Marrying Winterborne

“She won’t notice anything. They’re going to keep her busy for at least two hours.”

Helen was in too much distress to argue as Rhys pulled her away with him. Mercifully, he didn’t ask questions or try to make conversation.

They reached the apothecary hall, where the flooring changed to polished black-and-white tile. It was much dimmer here, as most of the lighting had been turned down at closing. Both sides of the hall were lined with cabinets, shelves, and tables, with a countertop peninsula extending from one of the walls. Every shelf was crowded with jars of powders, pills, liniments, and creams, as well as bottles and vials of tinctures, syrups, and tonics. Assorted medicated confectionaries had been arranged on tables; herbal cough drops, cayenne lozenges, maple sugar, and gum Arabic. Ordinarily Helen wouldn’t have minded the blend of astringent and earthy scents in the air, but in her current misery, it was nauseating.

Someone was at the peninsula, sorting through drawers and pausing to make notes. As they drew closer, Helen saw that it was a woman not much older than herself, her slim form dressed in a dark burgundy walking suit, her brown hair topped with a sensible hat.

Glancing up, the woman smiled pleasantly. “Good evening, Mr. Winterborne.”

“Still working?” he asked.

“No, I’m about to leave for a local orphanage, to visit the infirmary. I’m low on supplies, and Dr. Havelock told me to take them from the store apothecary. Naturally I’ll pay for them tomorrow.”

“The store will assume the expense,” Rhys said without hesitation. “It’s a worthy cause. Take whatever you need.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Lady Helen,” Rhys said, “this is Dr. Garrett Gibson, one of our two staff physicians.”

“Good evening,” Helen murmured with a strained smile, pressing her fingers against her right temple as a searing knot throbbed inside her skull.

“An honor,” the other woman said automatically, but she regarded Helen with concern. “My lady, you appear to be in discomfort. Is there something I can do?”

“She needs a headache powder,” Rhys said.

Dr. Gibson looked at Helen across the counter, her vivid green eyes assessing. “Is the pain all through your head, or is it focused in one area?”

“My temples.” Helen paused, taking inventory of the various searing pains in her head, as if burning coals had been randomly inserted. “Also behind my right eye.”

“A migraine, then,” Dr. Gibson said. “How long ago did it start?”

“Only a few minutes ago, but it’s rushing at me like a locomotive.”

“I’d recommend a neuralgic powder—it’s far more effective for migraines, as it includes caffeine citrate. Let me fetch a box—I know exactly where they are.”

“I’m sorry to be a bother,” Helen said weakly, bracing against the counter.

Rhys settled a reassuring hand low on her back.

“Migraines are torture,” Dr. Gibson said, striding to a nearby cabinet and rummaging through boxes and tins. “My father is afflicted with them. He’s as tough as hippopotamus hide, but he takes to his bed as soon as they begin.” Pulling out a green-painted tin with a nod of satisfaction, she brought it to the counter. “You may feel a trifle lightheaded after taking one, but I daresay that’s better than splitting pain.”

Helen liked her manner immensely, capable and friendly, not at all dispassionate as one might expect of a doctor.

While Dr. Gibson pried off the lid of the tin, Rhys took hold of a sliding wood section of the counter, pushed it back, and reached down to extract a wire stand holding four chilled soda water bottles. “A counter refrigerator,” he said, noticing Helen’s interest. “Like the ones in grocers’ shops.”

“I’ve never been in a grocer’s shop,” Helen admitted, watching as Rhys took one of the bottles from the stand. The bottles were all egg-shaped with perfectly round bases that couldn’t stay upright on their own.

Dr. Gibson took a paper packet from the tin of neuralgic powders, and unfolded it to form a vee-shaped channel. “The taste is dreadful,” she said, handing it to Helen. “I suggest pouring it as far back on your tongue as possible.”

Rhys untwisted the tiny wire cage that affixed the cork to the bottle top, and handed the vessel to Helen. He grinned as she gave it an uncertain glance. “You’ve never drunk directly from a bottle before, have you?” His gaze was caressing as he stroked the edge of her jaw with a single knuckle. “Just don’t tip it up too fast.”

Helen held the paper up to her mouth, tilted her head back, and let the bitter powder slide to her throat. Cautiously she brought the bottle to her lips, poured a splash into her mouth, and swallowed the cold, effervescent liquid. The tart lime-flavored soda helped to mask the bitter medicine.

“Have a little more, cariad.” Rhys used his thumb to wipe at a tiny stray drop at the corner of her mouth. “This time, seal your lips around the edge.”

She took another swallow or two, chasing away the taste of the powder, and gave the bottle back to him. Leaving it uncorked, he set it back on the stand.

Dr. Gibson spoke quietly, her sympathetic gaze on Helen. “It will begin to take effect in five minutes or so.”

Helen closed her eyes and lifted her fingers to her temples again, trying to ease the sensation of needles being driven into her skull. She was aware of Rhys’s large form beside her, his presence somehow comforting and distressing at the same time. She thought of what she needed to talk to him about, and how he would react, and her shoulders slumped.