Meg swept to the stoneware pitcher and bowl along the wall. She poured a glass and handed it to him. “Lord Cunningham is waiting outside. Two more have fallen ill.”
“Fevers?”
“No.”
“Hmph.” He pulled two corked vials from his bag, dumped powder into the glass of water, and stirred with a long brass spoon.Clink, clink, clink.“Drink this.”
Tillie paled. “I can’t.”
“You must.” Meg slipped her hand behind the girl’s neck. The skin burned her fingers, charging Meg with increased disquiet. “It is only ginger and cinnamon. You are fond of both, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“Then drink and rest. You shall feel better come morning.” She hoped. “Uncle, may I speak with you?” She followed him from the room and into the narrow attic hallway, where dust flecks glided across sunrays from the tiny window.
Lord Cunningham pushed off the wall. “The entire grounds are polluted. Aside from two scullery maids and the stable boy, they are all bedridden.”
Meg fisted her dress. “It cannot be serious.”
Several heartbeats.
No one answered.
“Can it?”
Uncle fidgeted with his medical bag. Snapped the latch with too much care. Looked everywhere—down the hall, at their shoes, the various servant doors—before finally turning to her face. “Phosphorus.”
Lord Cunningham swore.
Meg’s chest hollowed.
“Poison.”
Mr. Willmott’s eyes traveled long and slow between Tom and the half-hidden papers. His face slackened. “Mrs. Willmott has long called sentimentality my undoing. It seems she was right.”
“Ye lied.”
“We all lie, McGwen, when its effect works to our advantage.” His eyes dulled. “Even you.”
Rage boiled through Tom, aggressive in its ascent as the room sweltered in heat. “She believed ye.”
“Elisabeth?”
“Ye said ye would marry her.”
“An unfortunate conclusion she reached, I fear, without any encouragement from me.” Mr. Willmott rounded his desk. None of his composure slipped, save for a little shakiness of his hands as he crinkled the paper cutouts and stuffed them into his pockets. “She was unaware that circumstances made such an aspiration impossible. I was not.”
“And her death?”
“Unnatural.”
“So ye knew.”
“Yes.” He growled. “I am many things, McGwen, but I am no imbecile. I am as aware of her demise as I am the man who caused it.”
A wall clock chimed in the corner.
One of the twins must have resumed playing, because harsh piano notes hammered into the silence, striking pain along Tom’s temples.
