TWENTY-FIVE

WHILE ADDING CREAM TO HER CUP OF TEA AT BREAKFAST THE NEXT morning, Signa overheard Warwick telling Elijah that Blythe’s tongue was beginning to fester with the same sores that Lillian’s had in the late stages of her “disease.” Blythe had been sick throughout the night, unable to keep any food or drink down.

Signa gripped her knife tight, trying not to let her frustration draw attention to herself for fear that Elijah might suddenly come to his senses and not allow such a conversation at the breakfast table.

Death’s warning had been fortuitously timed, and now that a cure was known, Signa had only to get her hands on it. But she couldn’t help wondering why Blythe was still so ill. Signa had instructed her not to drink anything but water. Had told her to dump her medicine when no one was watching. Signa had checked Blythe’s room that very morning while her cousin slept; she’d inspected the cold tea and pastry left at her bedside, both of which were fine. But because her tongue was starting to show signs of poison, Signa knew that, somehow, she was still consuming belladonna.

“The doctor doesn’t think it wise for her to have visitors today,” Warwick told Elijah, who was scraping butter across a muffin in an angry manner Signa had not known someone holding a muffin could be capable of. “He and Percy were able to break the fever this morning, though she had a bout of delirium.” Signa was glad, at least, that Percy had been there to supervise the doctor when she couldn’t. She tried to steal his attention across the table to tell him as much, but Percy kept his tired eyes low as he stirred his untouched porridge.

“What did she see this time?” Elijah was as brash as he was disheveled, graying hair sprouting from his head every which way. He wore spectacles low on his nose and was still wearing an emerald robe with matching slippers while Signa already wore her corset and a pinstripe wrapper, with her hair twisted into an elegant knot at her neck. She’d have to change into a wool visiting dress before leaving the house, as to do otherwise would be met with immediate gossip and ridicule. While Signa had spent so many years longing for a place in society, she found herself becoming a bit… tired. And immensely jealous of Elijah’s lack of care and decorum.

“It was Mother.” Percy was the one who answered, still not looking up. “Blythe claimed she was in the garden with our mother.”

It made no sense that after months with both Blythe and Lillian ill, no one had suspected poison. Was the doctor truly so incompetent? “Perhaps company is exactly what she needs,” Signa said in her rage. The signs were there—the delirium, the sores, the sour stomach, coughing up blood. It was all there. It was true she knew a fair bit more about poison than the average person, but still.

“Miss Farrow—” Marjorie, who wore more rouge than usual upon her cheeks to conceal that one side of her face was still swollen, seemed ready to chide Signa before Elijah waved her off with his knife hand.

“Let her speak freely. Any rules we maintained in this home ended long ago.” He ate nearly half the scone in one bite. “State your piece, girl.” Despite his erratic behavior, Signa found she rather liked Elijah and his bluntness. In a world revolving around forced niceties and bending to the whims of others, it was refreshing. Still, she could not simply tell him that she knew of an antidote for Blythe’s illness—she had to tread these waters lightly.

“In this state, it would be a burden on her mind to be left alone with such thoughts,” Signa said. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to head into town to see if I can find something that might lift her spirits. Just a small gift, should you allow me some money and your permission.”

Percy, who’d been glaring into his porridge as though it was the source of all his troubles, finally peered up at Signa with interest. Marjorie, however, was having none of it.

“If the doctor doesn’t recommend she has company,” Marjorie said, grasping a fork firmly in one hand, “we should abide by his suggestion.” As a governess, she was welcome to sit and dine with the family, but she spoke too openly for any household that hadn’t abandoned the strictures imposed by society. Too freely, and without anyone reprimanding her.

“As we did with Lillian?” Elijah asked coolly enough that several at the table shivered. “A lot of good that did my wife.”

Signa collected Elijah’s words and stored the memory away to add to her collection. One day soon, she would gather up all the pieces and lay the entire puzzle before her.

“Percy!” Elijah’s voice boomed with authority. “You will go with your cousin. See that she is safe and has what she needs.”

Percy sat straighter. “If we’re to go into town, with your permission I’d like to stop by Grey’s and check on the orders.” His voice was flat and factual, lacking even a hint of emotion to betray his earlier desperation to visit the club.

The corners of Elijah’s mouth twitched. “You will accompany your cousin on her errand, and then you’ll return.” He spoke with finality.

Percy seemed to feel it, too, for while it was clear he wanted to argue, he settled in his chair and gripped his teacup, knuckles white. “Yes, Father.” When he sank lower in his seat, Signa dared not look at him, guilt heavy in her chest. “Of course.”

Percy was far from entertaining company.

As he preferred not to ride horseback, a coach was readied for the journey into town. It wasn’t too long a ride, but Signa had never been more uncomfortable. Even traveling with Sylas, an unrelated stranger, had been easier to navigate.

Signa missed the way Percy had been yesterday, before Byron had shown up with the news of Grey’s to spoil the mood. She missed his laughter and jesting, and the feeling of his spirit vibrant with life. The Percy she was with now was not the sly and teasing man that she’d been getting to know, but one who was rigid and proper and sharp. His thumb traced circles over a leather coin purse as he glared out the coach’s window, chin jutting with great severity as he observed the passing landscape. Signa bit her tongue. It was cruel, she thought, that Elijah would not give him a chance. That he chose to ignore his son’s suffering no matter how deep it was.

“I found something, cousin,” she said, hoping to lift his spirits. “We’re not here to find Blythe pretty new gloves or stationery. We’re going into town because I’ve found her a cure.”

Only then did he rouse. “What do you mean you’ve found a cure?” His eyes were narrowed. “There hasn’t been a single doctor who’s been able to help my sister.”

“None of them knew that she was being poisoned. But we do, and I’ve found an antidote. There’s an apothecary in town, and—”

“An apothecary?” His brows shot toward the ceiling. “Signa, we cannot trust my sister’s life to an amateur. There has to be a medicine that will help her. We can speak with more doctors—”

“If the doctors haven’t caught on now, they’re either all fools or someone’s been paying them off.”

Any retorts died on his tongue. “You think that’s possible?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Even if that is the case, some apothecary’s cure isn’t something we should be playing around with. There are safer ways to go about these matters.”

“I understand your frustration, but nothing else is working, Percy.” She took his hand, squeezing tight. “But this will, I promise. I need you to trust me.”

He looked to the carriage roof as though it held the answers and sighed when it did not share them. “Very well. If there’s a possibility, then of course we must try it. Though we cannot allow ourselves to be seen there—the entire town will talk.”

“Of course.”

Signa’s smile was not reciprocated as Percy turned his attention to the rattling cobblestone streets that were so much brighter and more open in the daylight than when she’d been here with Sylas several nights before. Now the shops that lined the street were fully awakened. Through immaculate windows, Signa spotted women in gloves and bonnets, draped in cashmere gowns as they took their tea or filtered into a shop to order warm clothes and decorations for the approaching winter.

When they passed Grey’s, Percy leaned over Signa and slammed the curtains shut. She reeled back. There was no humor in Percy’s face. No hint of anything but severity.

Signa dared not speak another word.

Percy was the first one out of the carriage when it rolled to a stop in front of a tiny green shop. Ivy stretched up and over the walls, and a window display showcased an assortment of vibrant plants hung from woven canopies. Signa was so busy staring that it took Percy clearing his throat for her to notice he was holding out his arm. Passersby surveyed them with curiosity, turning to gossip with one another and likely theorizing over Signa’s presence. Percy adjusted the small gold button on one of his brown leather gloves and paid them no mind. There was likely nothing anyone could do or say that would make Percy come across as anything but a gentleman in the public eye.

Inside the shop, they were greeted by a frail elderly woman with white hair. One look at her and Percy’s nose turned upward.

“Don’t dawdle,” he whispered. “We get whatever you need, and then we get out.”

For a fleeting moment Signa wished she’d stepped on his toes harder the day before, though she refused to let his negativity sit with her when they’d entered such a wonderland. Jars of tonics and bottles of herbs sat upon shelves riddled with tiny wooden bobbles. There were small containers of living moss, and dainty baskets of dried herbs that smelled so fragrant Signa wanted to bathe in them.

The middle of the shop was full of live potted plants. Most of them were types Signa had never seen before, with trailing vines or large bulbous flowers. She resisted the urge to stroke her finger across their petals, awed that such a wondrous place could exist. Had she enough money, Signa would have been tempted to buy out the entire store.

“Can I help you find something, miss?” the shopkeeper asked. Signa was glad to see that she paid Percy’s snobbery no mind.

His eyes darted to Signa, a dark warning brewing within them that signaled her to take caution with her words. The moment they left the apothecary, gossip would ignite. Though it was possible that whoever was harming Blythe was already aware they’d been found out, Signa and Percy didn’t need to risk adding fuel to the fire, or word getting back to Elijah that his wife’s death could have been prevented had someone been playing closer attention to her strange symptoms.

“I’ve a friend who ate something sour,” Signa offered the shopkeeper. “I’m looking for a Calabar bean to help rid her body of some toxins from it. And perhaps something to soothe her stomach after, too.”

The woman squinted her small eyes in assessment, then made a noise in the back of her throat as she hobbled with Signa toward a back shelf full of small plants and glass vials. Percy followed behind them, making a point of appearing disinterested as the woman inspected the shelves.

The shopkeeper muttered under her breath as she searched, growing more frustrated with her findings row after row until she found what it was that she was looking for and uttered a quiet “Aha!” She produced a small vial with a strange brown nut within it. The Calabar bean.

Signa reached for it, but the woman pulled the vial out of reach. She leaned toward Signa and whispered, “Are you sure it’s what you’re looking for? It’s highly poisonous, and it won’t help a sour stomach.”

Signa knew the Calabar bean was a risk, but if Signa did nothing—if she took no risk—then Blythe would die, and Signa would spend the rest of her life wondering if she could have saved her.

Signa nodded and put her faith in Death. “Yes ma’am. It’s precisely what I need.”

The woman dared a quick look at Percy, and said, very softly, “Are you safe, girl? If it’s something for him that you need, I have a few things a little more… inconspicuous.”

Signa blanched and set her hands upon the woman’s at once, hoping that her earnestness was enough to confirm her sincerity. “That’s not it at all, ma’am, I assure you. This will do just fine.”

With reservation, the shopkeeper hummed and handed over the vial. “Crush it into a powder. Then, put about half of it into a glass with water to induce vomiting.” Vomiting, Signa hoped, that would help rid Blythe of the poison.

The woman shuffled over to the back of the shop, skirts brushing against the dusty oak floor. For a long moment she searched, eventually producing a small jar filled with tiny brown seeds that she brought back to Signa. “Caraway seeds,” she told her, placing the jar in Signa’s palms. “To help settle your friend’s stomach.”

Percy’s agitation grew with each person who wandered by the foggy, dirt-crusted windows of the shop and took note of his presence within it. His long fingers refused to cease their tapping upon his thigh. He watched the woman hand over the caraway seeds, keen as a hawk. “Do you have any more of the Calabar bean?”

“It’s no easy plant to find,” said the shopkeeper. “This is all I’ll have for some time.”

He grunted, dissatisfied, and produced his coin purse. “Very well. How much do we owe you?”

The woman flinched with surprise at his severity but said firmly enough, “A thruppence will do.”

Percy pressed a shilling into her waiting palm. “For your discretion.”

The shopkeeper fisted the coin with a snort, then dropped it into a pocket of her skirt. “Get out of here, boy, before I give you something to be discreet about.”

There was no need to tell him twice. Signa tucked the vial away in her pocket as Percy tugged her out of the shop she easily could have spent a full day in, chatting to the shopkeeper about every beautiful thing within it. Her fingers curled tenderly around the jar of caraway seeds. Signa had the vague impression that Percy believed the apothecary might suddenly infect him with the plague.

He darted a look around to ensure no one was watching as he pushed open the door. “There is a madness within that woman,” he said. “I don’t trust her.”

Signa bristled. “She is a healer.”

“She’s a witch,” he scoffed. “I still don’t see how some seed will help my sister when nothing else could.”

Witch. The word sent Signa’s mind reeling back to the night of Magda’s death. “Don’t call her that. If a berry is powerful enough to hurt your sister and kill your mother, then who are you to say a plant cannot heal with that same power?”

He had no response to that. She could feel the fear rolling off him in waves. She knew that if she were him, she wouldn’t want to let herself hope that this tiny seed would somehow fix everything, either. Because if it didn’t…

“Let’s make haste,” Percy muttered. “We’ll need to get back to the carriage before—”

“Miss Farrow?” called a voice from down the street. “Miss Farrow, is that you?”

Dread sunk its claws into Signa when she saw that Eliza Wakefield and Charlotte Killinger approached, accompanied by a handsome gentleman with light brown skin and a head of wheat-brown curls. He wore a fashionable olive-green topcoat and a hat that he tipped toward them with a smile so charming that Signa’s heart fluttered.

Sweat beaded upon Signa’s brow as Charlotte noticed the shop they’d emerged from. It was good fortune that she was too polite to speak of it, though the same couldn’t be said for Eliza.

“Oh, it is you,” Eliza said as she lowered herself to a curtsy before Percy. “I thought it might be. Have you come from the apothecary?”

Percy took on an entirely new air before Signa could bat an eye. “And have ourselves cursed by a witch? Never.” He spoke in a light, jovial manner that made Signa’s jaw tense.

Eliza matched his grating smile, giggling as though he was most humorous. She waited for Charlotte and the man accompanying them to echo the laugh, but both kept their faces smooth. Eliza—finally able to peel her eyes from Percy long enough to remember herself—inclined her head and took Signa by the hand. “My apologies,” she said. “This is my cousin Lord Everett Wakefield, son of the Duke of Berness.” Eliza held his arm with a smirk upon her lips.

Signa did not remember ever meeting a lord before. He held himself proudly enough that she wondered whether he was first in line to inherit or last. She remembered from the conversation at her welcome tea that he was the most eligible bachelor in town next to Percy, and that he was the potential suitor she’d spoken with Blythe about the prior day.

Even if he were without money or title, Everett was a man who’d garner attention for his looks and for the regal way in which he held himself. His shoulders were rolled back, chest proud, and his face was full of youthful spirit. There was wealth in his imported clothing, and a glint in his eyes as he observed Signa. Everett Wakefield was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen, and her mind lost all coherent thought when he smiled at her.

“Cousin,” Eliza trilled, “this is Signa Farrow, the one I’ve been telling you about.”

Charlotte observed with a blank stare as Everett bowed his head low, the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes dazzling as they flicked up to watch her beneath impressively long lashes. “I’m well aware of who the Farrows were—I met your mother once, long ago.”

Signa’s spine tingled with tiny zaps of electricity as he pressed a kiss to the back of her glove. “My mother?”

Everett’s smile gleamed bright. “Our parents were once acquainted, though I’m afraid I don’t remember your father. My memory’s a bit hazy, as I was a young boy, though I do remember how the whole house would laugh when your mother arrived. She was a pistol, and my family adored her. I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Farrow.”

Signa had to remind herself to incline her head, too lost in her thoughts and a million questions she wanted to ask the man. She’d never expected her mother to be called a pistol. If the etiquette book she left behind and the stories Signa’s grandmother had shared were right, surely Lord Wakefield was thinking of the wrong woman.

“It’s lovely to see you again, Miss Farrow,” Charlotte interjected, though to Signa’s surprise, she looked more ill than she did enthused, her hands folded tightly before her. “And you as well, Mr. Hawthorne. I’m afraid we haven’t long to chat as we’ve an appointment at a tearoom—”

“Oh dear, Charlotte, thank you for reminding me!” Eliza clapped her hands. “Do forgive me for being forward, but we’d be delighted if you were able to join us.”

Signa didn’t miss how Charlotte’s eyes darkened when she said, “I’m not sure we’ll be able to add more to our company with such short notice—”

“Nonsense. No one would deny two of the town’s most prominent gentlemen.” Eliza aimed her hopefulness at Percy. “I’m certain they will make an exception if you’d be so kind as to accompany us?”

Percy’s fingers tapped at his side, and he cast a sideways look at Signa.

Tea, as Signa was learning, never really was just tea, and accepting an invitation meant every bit as much as requesting one did. It wasn’t formal for Eliza to make the request herself, but having her cousin on her arm had made her bold. One couldn’t exactly refuse tea with a lord, and though Signa knew what it would mean to decline, all she could think about was Death’s warning ringing in her ears and that she desperately needed to get the antidote to Blythe. “It’s a kind offer, but perhaps we could join you another day? We wouldn’t want to impose.”

Eliza didn’t so much as acknowledge that Signa had spoken. “Everyone has been raving about this place. Trust me, Mr. Hawthorne, it’ll be impossible to get in once the rest of the town catches wind. Everett and I absolutely insist that you join us today, don’t we, Everett?”

He grinned down at Signa. “We’d be offended if you didn’t.” And though his tone was teasing, she knew the battle had been lost.

Blythe would have to hold on a little longer.