Chapter 7: The Treasury Dinner

Every man at the long table stood up at once, and nobody moved.

I was already out of my chair.

My father caught my arm and said, "Lydia, no," and I pulled free and ran down the length of the hall.

Roland lay on his back on the marble with his cravat half undone.

His lips were turning grey and his eyes rolled up white.

I dropped to my knees and put two fingers under his jaw.

His pulse was slow and uneven, and every few beats it skipped.

"Foxglove," I said.

The word went down the table.

A grey-haired physician had pushed through the circle of men, and he knelt on the other side of Roland.

"Nonsense," he said. "It is an apoplexy. The man has been drinking for two days."

"His heart is slowing," I said. "Give me room."

"You will not touch my patient, madam."

"Then watch him die," I said, and opened my herb case.

The physician's mouth fell open.

I took out the ipecac and a spoon, and I took out the tin of charcoal I had ground that morning.

I tipped Roland's head back with one hand and put the spoon between his teeth.

"Hold his shoulders," I said to the nearest man.

He was a young clerk with a freckled face, and he knelt and held Roland's shoulders without a word.

The ipecac went in.

Roland choked and gagged, and I turned him onto his side.

He was sick on the marble, on my skirt and on the physician's coat.

I did not look away.

I made him swallow the charcoal in water, a spoonful at a time, and I held his jaw and counted his pulse against my own.

It ran slow, and then slower, and then it caught.

Keep reading free with an account. Start Scorned By Him, Cherished By His Brother from Chapter 1, then sign up free to read the rest of this chapter.