up.
Lady Dashwood came puffing up. “My dear Charles, what ails you? Is it the heat? You’d best go back indoors.”
For answer Charles heaved for a third time, all over himself and the base of the chair. John deduced that the entire thing had been brought on by the fellow having imbibed too well the night before.
“He’s in a terrible state,” he announced to Lady Dashwood, who had stepped back adroitly and thus missed being hit. “Can you call a servant and I’ll help him indoors.”
“There’s no need,” she answered stiffly.
“I think, madam, that there is. The Earl of Cavan insisted that all his sons be trained in the art of caring for the sick. We all had to study for one year.”
She was shaken out of her usual forbidding manner. “Really? How unusual.”
“The Earl of Cavan is a very unusual man,” John replied solemnly. He hoisted Charles up by one arm which the Apothecary placed round his shoulders. Then he started half dragging the man towards the house. Sarah Dashwood in the meantime had frantically started ringing a hand bell which was placed on one of the many tables scattered about. A footman appeared.
“Help Mr…?”
“O’Hare.”
“O’Hare…to assist Lord Arundel to his room if you please. And send someone to clear up the vomit.”
“If I might beg a change of clothes, madam,” said John as he pulled the stumbling figure within. “Anything will do.”
For the second time since they had met Lady Dashwood appeared almost human.
“Of course. Gollins will see to it.”
“Then I’ll just put the patient to bed. I cannot forgo my early training. Father would be very angry if I did.”
“There’s really no need.”
“There’s every need,” John replied firmly, and took the lolling figure indoors.
He found himself in a beautiful entrance hall which, for all its charms, seemed somewhat in need of decoration. But John’s eye was drawn to the magnificent staircase which rose up to his left. Made of mahogany, it had balusters of walnut and treads inlaid with marquetry in satinwood and ebony. Yet it was to the frescoes decorating it that the Apothecary found himself attracted. Depicting biblical and mythological scenes, they were vibrant and alive, arresting full attention. But as he lugged the unconscious figure of Lord Arundel upward, the footman straining on the other side, John saw that as one ascended to bedroom level the paintings became more and more erotic, while on the half-landing a portrait of Angerona, the goddess of silence, raised her finger to her lips enjoining discretion. It became perfectly obvious at that moment that Sir Francis Dashwood was certainly very interested in matters pertaining to the boudoir.
“Second bedroom on the left, sir,” the footman grunted.
“Very good. Let’s get him down and best leave a bucket beside him, that is if he’s got the wit to use it.”
“Yes, sir.”
They reached the bedroom and laid the figure on the bed, John removing Lord Arundel’s stained and unpleasant clothes. For good measure he took off his own coat and shirt and threw them on top of his lordship’s. The footman scooped them up and holding them at arm’s length disappeared from the room.
The Apothecary turned to the window which overlooked the lake. It was rarely that he had seen a more beautiful vista. The waterway, the sun gleaming upon it, stood calm and motionless in the summer day, its three little islands adding an air of mystery to the landscape. In the distance he could see the cascade, pouring water into the lower lake, while the frigate which he had passed earlier bobbed happily on its surface. In the distance John could spy the church with its great golden orb atop its spire and the grim mausoleum, the substance of nightmares, standing nearby. But this one blot on the landscape was totally obliterated by the rest of the warm and happy vista stretching before him. With a contented sigh, the Apothecary rested his hands on the window sill
Lady Dashwood came puffing up. “My dear Charles, what ails you? Is it the heat? You’d best go back indoors.”
For answer Charles heaved for a third time, all over himself and the base of the chair. John deduced that the entire thing had been brought on by the fellow having imbibed too well the night before.
“He’s in a terrible state,” he announced to Lady Dashwood, who had stepped back adroitly and thus missed being hit. “Can you call a servant and I’ll help him indoors.”
“There’s no need,” she answered stiffly.
“I think, madam, that there is. The Earl of Cavan insisted that all his sons be trained in the art of caring for the sick. We all had to study for one year.”
She was shaken out of her usual forbidding manner. “Really? How unusual.”
“The Earl of Cavan is a very unusual man,” John replied solemnly. He hoisted Charles up by one arm which the Apothecary placed round his shoulders. Then he started half dragging the man towards the house. Sarah Dashwood in the meantime had frantically started ringing a hand bell which was placed on one of the many tables scattered about. A footman appeared.
“Help Mr…?”
“O’Hare.”
“O’Hare…to assist Lord Arundel to his room if you please. And send someone to clear up the vomit.”
“If I might beg a change of clothes, madam,” said John as he pulled the stumbling figure within. “Anything will do.”
For the second time since they had met Lady Dashwood appeared almost human.
“Of course. Gollins will see to it.”
“Then I’ll just put the patient to bed. I cannot forgo my early training. Father would be very angry if I did.”
“There’s really no need.”
“There’s every need,” John replied firmly, and took the lolling figure indoors.
He found himself in a beautiful entrance hall which, for all its charms, seemed somewhat in need of decoration. But John’s eye was drawn to the magnificent staircase which rose up to his left. Made of mahogany, it had balusters of walnut and treads inlaid with marquetry in satinwood and ebony. Yet it was to the frescoes decorating it that the Apothecary found himself attracted. Depicting biblical and mythological scenes, they were vibrant and alive, arresting full attention. But as he lugged the unconscious figure of Lord Arundel upward, the footman straining on the other side, John saw that as one ascended to bedroom level the paintings became more and more erotic, while on the half-landing a portrait of Angerona, the goddess of silence, raised her finger to her lips enjoining discretion. It became perfectly obvious at that moment that Sir Francis Dashwood was certainly very interested in matters pertaining to the boudoir.
“Second bedroom on the left, sir,” the footman grunted.
“Very good. Let’s get him down and best leave a bucket beside him, that is if he’s got the wit to use it.”
“Yes, sir.”
They reached the bedroom and laid the figure on the bed, John removing Lord Arundel’s stained and unpleasant clothes. For good measure he took off his own coat and shirt and threw them on top of his lordship’s. The footman scooped them up and holding them at arm’s length disappeared from the room.
The Apothecary turned to the window which overlooked the lake. It was rarely that he had seen a more beautiful vista. The waterway, the sun gleaming upon it, stood calm and motionless in the summer day, its three little islands adding an air of mystery to the landscape. In the distance he could see the cascade, pouring water into the lower lake, while the frigate which he had passed earlier bobbed happily on its surface. In the distance John could spy the church with its great golden orb atop its spire and the grim mausoleum, the substance of nightmares, standing nearby. But this one blot on the landscape was totally obliterated by the rest of the warm and happy vista stretching before him. With a contented sigh, the Apothecary rested his hands on the window sill
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