CHAPTER XXV

Elizabeth woke the next morning feeling no better. The nausea of the night had turned to embarrassment. Burrowing into her bedsheets, she emerged only at Annette's gentle knock on the door. After much fussing and trying to find any breakfast food that might be appealing, her maid broached a possible cause to the mistress's suffering. "Your course is a week late, madame."

"It is too early to read anything into that. It was likely the wine." After three bouts of morning sickness, she knew Annette's assessment was just as likely. Perhaps it would not be so bad, if they could just get back to Derbyshire?

That thought led her back to the evening just passed. Her recollections were just falling into place, when another, stronger rap rattled the door and Lord Matlock walked in enquiring about her health. She was surprised; she had assumed he would already be at Whitehall. He took a seat by her, and again pressed for anything she might want to eat. She irritably assured him there was nothing that tempted her. She spotted his eyes drop from her face to her stomach and he began to ask if it was perhaps– No, she assured him, with force: it was the wine.

Annette had the sense to excuse herself. Master and mistress sat in awkward silence for a time, each trying to work out what the other was about.

"What did you mean last night," Elizabeth began at last, when it became obvious he would not leave until some conversation had been had. "By 'it being partly your idea'?"

This clearly was not the declaration he had expected. If anything, Elizabeth thought her husband seemed relieved. He began: "There was a general sense in November that the Radicals were not organised; with Hunt out of the picture, they were fighting amongst themselves. Eldon and Peel were advocating that we leave them to it; not to disturb your enemy while he is making a mistake. But Sidmouth disagreed, and I backed his approach. Even then we knew there was a real and present danger. It was imperative that it be flushed out, ideally in such a way as the show the people the true dreadfulness of the dissenters' schemes. And now we have. I vowed after Wickham to not stand idly by and let a wrong unfold if it was in my power to prevent it. There could be no greater test of that commitment than the current circumstances."

"But the evening of Cato, you said then that a plot had only just been unearthed–"

"It was a matter of the utmost sensitivity. In truth, the plot had been known about for some time. We had a good man on the inside; Edwards, I believe is his name. He prevented any real harm ever occurring. If he had been discovered–"

"That – that sounds like a sort of disguise; and I thought every sort of that was abhorrent?"

He looked at her strangely. "I believe the circumstances are significantly different Elizabeth. What is your interest here?"

"I am simply," she struggled; what could she say? "Simply trying to understand the timing of it all."

The slight furrowing of his brow suggested he did not entirely believe her, but he let her statement pass without comment. She felt miserable. She needed to do right by Lydi– Mrs. Davidson. But her present state did not bode well for getting word back to her. Unless–

"I find I am feeling unwell again." She started to fan herself, which such flutterings and spasms as would make her mother proud. "I feel quite ill at ease in my stomach. And Lord! I am very hot. Could you ask a boy to fetch the physician please?"

He looked concerned. "Of course, if you think that best. I'm sure Mr. Jeffers can attend–"

"No!" She cried. "No, Lady Castlereagh was speaking very highly of a younger physician. A Mr. Weir I believe." The skeleton of a plan had leapt into her head. "The President of the Royal College actually recommended him during our visit; he is only in Marylebone, from what I recall, so closer than Jeffers. Perhaps we could try him? Lord, I have such a pain in my head."

"Of course. Jeffers' practice is becoming antiquated anyway."

He rang for a servant and a boy was quickly dispatched. She hoped it was early enough that Mr. Weir had not started his calls for the day. She had expected Lord Matlock to leave once she began her best impression of Mrs. Bennet, but – quite contrary to her hastily formed plot – he called for his papers to be brought up from the Whitehall offices, and settled down at the small writing desk in the corner of her chamber. Perhaps she had appeared too ill?

She was contemplating how best to nudge him away when Annette rushed in, fastened her dressing gown and shoved a nightcap on her head, before turning to Lord Matlock and announcing that the physician had arrived.

He was shown in. Lord Matlock stood to greet him and express his thanks for making the time on such short notice. The physician assured him it was no trouble at all, before turning to the patient – as if they had never met. "Now, Lady Matlock, what seems to be the trouble?"

"My wife took ill last night," her husband began. "And is still uneasy this morning. I had wondered if perhaps–"

"Thank you, Lord Matlock," Mr. Weir stopped him. "But I find it is more effective if a patient explains the symptoms themselves."

The Earl looked somewhat perturbed by the interruption, but relented the floor, and sat back down at the desk. If the physician had expected to be left in confidence to speak with his patient, his face at least did not show it. He turned to Lady Matlock – who alone out of the trio seemed to feel any sense of awkwardness at the situation. She wished she did not look so matronly. "As my husband said, I took a nauseous turn last night and find this morning I am not recovered. I feel a fever might be coming on, perhaps?"

He stepped towards the bed and, with her nodding consent, put the back of his hand to her forehead, before reaching down to take her wrist and counting out her pulse. The proximity between them all but vanished. Elizabeth's eyes darted to her husband in the corner and she shook her head ever so slightly. She hoped he would take her meaning.

"There is a slight warmth, but nothing dangerously so. What were you doing, Lady Matlock, when this sickness came on?"

"We were at dinner," Lord Matlock said.

Mr. Weir looked back to Lady Matlock.

"We were at dinner," she agreed.

"Well, that is most likely it. I suggest rest, Lady Matlock; and when you feel up to it, a change of air never hurts. You are down from Derbyshire, correct? I suspect the London air can hold nothing to that, but the gardens down by the Temple wharf probably have the best of what we can offer, especially in the morning, when the sea breeze comes up from the estuary. Not before Monday though. And if there is any change before then, send for me immediately."

She nodded her understanding. The Temple wharf; Monday morning. "Thank you, Mr. Weir."

"Is there nothing else that can be done for Lady Matlock's relief?" Her husband asked. "Or to ascertain the cause of her complaint? Surely dinner is not the likely reason, when she is taken ill and I am not. Is there not a possibility it is a more delicate matter?"

Mr. Weir was still stood by her. She gave again the tiniest shake of her head.

"That the sickness came on of an evening after dinner suggests it is nothing more delicate than a case of corked wine. If the lady's constitution is not strong, it is perfectly possible that she may have been afflicted while you have not, my lord. The best cure is time, rest, and tea. Ginger or peppermint, if you have it."

The physician was resolutely assured that the Matlock pantry could accommodate such a prescription. Having been paid for his service, he was sent on his way.

Next time, her husband assured her, they would go back to Jeffers. Commendation or not, at least he knew how to properly consider his patron's opinion.