Through Each Tomorrow, page 17
“If you can promise me that you will not let it interfere with your duties as the mistress of Alnwick Castle, or your ability to produce a child, then no.”
I let out a breath, reminding myself that marriage in 1563 was rarely about love and almost always about political and social status. At least for nobility.
To find true love was a rare gift.
“I must check on my stepbrother and then return to my dormitory.” I curtsied. “Fare thee well, Lord Wolverton.”
Without another word, I strode down the corridor, wanting to be rid of the man who would have me become his wife.
When I finally arrived at Charles’s door, I knocked lightly and then stepped inside, not knowing what I would find.
Andrew sat at the table in the outer chamber with a single candle offering light as he read a book. He was alone, since Charles’s bed was in the next room.
He looked up at my arrival, and I could see the tension and worry in the lines of his face.
“Is there no change?”
“None.” He sighed and pushed the book away. It was entitled Hippocrates Corpus. “I am trying to learn all I can about brain injuries, but the knowledge here is so limited.”
“You’ll have access to more in 1883?”
He ran his hands through his hair and stood. “Aye. But I don’t know how much I can do without changing history. I’ve bled him twice already, hoping to take down the swelling in his brain. But it has done no good.”
The candlelight flickered, casting shadows on one side of his face while leaving the other side in darkness. He was an attractive man, in both body and soul.
“What will happen when he wakes up in 1883?” I asked, my headache so intense I could hardly think straight.
“I know not, but I’m eager to find out. We are currently staying in my family’s townhouse in New York City and are supposed to meet with my father tomorrow to discuss Charles’s family horse farm. If he cannot remember anything there, it could threaten those prospects.”
“Do you think he’ll not remember 1883 when he has such a clear memory of it here?”
Andrew shrugged. “I really couldn’t say. I don’t know what will happen. I have never spoken to a time-crosser who has dealt with amnesia before. This is uncharted territory.” He paused and studied my face. “Do you not feel well, Cecily?”
“’Tis just a headache,” I said, dreading that I would have to tell him what Kat had asked of me.
“Do you get them often?”
“Only in times of great duress.”
“Where does it hurt?”
“All over, but mostly around the back of my head and into my neck.”
“How long has it persisted?”
I tried to smile, but it didn’t form. “’Tis nothing to worry about, Andrew. I need to speak to you about something else.”
He took a step closer, resting his hand on the side of my face, concern in his eyes. “How long has it persisted, Cecily?”
His touch was so soft, so tender, I forgot all about Kat. “It came on shortly after Charles’s accident.”
“Will you allow me to ease the pain for you?”
My voice caught in my throat, and all I could manage was a slight nod.
He took the candle off the table in one hand and put the other on the small of my back, leading me to the other side of the room. “Have a seat while I get my things.” He left my side and retrieved his medical chest from Charles’s bedchamber. When he came back and set the chest on the table next to the candle, he said, “Charles sleeps peacefully.”
“I need to speak to you about Kat—”
“Let us take care of your headache first, and then we will speak. I’m certain it can wait.”
I liked the idea of forgetting about my troubles for a moment. Andrew was right. It could wait.
“What will you do for my headache?” I asked instead, already feeling a little better knowing I was in his care.
“Bloodletting with the use of cups.” As he spoke, he removed a lancet from the case.
I cringed. “I hate bloodletting. ’Tis going out of use in 1913.”
“’Tis an ancient practice,” he told me. “Dating back thousands of years. It balances the humors and restores order in your system. I learned how to do it at Yale.”
“’Tis also painful and slightly disturbing.”
He smiled.
It was fascinating to watch him work as he removed several clear glass cups from his case and then some rags and ointment. His face was so serious, so intent, that he seemed to be in another world.
Without looking at me, he smiled again.
“Do you mind if I watch you?” I asked, my voice low. “’Tis a rare privilege.”
“Nay. I do not mind.” He continued to gather his things as he said, “I enjoy watching you, as well, Lady Cecily.”
My heart beat hard, which made my head hurt even more.
When he was ready, he faced me. “Have you ever had cupping done?”
“Nay. Though I’ve seen it.”
“I will explain everything in detail so you are not concerned.” He lifted the lancet and showed me the small blade. “First, I will make very small incisions in the skin of your upper shoulders with this, and then I will warm the cups over the flame of the candle. Next, I will place them over the small incisions, and as the cups cool, they will create a suction, which will draw out the blood and ease the tension in your neck and shoulders. Hopefully, this will alleviate your headache.”
“My shoulders?” I asked, suddenly aware that I would need to remove my upper garments for him to proceed. I had worn bathing suits in 1913 that were beginning to show more skin, but in 1563, I was usually ensconced in layers of fabric. If Andrew had been any other doctor, I would not have thought twice about it. But he wasn’t any other doctor.
He was Andrew.
“’Tis just your upper shoulders.” He studied me. “Would you like me to proceed?”
My head had never hurt as much as it did now, and if he thought he could lessen the pain, it would be worth it.
“Aye.”
“You’ll need to remove your outer gown and kirtle and farthingale,” he said without any awkwardness or discomfort. “But you can leave on your smock and petticoats. I’ll step into the bedchamber and wait.”
My smock was a linen garment worn under all my other clothes, like a chemise. The farthingale, a stiff cone-shaped hoopskirt, was worn on top of it, and over that went the kirtle. The kirtle was the main part of the gown, including the stiff bodice and skirt. And over all of that went the decorative gown, which was more like a robe, open in front to reveal the skirt of the kirtle.
“I will need help with the back laces on my kirtle,” I told him in a quiet voice as he began to rise.
Without a word, he offered me his hand and helped me to stand, then he turned me around as I untied the front of the gown and let it slip off before setting it aside.
His hands were gentle as they untied the kirtle. I held my breath, never feeling more vulnerable, or safer, at the same time.
“I’ll let you do the rest from here.” He left the outer chamber to step into Charles’s bedchamber.
I removed the kirtle and then the farthingale and set all the clothing on a chair nearby with my French hood. I had on my smock and my thick petticoats, and I was fully covered and modest, but it still felt strange.
After I was done, I sat on the couch and waited.
The door slowly opened. “Are you ready?” Andrew asked.
“Aye.”
He stepped out and paused for a moment at seeing me sitting there, but then he closed the bedchamber door and approached.
“You’ll need to lie on your front,” he said, his voice a little lower than before.
I did as he instructed, yearning for my headache to subside.
“I will pull the smock down just enough to expose the skin of your shoulders and upper back,” he explained.
There was little for me to say or do, so I simply remained silent.
He knelt beside me, then his hands touched my neck, just above the top of my smock, and moved the material down until my shoulders were exposed.
I closed my eyes as gooseflesh rose at the feel of his skin against mine, trying desperately not to shiver under his touch.
Andrew ran his left hand over my skin, and I held my breath again. His hand was warm and slightly rough, but also achingly tender and gentle.
I wanted to know how this was affecting him, but I kept my eyes closed, trying to focus on why he was touching me.
“I will now make the first incisions,” he said. “This shouldn’t hurt too much.”
He kept one hand on my upper back as he reached for the lancet, and then a moment later, I felt the pressure of the blade making small incisions. It hurt a little but was nothing compared to the headache.
“Now I’m warming the first cup,” he said as he removed his hands.
I finally opened my eyes and watched as he ran the cup over the heat of the candle, dimming the room even more.
When he turned back to me, our gazes collided, and I saw everything I needed to see.
This was affecting him as much as it was affecting me.
“This will be warm,” he warned as he returned to my side, “but it will not hurt.”
With one hand on my upper back again, he placed the warm cup over the incisions, and as it cooled, it began to suction my skin. I could feel the blood rising from the incisions and pooling in the rim of the overturned cup.
He repeated the process three more times, placing the cups on various parts of my upper back and shoulders.
When he was done, he cleaned the lancet and set it back in his box.
“How long will the cups stay on?” I asked.
“About fifteen minutes, unless they begin to hurt.” He returned to my side and knelt by me again. “Close your eyes, Cecily. And try to relax.”
He began to massage my temple with the pad of his thumb, slowly drawing it down my jaw and then under my ear, before wrapping his hand around the base of my skull to massage the area that hurt the most.
I sighed as my entire body began to relax, and all my cares and tension slipped away, if only for a moment.
“You’re beautiful, Cecily.”
I slowly opened my eyes again and found him watching me.
“But ’tis not just your outward beauty that I admire,” he continued. “Your inner strength and kindness are just as lovely.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He continued to massage my head as we waited, and when it was time to remove the cups, he did so with just as much tenderness as before. When that was done, he applied an ointment over the incisions.
“How do you feel?” he asked when he was done.
My headache was almost completely gone, but whether it was from the cupping, the massage, or Andrew’s gentle care, I couldn’t be certain.
He left the room again, and I put on the kirtle, then he came back and laced it up for me. I put on the gown next, and then my French hood. When I was done, I turned to face him.
“Did you want to tell me about Kat?”
I sighed, not wanting to bring up the subject, but there was little choice. “She swore me to secrecy and demanded that you agree to the same. It is a dire situation Charles is in, for more than one reason, and Kat is calling upon me to help.”
He studied me closely. “You have my word, Cecily. I will not let you bear this burden alone.”
I smiled despite the uncertainty and repeated what Kat had said to me.
“I will come back in the morning and look for the letter,” I told him. “And then spend my days here, intercepting any messages that come for Charles. We must not let anyone know he is unwell. This needs to stay between you, me, and Kat.”
His face was grave. “I understand.”
“Thank you.” I placed my hand on his forearm. “I am in your debt, Andrew. For keeping this a secret and for easing my pain.”
“I am only doing my job.”
I stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. When I pulled back, I said, “That does not mean you don’t deserve compensation.”
He smiled at me. “If that’s the compensation I get, I might have to administer daily treatments.”
I returned his smile. “May your soul be in God’s keeping as you rest tonight, Andrew.”
And with that, I left Charles’s apartment, my head and heart feeling the healing touch of Andrew Bromley. Even if my mind was overburdened by Kat’s request and Charles’s injury.
14
CHARLES
JULY 25, 1883
NEW YORK CITY
Sunshine streamed through the window, making me blink my eyes open. Drew and I had arrived at the Whitneys’ brownstone mansion the day before in preparation for our meeting with Mr. Whitney. We were expected at his office later that morning.
I rolled over, trying not to be uneasy about our meeting, though the future of the Hollingsworth horse farm rode on the back of what was said and done today. I wanted to make my father’s memory proud and care for my mother and sister. But more than anything, I wanted to accomplish something worthwhile if I was forced to leave this path.
“Charles?” Drew knocked on my bedroom door. “Are you awake?”
“Yes.” I sat up, stretching my hands over my head. “Give me a minute.”
I stepped out of the bed, grabbed a dressing robe, and then opened the door. “How much time do we have before we need to leave?”
Drew studied me as if he was searching for an answer to a puzzling question. “How do you feel?”
I frowned. “Fine. How do you feel?”
“Do you remember what happened at Windsor Castle yesterday?”
“Of course. Why do you want to know?”
“Tell me what you remember.”
Moving away from the door, I tied the belt to my dressing robe tighter, trying to think back. “There was a jousting tournament.” I paused, realizing that my memories of the day before were a little hazy. “I was supposed to joust last. I remember waiting for my turn and putting on my armor.” I frowned, unable to remember anything past that. “Did I joust?”
“You don’t remember jousting?”
“I don’t recall anything after I put on my armor.” That was strange. Why couldn’t I remember anything beyond that? “Did something happen?”
“You did joust and were hit off your horse. You sustained a serious concussion, and when you woke up, you had amnesia.”
“Amnesia?” I pulled my head back. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t remember anything about your life in 1563. You didn’t know Cecily, and you didn’t recollect any of your memories there. But you did remember me and your life here. And you asked me where Evelyn was.”
All I could do was stare at Andrew as I tried to put all the pieces together. “You said I woke up there—correct?”
“About twenty minutes after you fell off your horse.”
“If I woke up there, why can’t I remember what happened after that? Why can’t I remember the conversations we had?”
“I don’t know.” Drew continued to study me. “I believe your brain is swollen in 1563, and it’s causing memory loss of that time and place. But, for some reason, your conscious mind still recalls this life, and your brain here is unaffected.”
“That’s so . . . odd.” I paced away from him. “Cecily must be distraught.”
He was quiet, and when he didn’t respond, I turned back to him. “What?”
Drew took a seat and placed his elbows on his knees, not looking at me. “She is extremely upset,” he finally said. “You were so anxious when she was around that she couldn’t stay by your side. She spent hours alone in the tower. But she came to check on you last night.”
I crossed my arms, sensing that his story wasn’t finished. “What happened after that?”
“Nothing—I mean, she had a headache, and I bled her with cups.” He still wasn’t looking at me as he swallowed. “And massaged her neck.”
“You were alone with her?”
“Of course I was alone.” Drew rose to his feet, defensive. “I was doctoring her, nothing more. She was in distress—”
“And you took advantage?”
Drew clenched his fists. “Never. And I will not allow you to say something so foolish again.”
“You could have had a servant there to chaperone. Her reputation could be ruined, and then what? Who would marry her? The queen would throw you both in prison. You need to be more responsible.”
“She was in pain. I knew how to alleviate the tension. I am a doctor—at least, that’s what they believe. No one would find fault.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked to the window. “Her headache came on because she’s distressed.”
“That’s ridiculous. I remember everything just fine here. I’m sure I’ll have my memory restored when I return there tomorrow.”
“I hope so—for your sake, as well as hers.”
“I won’t worry about it. We have far greater things to concern ourselves with today.”
He turned and hesitated.
“What?” I asked.
“Cecily said that Kat visited her and told her she must stay in your apartment and intercept anyone who comes to see you. Kat said that you are working on an important letter—”
I groaned as I ran my hand over the stubble on my cheek. “The letter to Mary, Queen of Scots.”
“Kat doesn’t want anyone to see your real letter—and she doesn’t want anyone else to take it upon themselves to write to the Scottish queen on behalf of the privy council, for fear Mary will attack Queen Elizabeth while she is incapacitated.”
“We both fear Mary’s response,” I agreed. “Though the privy council believes it’s in our best interest to inform Mary of the queen’s questionable health. That is why I have been meeting with Lady Katherine. She is malleable and easy to direct. If she inherited the throne, we could carry on as we have been.”
“Not to mention that she is Protestant,” Drew added.
“It’s a mess.” I paced to the window. “I have to come to my right mind in 1563, that’s all there is to it.”
