if his wife had rowed them to shore and attempted to get her husband to his horse. Lady Norfolk died from a fever due to exposure. Ambrose knew his mother didn’t want to live without her husband.

  He believed his mother had died of a broken heart.

  * * * * *

  The next morning Camellia was up early and in the breakfast room before Lord Rutley. The tempting smell of eggs and kippers had her filling her plate with both.

  When the earl entered the room, he smiled at her. “Good morning. I thought you might take a tray in your room. It is Helena’s usual custom.”

  “I wanted to get an early start and call on my uncle this morning before he leaves the shop on his rounds,” she replied.

  The earl took a seat across from her after selecting eggs and ham from the covered dishes on the sideboard.

  “Please give him my best.” Rutley took a sip of the coffee a footman had poured for him. “I’ve always liked your uncle. He is a very sensible man.”

  She chewed and swallowed a bite of toast before she said haltingly, “Thank you for what you did for me, Rutley. For having me here.”

  “You deserve more in life than to be your mother’s nursemaid.” He met her gaze, his gray eyes kind. “Perhaps the time away from Cambridgeshire will make you see that.”

  She nodded, not sure how to reply. It wasn’t as if she wished for a life catering to her mother’s needs. Did she? What a sobering thought.

  Her sister’s husband had always been nice to her. He was almost too handsome, quite the man of fashion. At least six feet tall, his light eyes and jet-black hair were striking. His looks didn’t cause her to swoon, however. She much preferred the not quite handsome face of the man she’d seen outside the inn.

  Helena still wasn’t downstairs when Camellia departed for the village.

  The day looked fair, so Camellia, bundled up in her thick spencer and gloves, decided to forego the carriage and walk the mile to the village. Her maid Anna was more than happy to join her out of doors. Their time at Rutley House must be a welcome change for her as well.

  Her uncle’s apprentice Mr. Dobson was alone in the apothecary shop. The exotic smell of herbs and spices wafted through the air.

  “Your uncle has not yet returned. He sent a missive requesting I formulate several medicines to replenish his bag.” The tall, thin man continued in a low voice, “He has a very important patient to look after. Although the gentleman looks to have had a seizure, he is expected to make a full recovery.”

  The bell over the door rang. Her uncle stumbled in, unshaven, dark circles under his eyes.

  “Uncle!”

  He stepped forward and gave her a brief hug. “Camellia! My dear, what a nice surprise seeing you here.”

  “You look tired. I won’t keep you.”

  “Nonsense. Follow me to the back room. We can have a cup of tea.” He looked at Dobson. “You may leave at your usual time. I’ll be in the back should you need me.”

  Anna sat on a stool in the corner of the store to wait for her mistress and Camellia took her leave of Dobson. She followed her uncle behind a curtain and through a door to the back of his shop.

  Although the fire in the hearth was burned down to glowing red coals, the room was warm.

  “Have a seat, uncle. I will make some tea.”

  He didn’t argue and sat down with a sigh. Although she was used to servants seeing to her every need, her uncle lived a less grand lifestyle. He was the youngest of three sons. While her father was the eldest son and a viscount, her uncle was a mister and an apothecary.

  “How is your patient?” she asked as she filled the kettle. “Rutley said the gentleman you attend is Lord Norfolk.”

  “Yes, of Marcourt. His estate is several miles away. The village physician was attending another patient so I was sent for. There is neither surgeon nor apothecary in Braxton. The man’s housekeeper believed the marquess was at death’s door.”

  Her aunt, dead these last five years, had taught her nieces to brew tea and set a tea tray. Kettle on, china and cutlery gathered on the dresser, Camellia turned to look at her uncle. “Mr. Dobson told me the gentleman was expected to recover.”

  Her uncle nodded. “I believe Lord Norfolk had a diabetical seizure. Although he is only twenty-five years of age, I think he suffers from what is known as sugar sickness or diabetes.”

  She knew something of the illness as she’d heard her uncle describe it. Her aunt had been a true apothecary’s wife, supportive of her husband so he often discussed his cases with her. Helena had shown little interest in her uncle’s work; Camellia thought it was amazing what could afflict the human body.

  “I didn’t know the illness could strike someone so young.” When her uncle had related accounts of others with the sickness, the patients had been several years older than Lord Norfolk.

  “In my experience it is rare for a younger person to have it. There is still a lot we don’t know about the condition.”

  The kettle whistled. While the tea steeped, she made a plate of bread and butter. She gathered the tea tray and carried it to the table. Her uncle had nodded off. Head down on his arms, he snored softly.

  When she would have returned the tray to the dresser, he stirred. “Excuse me, Camellia. Do sit down.”

  She took a seat and placed a teacup before him. “Eat some bread. You need sustenance and sleep.”

  “I admit neither would go amiss.” He took a bite of bread and butter.

  “Would you like cheese or meat? I could send for some.” The only food she’d found in the makeshift kitchen was the end of a loaf of bread and a chunk of butter.

  Her uncle shook his head. “I am quite all right.”

  “Finish your tea and go upstairs to rest. You look too worn out to make it to the cottage. Mr. Dobson can mind the shop.”

  He raised a brow at her words but merely said, “I returned here to refresh my supplies. I will ride to Lord Norfolk’s estate tomorrow morning. There isn’t much I can do right now. He is yet to fully awake.”

  “How do you know he will be all right?” she asked with a frown.

  “He is young and strong. His servants believe this is his first seizure associated with the sickness. If the gentleman ignores his condition, he may not survive future episodes.”

  They sat in silence for a minute as her uncle ate more of the buttered bread.

  “Uncle, did you know Helena invited me to Rutley House for a fictional house party?”

  He finished chewing a mouthful of food before he replied, “So that is how Helena got you away from your mother. I wouldn’t have thought Lady Hull would allow you around eligible suitors without her available to ruin any possible attachment.”

  Got you away from your mother. She remembered the arguments her parents would have before she and Helena left for a month with aunt and uncle. That month in Downham Market was her favorite time of year. Her uncle also mentioned her mother wanting to ruin her chances at matrimony. He must be mistaken
. Why would her mother take her to London for the season if not to find a husband?

  When her uncle polished off the rest of the food on the tray he stood up. “I will see you to your maid before I rest.”

  “Perhaps I should wash these dishes.” She stood as well.

  He shook his head. “You have done more than enough, my dear. You will spoil me.”

  * * * * *

  Ambrose opened his eyes to see a gentleman reading a book seated beside his bed. He gingerly pushed himself to an upright position against the mound of pillows behind his head.

  The man looked up. “Good afternoon, my lord. I am Mr. Simpson, an apothecary from Downham Market. It is nice to finally meet you properly.”

  “Where is Doctor Gaines?”

  His voice sounded raspy to his own ears. He swallowed. Mr. Simpson reached over to the bedside table, picked up and handed him a glass of murky liquid.

  Ambrose took the glass and sampled the liquid in it. He grimaced. Barley water. Not very tempting but he was thirsty and drank all of it.

  “Doctor Gaines was called away. Your housekeeper sent further afield. I am the only other medical professional available for some miles.”

  “I’m dying and I have an apothecary to look after me,” he muttered gruffly. He would have a few words with Mrs. Jennings when next he saw her.

  Mr. Simpson merely smiled briefly, took the empty glass from Ambrose’s hand, and put it back on the table. “You’re not going to die. You had a seizure. A complication from what I believe to be diabetes mellitus more commonly known as sugar sickness.”

  Ambrose stared at the man and frowned. “I do not have sugar sickness. My physician in Harley Street diagnosed a brain tumor. He told me nothing could be done. One of his colleagues seconded the opinion. I have tried acupuncture, herbs, meditation and prayer to no avail.”

  “None of those treatments would help diabetes,” Mr. Simpson replied placidly.

  He sighed theatrically. “I have a brain tumor.”

  “Your valet described your symptoms as thirst, increased urination and severe weight loss. All are signs of diabetes. Your prolonged unconsciousness combined with other symptoms your valet described before you lost consciousness is indicative of a diabetical seizure.”

  “Doctor Gaines agrees with the brain tumor diagnosis,” he replied, gritting his teeth. The conversation was getting tedious.

  “I have experience treating sugar sickness and have seen episodes before like the one you experienced. If you had a brain tumor, your seizure would most likely have been an aneurysm. You wouldn’t have recovered.”

  He took the man’s words in. The apothecary wasn’t budging in his verdict. Surely the quickest way to settle the issue was to prove the man wrong. “How can you verify I have sugar sickness?”

  “I can perform a urine glucose test. It is very simple to do. I merely need a sample of your urine. I do not have the necessary equipment but will bring it with me when I return.”

  “So, right now you can’t be sure,” he replied grumpily.

  “I will return in three days. If you restrict your diet until then, you will feel markedly better. That will be proof enough you have diabetes. I’m also worried about the frequency in which you’ve used laudanum for your headaches. Most receipts contain spirits. Alcohol isn’t a good companion for diabetes.”

  Either the housekeeper or his valet, possibly both, had told Mr. Simpson quite a bit about his health and habits.

  “I must abstain from alcohol and laudanum.” He scowled at Mr. Simpson. “And you want to curb my food intake as well?”

  The apothecary replied calmly, “Not curb. Modify. You must eat at certain times of the day and eat plain healthy food. If you follow my instructions, I think you can easily manage your condition.”

  He didn’t believe he had sugar sickness. A few months ago, he had been without pain and nausea for several days only to be plunged back into the reality of endless headaches. What did he have to lose proving Mr. Simpson was not qualified to treat him? The best doctors in London had proclaimed his condition untreatable. Now a mere apothecary claimed to know better.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked the other man.

  “I will write up a diet for you to follow. If you can avoid alcohol it would be preferable to do so. You must also eat at certain intervals.”

  “That is all I need to do to be cured?” He didn’t attempt to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

  “There is no cure for diabetes, Lord Norfolk. I mean only to help you control your symptoms.” Mr. Simpson stood up. “Exercise each day will be beneficial. Nothing too strenuous. Walking will do. I will provide your housekeeper a diet for you to follow.”

  The confidence of the man surprised him. Mr. Simpson looked ready to take his leave and expected Ambrose to go along with anything he suggested. “I would like to know what I can and cannot eat.”

  “It is a case of quantity and quality. You need fresh meat, fruit and vegetables. Limit grains. The water is safe here in the country. You should drink plenty of it. It is clean and will flush out toxins from your body.”

  The more the apothecary told him, the more Ambrose believed the man was mad. Water and fruit weren’t going to help his constant headaches or the nausea that often accompanied the pain in his head.

  “I will check on you in three days’ time. You should see a remarkable improvement in your condition.”

  He felt a grudging respect for the man. None of the doctors he’d consulted had offered him relief from his symptoms. “All right, Mr. Simpson, I will give your diet a try for three days.”

  Chapter Four

  When she returned from visiting her uncle, Camellia found Helena sketching in the library.

  “Your husband has a wonderful collection of books,” she said to her sister as she surveyed the volumes on a shelf. “Some were printed quite recently.”

  “Rutley has them sent up from London,” Helena replied without looking up from her sketch pad. “I know how much you love books. You now have several days to read to your heart’s content.”

  She perused more bookshelves until she found a shelf devoted to Sir Walter Scott. Although she had already read Waverley, it was a favorite and she pulled it from the shelf.

  Helena rang for tea. Camellia happily read for some time as her sister sketched in the large and sunny room, both women sipping fragrant tea.

  The day spread before her with no plans and no commitments. She’d been surprised Helena was content to while away the afternoon in one situation. Perhaps the coming babe was the reason her sister was happy to sit still for once.

  “Camellia, you should ride with Rutley,” Helena said that evening at dinner. “What do you think husband?”

  “That is a wonderful idea,” the earl replied. “I miss the company now that your uncle has decreed you should no longer ride.”

  “I would love to join you, Rutley. I don’t get to ride very often at home.” As she said the words, Camellia thought she saw a brief flash of sadness cross Helena’s face. She didn’t have time to dwell on what she’d observed as Rutley turned the conversation to possible mounts for Camellia.

  It was settled they would go for a ride midmorning on the morrow. She was in bed that night before she remembered the look on Helena’s face. Perhaps she’d been imagining her sister’s distress.

  The next morning a housemaid brought Camellia breakfast in her bedchamber.

  “Her ladyship instructed me to bring you a tray,” Ruth replied when Camellia expressed her surprise at the delivery.

  At home she would have been up already and downstairs in the breakfast room with her father. She never knew when her mother would call for her, so she ate early.

  The bracket clock showed nine of the o’clock. Heavens! She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so late.

  After Ruth departed Camellia took a sip of chocolate and surveyed the contents of her tray: toast, marmalade and a sliced peach. “Lovely,” she sa
id aloud.

  Anna bustled in, smiling. “You look cheerful, my lady. It is nice to see you look so well rested.”

  “How are you finding downstairs?” she asked the maid.

  “Very friendly, my lady. This seems a very happy house. Lady Rutley is ever so well liked by everyone.”

  Camellia finished her breakfast as the maid opened the curtains in the room and proceeded to pull clothing from a wardrobe and tall chest. She wanted to shout with glee. She would make sure she rode several times before she returned to Cambridgeshire.

  “I’m going to go riding this morning. I will wear the brown riding habit, Anna.” She could see patches of bright sky through the two windows in the room. “It looks like it is going to be a beautiful day.”

  * * * * *

  Ambrose studied the plate in front of him. It held a piece of dry toast, a hunk of cheese and an apple. He could have tea with cream. No sugar. His dinner last night had been baked chicken with turnips, carrots and a small boiled potato. He’d declined alcohol, willing to follow the apothecary’s diet to the letter, if only to prove to the man he didn’t have the sugar sickness.

  His headache and nausea had disappeared. He felt dizzy every so often but otherwise he felt well. He awoke feeling refreshed, his vision clear. Livingston dressed him, and Ambrose proceeded to his study to catch up on correspondence.

  “The doctor said you are to eat every four hours during the day,” his housekeeper said when she delivered a tray to him a few hours later.

  “I did read his instructions,” he replied civilly. The tall gray-haired woman was in her fifties, had been with the family for years. He was used to the woman fussing over him.

  When he chastised Mrs. Jennings for bringing an apothecary into the house to treat him, she merely shrugged and replied, “Beg pardon, my lord. If you are ever in distress again and a doctor is not available, I shall be sure to leave you to your own devices.”