The Heiress Bride - Catherine Coulter [94]
Crocker gave her a history that included any moving lumps that one could see rippling beneath the surface of the water. Sinjun wouldn’t have placed a single toe into that swamp had her life depended on it. The odor was nasty, like sulfur and outhouses that hadn’t been limed, both mixed together. It was hotter here, which seemed curious, but it was so. Hot and wet and smelly. Insects buzzed about, dining off the newcomers, until finally Sinjun called a halt. She swatted at a huge mosquito and said, “Enough, Crocker! Let’s fill our buckets and leave this odious place.”
It rained all the way back to Vere Castle, thick, sheeting rain that turned the afternoon to night very quickly. The temperature dropped dramatically. Sinjun took off her riding jacket and wrapped it around a shivering Philip. As for Crocker, his single cotton shirt was plastered to his stocky body.
Sinjun fretted about both of them, seeing to it that Crocker bathed in front of the fire in the kitchen and Philip in his bedchamber. He appeared to be fine at bedtime.
The following morning Dahling climbed onto Sinjun’s bed, ready to ride Fanny.
“It’s late, Sinjun. Come along, I’m all dressed.”
Sinjun opened an eye and stared with blurry vision at the small girl sitting beside her.
“It’s very late,” Dahling said again.
“How late?” Her voice came out a croak, hoarse and raw. Sinjun blinked to clear her vision. A shaft of pain over her eyes nearly knocked her senseless. “Oh,” she moaned and fell back against her pillow. “Oh no, Dahling, I’m ill. Don’t come any closer.”
But Dahling was leaning forward, her small palm on Sinjun’s cheek. “You’re hot, Sinjun, very hot.”
A fever. It was all she needed to go with the pain in her head. She had to get up and get dressed. She had to see Philip and make her plans to get MacPherson, she had to . . .
She tried but couldn’t make it. She was too weak. Every muscle, every fiber of bone and sinew and muscle ached horribly. Dahling, worried now, climbed off the bed. “I’ll go get Dulcie. She’ll know what to do.”
But it wasn’t Dulcie who came into the laird’s bedchamber some ten minutes later; it was Aunt Arleth.
“Well, felled at last.”
Sinjun managed to open her eyes. “Yes, it appears so.”
“You sound like a frog. Crocker and Philip are quite well. I suppose one would expect an English miss to be the one to become ill.”
“Yes. I should like some water, please.”
“Thirsty, are you? Well, I’m not your servant. I’ll have Emma fetched.”
She left without a backward look or another word. Sinjun waited, her throat so sore that it hurt to breathe. Finally she fell into an uneasy sleep.
When she awoke Serena was standing beside her bed.
“Water, please.”
“Certainly.” Serena turned and left and Sinjun wanted to cry. Oh God, what was she going to do?
Unlike Aunt Arleth, Serena returned with a carafe of water and several glasses. She filled a glass and put it to Sinjun’s lips.
“Drink slowly, now,” she said, her voice soft and crooning. “Goodness but you don’t look at all well. Your face is quite pale and your hair a ragged mess. Your nightgown looks sweaty. No, you don’t look well at all. It came on you so quickly, too.”
Sinjun didn’t care if she looked like a goat. She drank and drank and drank. When she didn’t want any more, she lay back, panting with the effort it had cost her.
“I can’t get up, Serena.”
“No, I can see that you are quite ill.”
“Is there a physician nearby?”
“Oh yes, but he’s old and infirm. He doesn’t visit just anyone.”
“Have him come here at once, Serena.”
“I will speak to Aunt Arleth about it, Joan.” And she left, floating out of the bedchamber in a rich silk gown of deep crimson that was so long it trailed the floor behind her like a train. Sinjun tried to call after her, but her voice came out a whisper.
“We haven’t the money to pay any doctor.”
It was Aunt Arleth. Sinjun felt light-headed