Chapter Thirteen
Rhys didn’t go up to the house to work the next day, Sunday, preferring to stay close to Olivia even though he knew it was just a cold and the worst of the symptoms would peak in two to three days, and then steadily improve.
He spread his things on the kitchen table, and worked when he could, but more often than not he was upstairs keeping Olivia company.
Olivia didn’t want to be in her dad’s room without someone with her, even though she was asleep for hours at a time.
Early Sunday afternoon, she asked if she could go lie on the couch by the fire, but Rhys said, in his best doctor voice, that if her fever came down a little, maybe tomorrow she could, but as long as she had a fever, she could be contagious and he didn’t want Jilly to get sick too.
In the kitchen Cat heated some chicken soup that Mrs. Johnson had dropped off on learning that the little one was sick.
Cat had no idea who told whom what, but at Langley Park, everyone seemed to know everything.
But the soup and crackers were welcome and Olivia sipped the broth, drinking nearly all of it although she ignored the carrots and celery.
“I hate being in here,” Olivia, said, lying back on the pillows and looking around the plain room with the heavy timbers.
“I’ll stay with you,” Cat said. “Want me to tell you a story?”
Olivia nodded. “About a poor but beautiful girl who lives in a small village, and she works very hard to take care of her sick mother and father. One day the duke sees her and falls in love and takes her away to his huge castle where she never has to work again in her life.”
Cat laughed and leaned over to smooth the covers across Olivia’s chest. “I think you just told the story. There’s not much for me to say.”
“Well, you can tell me what happens to her sick mother and father.”
Cat was smiling so hard it hurt. “What do you want to happen to her poor mother and father?”
“Well, the duke has to invite them to come live in his castle too.”
“That’s a very nice ending. I like it.”
Olivia smiled a little and then closed her eyes. “And they bring their cats too.”
“They have cats?”
“Two. One is pregnant but they don’t know it yet.”
“Ah.” Cat pressed a light kiss to the top of the little girl’s head. “Go to sleep. I’ll be here thinking about the cats while you rest.”
*
The next few days passed quietly, but not quickly. As Olivia became better, she also became far more restless. Rhys was determined to keep the girls apart as much as he could until Livy’s fever was gone, and Cat understood. But midafternoon on Monday, Rhys received a phone call that changed things.
He was in the kitchen when his phone rang, Olivia was napping, and Cat was in the sitting room playing cards with Jillian.
Cat only heard bits and pieces of the call, but it sounded like a call from the hospital, and they were discussing a case with him, and from the gravity in Rhys’s voice it sounded serious.
The next time Cat saw Rhys his expression had completely changed, his jaw hard, his features taut. Cat wanted to ask him if there was something she could do but didn’t want to intrude on his thoughts or mood.
Clearly, he was upset, and clearly his thoughts were no longer here with them but in London with whatever was happening, or had happened, at the hospital.
Rhys returned to Olivia’s room and stayed with her for an hour, before emerging to get her some juice.
Cat cornered Rhys in the kitchen. “I know things are weird between us,” she said under her breath, not wanting Jillian to hear, “but I know something has happened in London—”
“There’s nothing I can do,” he said flatly, shutting her down.
But Cat could feel the tension radiating off of him, never mind the shadows in his eyes. “Maybe not from here,” she said. “But could you in London?”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“The girls—”
“I’ve got them.”
“I’m on break.”
“You will always be a doctor, and you will always be needed. If you are needed, you should go.”
He looked away, his jaw working, his mouth pressed hard.
She put a hand on his arm. He said nothing but she left her hand there, trying to comfort as best as she could.
“It might be too late.”
“And it might not,” she replied.
“There are other doctors—”
“But they aren’t you. And if you could make a difference, you should go.” She took a breath, and her eyes burned and her throat threatened to seal closed. “If there is any chance at all, go right now.”
He looked down at her hand on his arm and briefly covered it with his hand. “You will be fine without me?”
“Absolutely. The girls will understand too.”
*
Car lights outside shone through the kitchen window and Cat, having just put both girls to bed, went to the kitchen and looked out on the driveway where Rhys’s black Range Rover was parked, with him stepping out of the vehicle.
She looked at the kitchen clock, half past nine. What was he doing back?
She turned the kettle on, set two mugs on the counter, then wondered if he’d want something stronger. He’d had a long day. He had to be exhausted.
The front door opened and Rhys entered the house, hung up his coat, set his bag on the floor.
She walked to the entry to meet him, her gaze searching his face. “What happened?”
“She died on my way there.”
Cat swallowed hard. “I am sorry.”
He nodded.
“Would you like some tea? I turned the kettle on, but I could also pour you a glass of something…”
“I’m alright. But thank you.”
“I was just about to turn out the lights and lock up,” she said.
“I’ll do it. And you know, I might have that cup of tea, so thank you. Sleep well.”
“Good night, Rhys.”
*
Rhys paced the cottage, unable to relax, unable to read or focus, everything wound too tight within him.
Four and a half hours of driving hadn’t helped.
He’d been halfway to London when the call came that Eleanor had passed.
He’d immediately taken the next exit and had howled with rage and disappointment, slamming his fist against the steering wheel.
He wasn’t just grieving her loss, but the fact that she left behind two teenagers who had desperately needed their mum.
Eyes smarting, heart thudding, exhausted but wired, he bundled up and headed out into the night.
He walked first toward Bakewell, beneath the canopy of leafless trees and evergreens.
Frost glittered across the fields, coating every blade of grass, every branch of the trees bordering the road.
Rhys walked the long curve of the drive alone, his breath clouding the air and when he came to the edge of the estate, he exited onto the main road and walked until he came to the front entrance to Langley Park and started up that road.
The night had turned sharp and silver, the moon high above Langley Park.
After a bit, the house came into view, a sprawling, hulking shape with the multitude of chimneys across the steeply pitched roof.
He walked along the drive with its markers pointing the way to the car park, passing behind the house and then to the garage, the stable master’s house. His former home.
Reaching the old cottage, Rhys stopped, dug his hands deep into his wool coat pockets and breathed in deeply, letting the cold air fill his lungs.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been walking …
a half hour? More? Less? He also wasn’t sure why he’d ended up here at the old cottage, but it had called to him.
Or maybe it was his mother who had called to him.
She’d died too young, and even though cancer had wasted her body, she’d remained beautiful and strong even to the end—at least in his eyes.
She never forgot to make sure Rhys knew he was loved.
She’d never hurt too much to reach out to him, telling him how proud she was, how lucky she was, how grateful she was that God gave her such a good, kind, brilliant son.
Rhys’s eyes burned. He ground his teeth together, swallowing hard, holding back the emotion.
He missed her. He’d missed her even before she’d died, but this was where he remembered her best. Moving in the kitchen and then stepping outside to the garden she’d planted next to their cottage.
Flowers. Vegetables. Fruit trees. Hollyhocks in summer.
Fragrant coral-hued roses along the walkway.
And then there was her voice. She was always humming something softly, and he hadn’t realized until much later that her humming was evidence of her happiness.
Of her contentment. His father had been tough, confident, competent.
But it was his mother who’d made them a home.
She’d been the heart of this place. The heart of them all.
And when she died, the warmth and light had gone with her.
There were no more hollyhocks in summer after her death.
No vases of roses in the house. No bowls of freshly picked fruit on the kitchen table.
The cottage grew quiet. His father folded inward, working longer hours to fill the silence, and sometimes drinking more than he should.
Rhys never blamed his father for wanting to get lost in a drink, because Rhys wanted to lose himself too.
Maybe that was why he worked so hard, why he’d driven himself for years—to fill his own silences, to build something solid enough that the emptiness couldn’t find him. Hurt him.
He thought, not for the first time, that he’d expected marriage to fix that. He’d thought when he married Lyndsey that it would all come back—the safety, the warmth, the sense of home. That she’d bring light the way his mother had. But it hadn’t been like that.
He hadn’t known how to make it so, and what he wanted from marriage wasn’t what Lyndsey wanted.
He craved domesticity, a haven to return to after a grueling day in surgery, but Lyndsey wanted to go out, be out, be seen.
She wanted good dining and entertainment.
Excitement. He wasn’t exciting. He was a homebody, and she’d become increasingly restless. Bored.