Read Online The Poison Diaries by Maryrose Wood, The Duchess Of Northumberland - Free Book Online
Authors: Maryrose Wood, The Duchess Of Northumberland
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face and turns away.
“Enough,” he says, in a voice full of bitterness and pain. “Let us go home.”
Weed’s mysterious grief hangs on us like a fog. As we walk home I ask more than once if he is angry about the song, or the flower, or Tobias Pratt. He says he is fine. I beg him to tell me if I have done something wrong. Again he assures me I have not. But he cannot smile, either, and will not look at me—oh, it is like a knife in my heart!
When we arrive at the cottage, Father is hurriedly packing his medical bag.
“A messenger just came, with an urgent summons. I must leave at once.” He sounds deeply displeased.
“Are you going to London again?” I blurt.
Father continues throwing items into his satchel. “No. The patient is right here in Hulne Park, at the lumber mill. There was an accident—a man’s foot is badly mangled. The idiots think I can save it by sprinkling a few rose petals on the poor fellow’s head.” He slams the bag shut. “For this I must interrupt myresearch? Even if I had the skill of Hippocrates, what then? Could the wisdom of the ages stop a careless oaf from dropping an ax on his foot?”
Weed sucks in a long, raspy breath and runs out of the cottage. Moments later he comes back. His face is ashen, and he holds a small bundle of stems and leaves. Wordlessly he offers them to Father.
Father stares at the plants, bewildered. “Rue? Tansy? Chamomile? These are common roadside plants. What is all this for?”
“Make a poultice. It will prevent infection so the wound can heal,” he says in a low voice. “For pain … use the poppy, mixed with valerian. No doubt the man is afraid; lavender and chamomile will soothe him.” His voice drops to a whisper. “And—if it has to come off—”
“If the foot has to come off, it is the surgeon’s problem, and whiskey is the only medicine those butchers use,” Father growls. “Whiskey, and strong leather straps.”
“No whiskey—use some belladonna—not toomuch. Mix it with seeds of hemlock and black henbane. It will make him sleep.”
“Sleep!” Father cries. “Through an amputation? Impossible; it has been centuries since that formula was lost—”
“Two berries only! I know you have some. The man will sleep for a night and a day, and awaken when the worst is over.”
Father drops his bag and steps very close to Weed. They are nearly the same height, but Father has twice his bulk. My mouth goes dry; what will Father do?
“How do you know these things?” Father hisses through his teeth. “Tell me, ‘Doctor’ Weed—where did you steal your secret formulas from, eh?” His hands rise; for a moment I fear he will seize Weed and shake him.
Weed stares at him, his bottomless green eyes glittering with defiance. “Go to the sawmill,” he says. “No time to waste.” Then, letting the leaves fall through his fingers to the floor, he turns and walks out of the cottage.
I run to Father’s side and take his arm. The vein in his forehead throbs and his lips are pressed into a furious white line.
“Father, do not be angry,” I plead. “He is only trying to help.” On hands and knees I gather up the torn leaves that have fallen at our feet and hold them out to Father.
Slowly Father regains control of himself. He takes the leaves from me, seizes his satchel, and starts for the door.
“Wait!” I run to Father’s study and stretch high on tiptoe to grab the glass jar of belladonna berries from the shelf. Cradling the jar like a baby, I race back to the parlor, breathless.
“Here, Father—the belladonna—”
His temper explodes.
“Jessamine!
Have you lost your mind?”
“Take some with you, Father. In case the man needs them. Weed said two—two berries only—”
I struggle to get the lid off the jar. In doing so, I lose my grip—it starts to slip from my hand—
“No!” Father catches the jar before it falls and shatters. I snatch the jar from Father, pour two berries into my handkerchief, and tie
“Enough,” he says, in a voice full of bitterness and pain. “Let us go home.”
Weed’s mysterious grief hangs on us like a fog. As we walk home I ask more than once if he is angry about the song, or the flower, or Tobias Pratt. He says he is fine. I beg him to tell me if I have done something wrong. Again he assures me I have not. But he cannot smile, either, and will not look at me—oh, it is like a knife in my heart!
When we arrive at the cottage, Father is hurriedly packing his medical bag.
“A messenger just came, with an urgent summons. I must leave at once.” He sounds deeply displeased.
“Are you going to London again?” I blurt.
Father continues throwing items into his satchel. “No. The patient is right here in Hulne Park, at the lumber mill. There was an accident—a man’s foot is badly mangled. The idiots think I can save it by sprinkling a few rose petals on the poor fellow’s head.” He slams the bag shut. “For this I must interrupt myresearch? Even if I had the skill of Hippocrates, what then? Could the wisdom of the ages stop a careless oaf from dropping an ax on his foot?”
Weed sucks in a long, raspy breath and runs out of the cottage. Moments later he comes back. His face is ashen, and he holds a small bundle of stems and leaves. Wordlessly he offers them to Father.
Father stares at the plants, bewildered. “Rue? Tansy? Chamomile? These are common roadside plants. What is all this for?”
“Make a poultice. It will prevent infection so the wound can heal,” he says in a low voice. “For pain … use the poppy, mixed with valerian. No doubt the man is afraid; lavender and chamomile will soothe him.” His voice drops to a whisper. “And—if it has to come off—”
“If the foot has to come off, it is the surgeon’s problem, and whiskey is the only medicine those butchers use,” Father growls. “Whiskey, and strong leather straps.”
“No whiskey—use some belladonna—not toomuch. Mix it with seeds of hemlock and black henbane. It will make him sleep.”
“Sleep!” Father cries. “Through an amputation? Impossible; it has been centuries since that formula was lost—”
“Two berries only! I know you have some. The man will sleep for a night and a day, and awaken when the worst is over.”
Father drops his bag and steps very close to Weed. They are nearly the same height, but Father has twice his bulk. My mouth goes dry; what will Father do?
“How do you know these things?” Father hisses through his teeth. “Tell me, ‘Doctor’ Weed—where did you steal your secret formulas from, eh?” His hands rise; for a moment I fear he will seize Weed and shake him.
Weed stares at him, his bottomless green eyes glittering with defiance. “Go to the sawmill,” he says. “No time to waste.” Then, letting the leaves fall through his fingers to the floor, he turns and walks out of the cottage.
I run to Father’s side and take his arm. The vein in his forehead throbs and his lips are pressed into a furious white line.
“Father, do not be angry,” I plead. “He is only trying to help.” On hands and knees I gather up the torn leaves that have fallen at our feet and hold them out to Father.
Slowly Father regains control of himself. He takes the leaves from me, seizes his satchel, and starts for the door.
“Wait!” I run to Father’s study and stretch high on tiptoe to grab the glass jar of belladonna berries from the shelf. Cradling the jar like a baby, I race back to the parlor, breathless.
“Here, Father—the belladonna—”
His temper explodes.
“Jessamine!
Have you lost your mind?”
“Take some with you, Father. In case the man needs them. Weed said two—two berries only—”
I struggle to get the lid off the jar. In doing so, I lose my grip—it starts to slip from my hand—
“No!” Father catches the jar before it falls and shatters. I snatch the jar from Father, pour two berries into my handkerchief, and tie
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