Chapter 21
It was the thought of Henry that had her send Lord Ashbourne a letter, inviting him for tea that very afternoon. Ironically, it was the very same boy who would be the reason the tea was cancelled.
Five words were all it took.
“Mama, I don’t feel good.”
The words were so small, so plaintive, that Amelia almost didn’t hear them over the rain battering the windows. She looked up from her embroidery—tedious work she’d been using to avoid thinking about the choices she had to make, choices that were far from easy.
Henry stood in the nursery doorway, his wooden horse dangling forgotten from one hand. Even from across the room, she could see the flush staining his cheeks. The unnatural brightness in his eyes.
The embroidery hoop clattered to the floor.
“Darling?” She was across the room before conscious thought could intervene, her hand finding his forehead. Heat radiated from his small body like a furnace. “Oh, sweetheart. Come here.”
She lifted him—when had he grown so heavy?
—and carried him to his bed. His head lolled against her shoulder with a listlessness that sent ice flooding through her veins.
Henry was never listless. Never still. He was perpetual motion and endless questions and laughter that could light up the darkest corners.
This terrible stillness was wrong.
“Mrs. Boldwood!” Her voice emerged sharper than intended, edged with panic she couldn’t quite suppress. “Mrs. Boldwood, send for the physician. Immediately.”
The housekeeper appeared with the efficiency of long service, took one look at Henry’s flushed face, and paled. “At once, my lady.”
The minutes stretched like hours. Amelia stripped Henry down to his smallclothes, her hands shaking as she worked. His skin burned beneath her fingers. Too hot. Far too hot.
Not him. Please, not him. Anyone but him.
She’d lost her mother. Lost the version of herself that had existed before Edward’s coldness had taught her to make herself small. She could not—would not—lose her son.
“Mama?” Henry’s voice was thin, reedy. “I’m cold.”
“I know, darling. I know.” She pulled the lightest coverlet over him, though every instinct screamed to bundle him in warmth. But she remembered enough from her own childhood fevers—the physician had always adviced keeping the patient cool. Let the heat escape rather than trap it.
Please let me remember correctly. Please let that be right.
Henry began to cry—not the robust wailing of a child denied what he wanted, but a weak, pitiful sound that tore at something deep in her chest. She gathered him close, rocking slowly, humming the lullaby her own mother had sung before death had stolen her away.
The physician arrived as the evening bells were chiming seven. Mr. Thornton was an elderly, competent physician, his manner brisk but not unkind as he examined Henry with methodical thoroughness.
“A fever, certainly,” he pronounced at last, snapping his bag closed. “Common enough in children his age. The body purging some ill humour, most likely.”
“But what do I do?” The desperation in her voice was undignified, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. “How do I make him better?”
“Cool cloths to the forehead and wrists. Small sips of barley water if he’ll take it. And this—” He produced a dark bottle from his bag. “Three drops in water, every four hours. It should help bring the fever down and ease his discomfort.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Her hands clenched in her skirts. “If the fever doesn’t break?”
“Give it time, Lady Amelia.” His expression gentled fractionally. “Children are remarkably resilient. More often than not, these fevers burn themselves out within a day or two. But if it worsens—if he develops difficulty breathing, or becomes unresponsive—send for me immediately.”
He departed with promises to return in the morning, leaving Amelia alone with her fear and a bottle of herbal draught that seemed woefully inadequate to the task.
The hours crawled past with agonizing slowness.
She followed the physician’s instructions with desperate precision.
Cool cloths, replaced as soon as they grew warm.
Three drops of the draught, administered with trembling hands whilst Henry whimpered and tried to turn his face away. Barley water he wouldn’t touch.
And through it all, the fever burned on.
“Hush now, my darling.” She’d lost count of how many times she’d sung the lullaby, her voice growing hoarse. “Mama’s here. You’re safe. You’re going to be fine.”
Please let that be true. Please, God, let that be true.
The rain intensified, drumming against the windows with percussion that matched her racing pulse. Lightning flickered, throwing strange shadows across the nursery walls. And Henry’s small body trembled in her arms, burning with heat that refused to abate no matter how many cool cloths she applied.
At some point—she’d lost all track of time—his crying changed. Grew weaker. More desperate. His eyes, when they fluttered open, seemed unfocused. Glassy.
Panic seized her throat like a fist.
This isn’t working. Nothing is working. He’s getting worse, and I don’t know what to do and—
The door opened, though she did not turn her head from her son. “He’s burning up.”
She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud until the words escaped her lips as barely more than a whisper. Her hands shook as she wrung out another cloth, the water in the basin already tepid despite having been fresh minutes ago.
“He won’t stop crying. I can’t—”
She finally allowed herself to look away from the boy.
Tobias stood in the doorway, still in his evening clothes, though his cravat hung loose and his waistcoat was unbuttoned.
His hair stood on end as though he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly.
Rain darkened his shoulders—he must have only just returned from wherever he’d spent the evening.
Their eyes met across the lamplight, and something in her chest cracked open.
“Tobias.” His name emerged broken, raw with terror she could no longer contain. “I don’t—he won’t—the fever isn’t—”
She couldn’t finish. Couldn’t force words past the panic closing her throat.
He crossed the room in three strides.
Then his arms were around her—strong and solid and real—pulling her against his chest whilst Henry remained cradled between them. She felt rather than heard the rumble of his voice against her ear.
“Breathe, Amelia. Just breathe.”
“I can’t—I tried everything the physician said but nothing is working and he’s so hot and I don’t know what to do and—”
“Shh.” One hand came up to cradle the back of her head, fingers tangling gently in her hair. “You’re not alone. Do you hear me? You’re not alone in this.”
The dam broke.
She buried her face against his chest, and tears flowed freely from her eyes.
All the fear she felt, all the disappointment she had endured, everything left with great shuddering sobs that tore through her with violence she hadn’t known she contained.
Her fingers clutched at his waistcoat, probably ruining the delicate fabric, but she couldn’t make herself care.
All the fear she’d been holding back flooded out in waves. Fear of losing Henry. Fear of failing him. Fear of being left utterly alone in a world that felt increasingly hostile.
And Tobias simply held her. Didn’t tell her to compose herself or remind her that tears were unseemly. Just held her whilst the storm raged outside, and Henry’s weak cries provided heartbreaking percussion.
“He’ll be fine,” Tobias said at last, though his voice had gone rough with emotion. “He’s strong. And stubborn as a mule—he gets that from his mother. This fever won’t take him.”
“You can’t know that.” The words emerged muffled against his chest. “Sometimes… healthy people get sick and they do not get better. My mother. Edward.”
“Look at me.” He pulled back just enough to frame her face with both hands, tilting her chin up until their eyes met.
His grey gaze was fierce, burning with intensity that stole what remained of her breath.
“Henry is not going anywhere. Do you understand? I won’t allow it.
You won’t allow it. And that stubborn little creature—” He glanced down at the feverish boy between them.
“—he’s far too busy terrorizing butterflies and building towers to consider anything so dramatic as departing this world. ”
Despite everything—the fear, the exhaustion, the bone-deep terror—she felt her lips twitch.
“That’s better.” His thumb brushed across her cheek, wiping away tears with devastating gentleness. “Now. What did Mr. Thornton prescribe?”
She explained through hiccuping breaths—the cool cloths, the herbal draught, the barley water Henry refused to drink. Tobias listened with absolute focus, his hands never leaving her face, as though by maintaining that physical connection he could somehow anchor her to steadiness.
“Right.” He released her slowly, his fingers trailing across her jaw before falling away. “You’re exhausted. When did you last eat?”
“I don’t—this afternoon? I’m not hungry.”
“Irrelevant. Mrs. Boldwood!” His voice carried through the open door. “Bring tea and whatever Cook has on hand. And fresh cool water—a full pitcher.”
The housekeeper appeared with remarkable speed, her expression creased with worry. “At once, my lord. How is the young master?”
“Fighting,” Tobias said firmly. “And winning. He simply hasn’t realized it yet.”
Mrs. Boldwood departed, and Tobias turned his attention to Henry. The boy had quieted somewhat during their exchange, his crying reduced to occasional pitiful whimpers. Tobias lifted him carefully from Amelia’s arms.
“Lad.” His voice had gentled to that particular tone he used only with Henry—warm and steady and infinitely patient. “You’re giving your mama quite a fright, you know. That’s very poor form.”
Henry’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused. “Papa?”
The word was barely audible, slurred with fever and exhaustion. But clear enough.