Chapter 20
“Faster!”
Catherine’s voice was so loud, she startled herself. It cut through the clatter of hooves, sharp and breathless. The driver flicked the reins, and the carriage lurched forward, wheels biting into the wet cobblestones.
She gripped the edge of the seat, her gloves damp against the worn leather. Every turn of the wheels felt too slow, every heartbeat another moment lost. The image of the note burned behind her eyes.
Her Henry. The one who’d tugged at her sleeve and asked after her husband. The one with the shy smile on his face.
“Please,” she whispered to no one, “please let me be in time.”
The city blurred past shopfronts, lamplighters, and the river’s dull shimmer in the distance. She barely saw any of it.
At last, the carriage turned onto Brightwater Lane.
Even before it stopped, she was reaching for the handle. She pushed the door open and stepped down, her shoes splashing into a shallow puddle.
Mrs. Simms was waiting at the entrance, apron damp, face ashen. She hurried forward.
“Your Grace! Thank heaven you’ve come.”
“What has happened?” Catherine demanded, breathless.
“It began a few hours ago. He complained of dizziness, then fainted during his reading. We thought it was exhaustion, but he woke burning with fever. His breathing—” Mrs. Simms broke off, her hands wringing together. “I’ve sent for a physician, but none have come.”
Catherine’s stomach dropped. “How high is the fever?”
“I’ve seen worse,” the woman admitted, “but it rises quickly. I suspect infection. Perhaps scarlet fever, or something akin.”
Catherine felt her blood run cold. Scarlet fever. The same sickness that had taken half the city’s poor in the last season.
“Take me to him,” she said.
Mrs. Simms nodded and led her inside.
The orphanage had never felt so quiet. The children who normally filled the halls with laughter and noise were gathered in the corridor, wide-eyed and silent. Some clutched each other’s hands; others stared at Catherine as though she might carry a miracle in her skirts.
She forced a shaky smile for them. “He’ll be all right,” she said softly. “Go on, now. Wait here for Mrs. Simms.”
They nodded, obeying reluctantly.
Mrs. Simms led her down the narrow passage toward the infirmary, their footsteps muffled against the stone. The air grew heavier with each step, hot, close, thick with the scent of vinegar and sweat.
When they reached the small room at the end of the hall, Mrs. Simms hesitated at the door. “I’ve separated him from the others. For safety’s sake.”
Catherine drew a breath and nodded. “You did right.”
She pushed the door open.
The air inside was stifling, the curtains drawn tight to block the draft.
A single candle flickered on the table, its light spilling over the bed where Henry lay small and still beneath the sheets.
His curls, once golden, were damp and dark against his brow.
His breathing came in short, shallow gasps, each one a fragile thread.
“Henry,” Catherine whispered.
The boy stirred faintly, eyelids fluttering but not opening. His lips moved soundlessly.
Catherine’s throat constricted. She moved closer, kneeling at the bedside. Her gloves were off before she realized it, her bare hand pressing to his forehead.
So hot. God, he was burning.
She turned to Mrs. Simms, voice trembling. “Bring more water. Cool it with ice if there’s any.”
Mrs. Simms hurried out.
Catherine dipped a cloth into the basin and began dabbing at Henry’s face, whispering his name again and again as if her voice alone could pull him back.
“It’s all right, my darling boy. You’re safe. You’ll get better.”
Her voice broke. She blinked hard against the sting of tears.
A memory surfaced: Henry’s smile, bright and unguarded, when he’d asked about Duncan. Is he at home?
She’d said yes. She’d lied, or perhaps she hadn’t. She didn’t know anymore. She only knew that Duncan lingered in her mind relentlessly, all-consuming like a fever.
Where was he now? Would he come?
The butler had promised to send word.
Would Duncan read it soon? Would he fly to her aid?
Catherine pressed her hand over Henry’s. It was small and fragile, the pulse fluttering beneath the skin like a trapped bird.
“Please,” she whispered, brushing the damp curls from his forehead. “Please hold on. You’ll be better soon.”
But even as she said it, she doubted it. The words felt like an offering cast into a void.
The candlelight wavered. She felt sweat bead at the back of her neck. It was too warm, too close. She stood and crossed to the window, pulling the curtains open. Cool air spilled in, stirring the flame.
Outside, the clouds had deepened into a bruised purple. Rain was coming.
Mrs. Simms returned with a basin of water and a stack of clean linens. “Here, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.”
They worked together in silence, changing the compress, cooling the boy’s skin. Catherine moved with mechanical precision, but her thoughts would not still.
Hidden, the dowager had said. His heart is in the right place. It’s just hidden.
And where is he now when I need him?
Catherine felt so powerless that she longed to unleash a wail of agony.
She could not find her husband…could not save little Henry. She could do nothing but hope and pray that all would be well.
She wrung out the cloth, water dripping through her fingers, and laid it across Henry’s forehead. His eyes flickered open for a heartbeat, but they were glassy, unfocused.
“Your Grace…” he murmured.
Catherine leaned closer. “Yes, my dear. I’m here.”
The boy sighed faintly and slipped back into half-consciousness. Catherine sat beside him, unable to move. Her mind refused to stop spinning from Henry’s fever to Duncan’s absence to the hollow ache spreading through her chest.
She’d wanted to understand him, to be patient as the dowager advised. But patience was a luxury she could not afford now, not while the world kept asking her to be strong for everyone else.
She wanted to scream. To cry. To tell him how angry she was that he had left her to face all this alone, that she had to play duchess and savior and wife all at once.
The storm outside broke at last. Rain began to strike the windows, soft at first, then harder. The sound filled the room.
Catherine dipped the cloth again, her movements slower now, the exhaustion seeping into her bones.
“He’ll be all right,” she murmured. “He must be.”
Mrs. Simms hovered near the door, twisting her apron. “The physician still hasn’t come,” she said quietly.
Catherine looked up, eyes burning. “Then send another messenger. Offer whatever sum they ask. The money is of no importance. Tell them it’s a matter of life and death.”
Mrs. Simms nodded and hurried away again.
When the door closed, Catherine sank back into the chair beside the bed. The candlelight trembled with the wind, throwing shadows across Henry’s pale face.
She brushed his hair back once more, then pressed her palm gently to his cheek.
“You’re brave,” she whispered. “You’ll see. You’ll fight this.”
Her hand trembled. She could not tell if it was from fear or from the tears she refused to let fall.
Lightning flashed, casting the room in white. Henry stirred faintly, his breathing uneven.
“Hold on,” Catherine whispered again, voice cracking. “Just a little longer.”
A moment later, the door creaked open. One of the older girls, pale and frightened, clutching a bundle of towels, hovered near the doorway.
“Here, Your Grace,” she whispered. “Mrs. Simms said you might need more.”
“Thank you.” Catherine managed a weak smile, taking them. The girl lingered at the door, eyes wide.
“Will he die?” she asked in a trembling voice.
Catherine froze, unable to speak. She wanted to say no, wanted to believe it, but her throat closed around the lie.
She looked at the child instead, forcing gentleness into her tone. “We’ll make sure he won’t.”
The girl nodded and slipped away.
Catherine set the towels aside and leaned forward once more, her forehead nearly touching the bed.
“Please,” she whispered again, a plea swallowed by the sound of the rain.
Henry’s fever had climbed. His small body writhed against the damp sheets, skin flushed crimson. The sound of his shallow breathing struck her like the sharpest chill of winter.
She dipped the cloth again, wrung it out, and laid it across his forehead, whispering his name as if her voice might anchor him to this world.
“Hold on, my darling. Just hold on.”
Her own voice frightened her.
The candlelight flickered over the walls, catching the sheen of sweat on her temples. Her gown clung damp to her body, the muslin darkened with water and heat. She felt half-mad with exhaustion, half-dreaming from fear.
Mrs. Simms entered quietly, her skirts brushing the floor. “Your Grace,” she murmured, “the other children are frightened. They’re asking if they might see him.”
Catherine shook her head at once. “No. Not until the physician has seen him.”
“Yes, of course.” The matron hesitated. “Should I send another runner for the doctor?”
“Yes,” Catherine said firmly. “Send two if you must.”
Mrs. Simms nodded and turned to go. Catherine’s voice stopped her halfway through the door.
“And…send word to His Grace,” she added, barely more than a whisper. “Tell him I’ll remain here until Henry is well again.”
Mrs. Simms turned back, eyes full of sympathy. “Of course, Your Grace.”