Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
“Come on now, Lord Philip,” Imogen whispered to the boy as he slept restlessly.
We were fools to be so easily heartened. I cannot believe we saw that brief cooling of his skin as victory, that we mistook the exhaustion of his body for the breaking of the fever. Surely it was born of our desperation to see him well, yet to steal away for such a selfish moment…
“You are a fighter, Lord Philip! You can overcome this,” she cried.
The air in the nursery had grown thick, a weight that pressed against the lungs of anyone who went inside.
It was a suffocating braid of scents - the sharp, acidic bite of vinegar-soaked rags, the cloying heaviness of the boy’s fever-sweat, and the sweetness of dried chamomile and valerian root steeping in the corner.
By the second afternoon, the smells had stained the curtains. By the third, they seemed to have stained Imogen’s very skin.
She sat in a high-backed wingchair Mrs. Higgins had brought in from the study, her body vibrating with a fatigue so deep it felt like a hum in her very bones.
Across from her, Philip tossed under the heavy quilts, his fever broken but his breathing erratic and uneven.
His skin was the color of curdled cream, slicked with a fine, oily sheen that the vinegar wash couldn’t seem to strip away.
“Just a sip, dear,” she whispered as she held a teacup to his lips. Her own voice sounded foreign to her, a dry rasp in the quiet room.
She lifted his head, as fragile as a bird, and pressed the rim of the teacup to his cracked lips. He moaned, a faint sound that made her heart lurch and swallowed a dark trickle of herbal brew.
Poor boy, he just cannot fight the last of this congestion… I need something to help loosen it. I will try another vapor.
She went down to the scullery then and fetched some fresh mint, making a small basin of boiling water with the herb. She carried it back to his room, set it by the bedside, dunked a towel inside, then held it to the boy’s chest.
“This will loosen the humors,” she said.
As she lowered him back down, her vision blurred. The floral pattern on the wallpaper began to swirl, the rosebuds stretching into long, grasping fingers. She did not realize she had closed her eyes until the heavy clack of the door latch jerked her upright.
Night had swallowed the room. The only light came from a dying fire, casting the nursery in jagged orange and bruised purple. A silhouette stood in the doorway, vast, motionless, and cold. She knew it was the Duke.
He didn’t step onto the rug. He simply let his shadow stretch across the floorboards until it touched the foot of his nephew’s bed. He stood there for a count of ten, his presence a sweet demand for recovery, before the shadow withdrew and the door clicked shut.
Then came Dr. Gump, the family physician, a blur of rustling coattails and the metallic clink of instruments.
“My apologies for the hour, but I had another patient with dysentery. The pulse is still rapid, but that is good. He is fighting,” the old man muttered, his hand a pale ghost against Philip’s wrist. Imogen watched him through a haze, her chin dipping toward her chest. “Keep with the compresses, Miss Lewis. We are nearly there…”
“Of course, Dr. Gump,” she said with a yawn, rising to her feet to fetch a fresh compress.
His voice drifted away, replaced by the rhythmic ticking of the mantle clock. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Imogen reached for the basin. The water was lukewarm now, but she wrung out the linen cloth anyway.
Her movements were mechanical, the product of a mind that had retreated into a narrow tunnel of duty.
She pressed the cloth to Philip’s temple, and for a fleeting second, his eyes fluttered open.
The usual blue sheen was dull, his pupils unfocused.
“Oh, Miss Lewis,” he breathed. “Is that you?”
“I am here, Lord Philip,” she whispered, leaning forward until her forehead almost touched his. “And I will not leave your side until you are all better. That is a promise. I swear it.”
She meant to say more, to promise him the sun and the sky, but the darkness pulled her again. She drifted, her hand still resting on his damp brow, catching a few minutes of grey, dreamless sleep before the smell of the vinegar or the cooling of the fire pulled her back to the vigil once more.
As the sun crested the rooftops of Mayfair on the fourth morning, the sharp, whistling rasp in Philip’s chest finally smoothed into a deep, rhythmic sigh.
Imogen sat slumped in the rocking chair, her fingers still curled around a damp cloth, her eyes half open.
She watched the steady rise and fall of the boy’s chest, the terrifying flush of fever replaced by a translucent paleness.
Is this finally over? Can it be?
The door creaked open then, revealing Dr. Gump once more. Behind him, Mrs. Higgins hovered with a tray of a bowl of broth, and Mr. Jennings stood like a sentinel in the shadows of the threshold. Arthur ducked under the doctor’s arm, his face pale and smudged with dirt as he walked closer.
“Is he breathing, Miss Lewis?” Arthur whispered, his voice cracking. “He looks too still.”
“He’s just sleeping, Lord Arthur,” Imogen said, her voice a low rasp. “That’s where the healing happens. A real sleep. He is better today; I can feel it in my bones. Please, do share what you have been up to in my absence here, Lord Arthur. You are absolutely covered in dirt!”
“I went for a walk in the gardens and chased a toad,” he said softly. “I was hoping that if I could catch him and bring him in, I might be able to make my brother laugh…”
“Oh, what a kind thought,” Imogen laughed. “But I think we are all glad that the small creature escaped your grasp. Please promise me you will wash up and change your clothes. We cannot have you fall as well from catching a cold!”
“Yes, Miss Lewis,” Arthur said with a nod.
Dr. Gump stepped closer to Philip at the bedside, his silver pocket watch clicking open.
He leaned down, listening intently to his breathing patterns.
“The congestion has broken, and that tricky whistle has gone,” he announced, his deep voice booming in the quiet room.
“The lad’s heart is steady as a drum. While the high fever broke that first night, we finally turned the corner on the pneumonia. The lungs are clear!”
“Oh! God be praised,” Mrs. Higgins sobbed softly, setting the tray down with a rattle on the nightstand table.
“I have had a candle burning in the kitchen since he fell ill, praying to the Lord for this sweet child. How glorious! I’ll fetch some fresh linens, shall I?
The smell of the sickroom! I’ll get the maids to cleaning at once, and we will get this room in tip-top shape! ”
“Not quite yet, Mrs. Higgins,” Jennings murmured, his hand resting briefly on the housekeeper’s shoulder, a rare lapse in his stiff decorum. “Let the boy have his peace while he sleeps a bit more. I shall inform the staff that the house is no longer quiet. We will get to cleaning later.”
“I think I got ahead of myself,” Mrs. Higgins laughed. “I’ve been so worried, and I do best when I’m busy… but you are right. We will get to cleaning later.”
“While we’re out of the woods, keep him hydrated, mind you,” the doctor added, snapping his bag shut. “And you, Miss Lewis, you look like a ghost. If you do not sleep soon, I’ll have two patients instead of one.”
“I will stay just a moment longer, Dr. Gump,” she replied. “Then I promise to take my rest.”
“Good girl. I will go inform His Grace of this progress before I make my exit,” Dr. Gump said as he led the servants and a lingering, reluctant Arthur out. “Good day, Lord Philip. You gave us quite a scare!”
Imogen hesitated for a moment before rising from her chair and crossing to the bed. She put a soft hand to the boy’s cheek, remarking how the color had returned so beautifully.
“Now, we can both rest,” she whispered to him. “Finally.”
“Thank you, Miss Lewis,” he said softly, his blue eyes meeting her green. “I do not know what I would do without you. I think my mother would have liked you.”
“That is the kindest compliment I have ever received, Lord Philip. Thank you. It was my pleasure to be here to nurse you back to health,” she said with a smile.
The threshold was suddenly occupied by a shadow, yet Imogen kept her eyes fixed on Philip, who was asleep once more.
While she dared not turn, she knew that Ambrose stood there.
She knew that his white shirt would be wrinkled, stained with the soot of the fireplace he had been stoking all night in his study.
That he had been impossibly worried about the fate of his young nephew.
Now that this crisis has been averted, what will become of us… Us? Hah, that is a laugh! I must be delirious with lack of sleep to let my mind drift in such ways…
Despite her inner protestations, for a heartbeat, the air in the room hummed with the memory of what had occurred between them so many nights ago.
She dared not speak to him. She could not.
She could still feel the way he had pulled her against the rough wool of his coat, the desperate, salt-tasted kisses. It was too close, too much.
He took a step toward the bed, his hand hovering over Philip’s brow and his eyes carefully averted to the boy, and him alone.
Imogen rose, her movement instinctive, her hand barely brushing his arm as they both leaned over the sleeping child.
Ambrose’s muscles jolted beneath her touch.
Then, he looked at her, and for a second, his eyes were that raw, shattering blue that made her breath hitch.
“He doesn’t look quite so small when he isn’t fighting for air,” Ambrose whispered, his voice trembling. “He is a strong lad, but a part of me… I feared… I thought the house would go silent forever.”
“He is so strong, Ambrose,” she whispered, his name a forbidden prayer on her quivering lips. “Like his uncle.”