Bevan clasped the roll of notes and placed them in his coat pocket. “Then come with me, sir.”
He followed the doctor to a room farther down the hall. Dr. Bevan opened it and bade Garrett to step in first. Aidan lay in what looked to be a comfortable bed, the blankets pulled up to his mid-chest. The doctor’s daughter stood by, wiping Aidan’s brow with a cloth.
She gave Garrett a slight smile. “He is sleeping, though fitfully. Mr. Black has been bathed and put in a clean gown. The garments that he wore when he arrived have been burned. I will try and coax him to take a little broth later.”
A lump formed in Garrett’s throat as he gazed at the napping Aidan. There was no denying he was deathly ill. “I will send along some of his clothes and personal articles as soon as possible.” He clasped his nephew’s thin hand. It was cold and clammy to the touch. Leaning down, he kissed him on the forehead. “Get well. I love you.”
Never did Garrett feel so utterly helpless.
Chapter 3
Abbie had spent the rest of the afternoon penning a lengthy and honest letter to Alberta. It had helped to calm her turbulent mind. She revealed her shock over Garrett’s appearance, and the complicated and powerful emotions that had reignited at the mere sight of him. Since Abbie had a standing invitation, she informed Alberta that she would visit as soon as she could arrange it. At four pages, the newsy letter was thick when folded and would require extra postage.
When Mrs. Jones arrived to do the housekeeping, Abbie slipped a shilling in her hand and sent her along to the post, then to Gethin’s to relay that she was unwell and would not be able to attend to her volunteer duties today. Once the woman departed, Abbie took to her room and curled up on her bed, burrowing under her quilt. Confronting Garrett today was not feasible, not while she remained in this current mood of uncertainty and turmoil. Abbie had to be in complete control when she faced him. Also, she needed to decide whether to mention Megan or not.
One glance at the fourteen-year-old girl, with her tall, slender form, reddish-blond hair, and profusion of freckles, made it clear Garrett was the father. When Megan was first born, she and Elwyn had decided they would tell her about her real father when she turned sixteen, an age when she would be mature enough to absorb the news. Does she tell Megan now, or wait as she and Elwyn had originally planned? For Megan believed Elwyn her father. To tell her otherwise would be upsetting indeed. For more years than Abbie cared to count, she’d been hurt and angry over Garrett. When at last it had dissipated enough for her to think rationally, she had struggled with the decision of letting him know that he had a daughter. But she had respected her husband too much to bring the whirlwind that was Garrett into their lives.
For her own self-preservation and fearing her response, Abbie had not wanted to face him. If today was any indication, she had been wise to avoid Garrett in the past, because—damn it all!—she still desired him, and she would have never allowed Elwyn to see it, for it would have hurt him.
Besides, Elwyn had been Megan’s father in every way that counted. He brought her up, loved her unconditionally. The years flew by, and Garrett had slowly disappeared into the haze of memories. Why upend their quiet, content lives?
And what would be the impact on Megan? She was at an emotionally tender age; how would she take the news? Not well. Abbie had gone back and forth the past two years arguing with herself over what to do and how to proceed. Now, with Garrett’s appearance, the decision had been made on its own accord.
After a fitful sleep, Abbie rose the next morning determined to see Garrett and at least renew their acquaintance. She could not put it off any longer, regardless of her trepidations. Perhaps he wouldn’t care to see her again one way or the other. No doubt he’d moved beyond their brief, intense encounter; he could even be married. Though Alberta had mentioned in one of her recent letters that Garrett’s nephew, Riordan, had taken a bride, the rest of the occupants of Wollstonecraft Hall remained unattached. It was best to meet with him before bringing Megan into the picture.
Once she managed to eat a late breakfast, Abbie donned her heavy wool cloak and her hat and gloves and made her way toward the village. Steeling her spine, she entered the sanatorium. The carriage was nowhere in sight, but the driver could be staying in the village proper.
Cristyn stepped out of a patient’s room and closed the door. “Feeling much recovered today, Abbie?”
Not really, but she gave Gethin’s pretty daughter a polite smile. “Yes, thank you. A new patient?”
She nodded. “Mr. Aidan Black. His uncle brought him in yesterday. Opium addiction.”
Aidan? She remembered the twins; they were twelve that summer, following behind Garrett like a pair of adoring devotees, especially Aidan. He often had to put the run to them so that she and Garrett could be alone. Heavens, they would be twenty-six now. Opium? How horrible. Abbie removed her cloak and bonnet and hung them on the hook. “How can I assist?”
Abbie followed Cristyn to the kitchen area to the left of the entrance. “I will need your help in encouraging him to take some broth. Last night he knocked it out of my hand. I fetched Dad to help and we managed to coax him to take a few spoonfuls, but Aidan promptly brought it back up.”
Volunteering here the past fourteen months had given Abbie an eyewitness account of what a person suffering from addiction goes through. Elwyn had often spoken of it in detail through the years, but to see it firsthand was shocking indeed. “A rough night, I take it?”
Cristyn nodded. “We had to tie his hands to the bed rails, as he thrashed about constantly. We took turns sitting with him.” Her expression took on a sad look. “Between the bouts of cursing, then crying, and the tremors and vomiting, it was quite an ordeal.”
Once they gathered the broth and fresh water, they headed to the room. Abbie opened the door. In the bed lay a shirtless young man, emaciated, sweating, his hands tied and his eyes unseeing.
“He is not wearing a nightshirt for the time being. He ruined two yesterday from sickness and perspiration,” Cristyn said.
Underneath the horror of opium withdrawal was a handsome face with light blue eyes and black hair. She could see the resemblance from the gangly twelve-year-old of years past. This was Garrett’s nephew. Her heart ached at the sight of him.
Obviously they were using a false name, and Abbie would not reveal their secret. Would he recognize her? It would be fifteen years this summer since they had last laid eyes on each other. Aidan pulled at the restraints, grunting and snarling like a wild animal. Perhaps not, for he was glassy-eyed and not aware of his surroundings. As soon as Cristyn approached and wiped his fevered bow, he quieted. “There, cariad,” Cristyn whispered. “Be at peace.”
My goodness. There had been a development during the past twenty-four hours. Abbie had not witnessed Cristyn being quite this familiar with previous young male patients. Calling Aidan “love”? Yes, it was often used as a general term, as in “Hello, love. How are you?” but the way she gazed at him led Abbie to believe that there were more emotions at play. How interesting.
Sitting the tray on the table near the bed, Abbie asked, “What of his uncle, is he still about?”
“No, Dad insisted he return home to Kent. There was nothing he could do here. Mr. Black left this morning with his friend, Mr. Seward.”
Blast it. Now she would have to travel to Kent and confront Garrett there. Or should she? Writing him a letter informing him that he had a daughter was rather impersonal and craven on her part. Did
