The doctor took a deep breath. “This morning, when the nurse was administering the usual dose, your mother…took the bottle quite forcefully. We were able to…stop her… She swallowed enough that we are uncertain she will survive, Your Grace.” The doctor let out a tense breath.

“I’ll leave directly.” Rowles turned on his heel and left the room. His carriage was still in front, and he directed the driver to his mother’s residence.

As the carriage lurched forward, he rested his head in his hands, taking deep breaths through his nose and easing them out through pursed lips. It wasn’t the fault of the staff, he reasoned. But anger welled within him regardless. Anger at the staff, anger at his mother, and anger at himself. He couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that if he had been there, or had not removed her from her home, or any of other various things, she would not have taken such measures.

And did she even know?

Had it been intentional?

She’d said she would die there… Was that prophetic or was it a choice? Laudanum overdose had been a plague and scourge across England, with many succumbing to the opiate’s power and allure, overdosing both intentionally and unintentionally. Wretched stuff, both medicine and poison in the same bottle, able to help life and take it.

Even though the distance wasn’t far, time passed slowly. When the carriage slowed in front of the house, Rowles quickly stepped out, straightened his coat, and walked to the already opening door. The footman’s expression was crestfallen with a tinge of fear lurking below the surface.

The house was deathly silent.

As if every servant, every nurse was holding their collective breath.

As if he were the judge, jury, and executioner.

Something broke in him, in that moment.

They were not at fault.

No.

His shoulders slumped under the weight of it, and he took the stairs to the second floor toward his mother’s rooms. The cinnamon and clove scent of laudanum was strong in the hall, reaching his nose before he got to the door.

As if sensing a question, a stout older nurse whispered, “When we tried to take it away, it spilled on the floors…and us, Your Grace.”

Rowles turned to the woman, noting her stained clothing. They hadn’t even changed before they’d sent word to him to notify him of the events.

Never before had he felt so helpless, so responsible and unable to do anything about it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the nurse. The words seemed so empty, but it was all he had the strength to say.

She blinked, as if unable to understand why he would apologize to her, but he was already moving on, opening the door and stepping into the faint light of his mother’s rooms.

Her form was still.

Her breathing shallow.