“Shock, I imagine,” Stoker told him. He put a finger to her pulse and listened to her breathing. “Her pulse is quick but strong. I can find no injury. Carry her inside so she does not take a chill. She cannot remain upon this damp grass.”
Jonathan struggled to his feet, upon which Stoker reached out and swung the motionless form into his arms with as little fuss as if she were a feather.
“What the devil is all the furor about?” Charles Hathaway, imperfectly attired in nightshirt and hastily donned trousers, a nightcap settled askew on his head, lifted a lantern as he emerged from the house.
“It was a phantom, Mr. Hathaway,” I told him.
“Phantom!” It was too dark to see properly, but I was certain he had paled at the word.
“An orb of blue,” I added helpfully. “I saw it as plainly as I see you now. Anjali did as well, and the sight frightened her so badly she collapsed.”
“Ruin,” Charles Hathaway said faintly. “It means ruin to see one of the phantoms of the moor.”
I went to him and pinched him hard upon the arm, at which he jumped. “Madam!”
“You looked decidedly unwell and we simply cannot have two people unconscious at once,” I told him.
“I am composed now,” he said, although his voice still quavered.
“Good.” I turned once more to Anjali, who was beginning to stir in Stoker’s arms. “Upstairs with her. I presume she has a room near Lady Hathaway’s in case she is needed in the night.”
Charles Hathaway confirmed this and we made our way inside, a strange little procession. He paused at the doorway and gestured for Stoker to carry her inside. Stoker settled her gently on the bed.
“Leave me to it,” I instructed. “This is woman’s work.”
He hesitated. “She may be distressed when she regains her senses.”
“I will not leave her,” I promised. I looked at Charles Hathaway. “You might send Effie. In case she requires anything.”
He nodded, seeming glad to have something to do. Jonathan had melted away, but I was not surprised. Harry Spenlove had never been good in a crisis, I reflected bitterly. Stoker offered once more to help, but I waved him off, conscious that this was hardly the time to embark upon the discussion that was now long overdue.
I glanced about the room. It was small and stingily furnished, with a narrow bed and a table and chair, neither of which matched the washstand. A thin screen across one corner of the chamber was the only concession to privacy. The Hathaways were the sort of folk who did not even permit a lock upon the door for the servants, I noticed with a rush of resentment on Anjali’s behalf. I went to the small hearth and poked up the fire that had fallen to ash, building it until it could take a few tiny logs. It made only a little difference to the chill of the room. Anjali was lying motionless upon the bedcover where Stoker had placed her. She, like me, was fully dressed. I removed her damp shoes and set them near the fire, but not near enough to scorch. Her hem was wet as well, and the back of her dress. I should have to wrestle her out of her sodden things, but it would go a good deal easier if she were awake.
Although I was in evening dress, I am never entirely unprepared for misadventure, and I reached for the narrow blade that rested in a tiny scabbard tucked into my décolletage. I unpinned a lock of my hair and in one quick motion sliced off the last few inches. It was quick work to twist the hair into a knot and set it on fire. I waved the burning knot under her nose and she came to at once, choking a little against the smell.
She asked no questions, but simply stared up at the ceiling for a long moment. “I must have fallen senseless,” she said at last. “What happened?”
It was the question of every swooning heroine in every Gothic novel. I had little patience with the predictability of it and conducted a swift evaluation of her physical state whilst I replied.
“Mr. Templeton-Vane carried you,” I informed her. I peered into her pupils but they were the same size, large in the dim light of the room. “We found you in a state of collapse in the garden. Did you strike your head when you fell?” I asked.
“I do not believe so,” she told me. I reached a hand to the back of her head, probing.
“I feel no lumps or abrasions,” I said at last. “That is good. How is your vision?”
“Perfectly fine,” she assured me.
“Headache?” I pressed. “Rebellious stomach? Trembling?”
She put out her hand and I saw that it did not move. “I am well, thank you.”
“Good. You need out of those wet things,” I said. She sat up and I would have helped her disrobe, but she hurried behind the screen and removed her dress and stockings. I brought her a thin flannel wrapper and she clutched it about herself as I draped the dress and stockings over the screen to dry.
“You are very kind, Miss Speedwell,” she said, smiling faintly.
I settled her onto the bed and took advantage of her gratitude to sit beside her. “What did you see before you collapsed?”
“I—” She opened her mouth, then closed it sharply and shook her head.
“It might help you to speak of it,” I urged.
“I saw nothing,” she said, her mouth set mulishly.
Just then, Effie Hathaway appeared, her freckles standing out in sharp relief in her pale face. “Anjali! Are you ill? Charles said you had taken a tumble in the garden. What on earth were you doing outside this time of night?”
She went to the bed and Anjali gripped her hand, the knuckles going quite pale. “I am quite well. I did not mean to disturb anyone. Her ladyship—”
“Granna is snoring,” Effie assured her. “It would take the opening of the seventh seal to awaken her.”
Anjali gave her a small smile. “I am glad.” She closed her eyes then, and Effie put a hand to her brow.
“No fever, thank heaven. But I still do not understand,” she began.
“It is nothing,” Anjali told her sharply. She gave Effie a meaningful look and they fell into an uneasy silence.
Since neither of them seemed inclined to speak again, I rose.
“If you mean to stay with Anjali, then I will leave,” I said. From the bed, Anjali murmured her thanks and I beckoned Effie to step outside the room with me. She pulled the door almost closed behind us, leaving only a small crack.
“I will stay with her,” she said.
I nodded. “I will be brief. Anjali saw a phantom orb, a sort of ball of blue light on the moor,” I told her.
Effie’s color sharpened suddenly, bright ruddy spots rising in each cheek. “Did you see it as well?” she demanded.