Chapter 21
“Where is she?”
The words came out low, rough-edged, more command than question. Duncan didn’t slow as he crossed the threshold, rain dripping from his coat, boots striking hard against the stone floor. The narrow corridor smelled of vinegar and damp linen.
Mrs. Simms, her spine rigid, dropped into a stiff curtsy. “This way, Your Grace. Her Grace is with the boy.”
He gave a curt nod and turned slightly toward the man behind him, who was also hustling forward to get out of the rain.
“Go,” he told the physician while eyeing the small black valise he clutched in one hand. “See to the child.”
The doctor bowed quickly and hurried down the corridor, his medical case clutched tight. Duncan followed, his stride longer, heavier, the air thick with the scent of rain and fear.
The smell of sickness hit him like a wall: vinegar, sweat, and something faintly metallic beneath it all.
Duncan gagged as he lowered his head and stared at the droplets of rain that rolled down his coat sleeve.
I should not have waited so long.
By the time he returned from paying a visit to Catherine’s father, the day had almost slipped away from him entirely.
When he read the first note from his wife, informing him of her whereabouts, he did not think much of the matter. He’d told himself she would be fine, that his interference would not be necessary.
But when the second message reached him, the Duchess has not returned; the boy is dying—he was already halfway to the door.
Now, standing in the narrow passage outside the infirmary, the rain still in his hair and the storm at his back, Duncan felt something he’d not let himself feel in years. Fear.
The door opened, and he saw Catherine standing there.
Her gown was damp, her hair loose, her face pale beneath the flickering light.
But it was her eyes that undid him. Wide, hollow, shimmering with exhaustion and something close to despair.
“Duncan.”
He did not trust himself to speak. So, he only inclined his head. She nodded in return, as if anything more might shatter what little steadiness she had left.
“Your Grace,” said the physician from behind her, his voice calm and steady, “the child is in there.”
Duncan stepped past Catherine into the small room. The air was thick and heavy, the candlelight trembling on the boy’s fevered skin. Henry’s breathing was shallow, his lips cracked and dry.
One glance told Duncan what the physician would confirm.
He had seen that kind of heat before, the kind that took quickly and rarely gave back. His mother had succumbed to such an ailment long ago—so long ago—yet the memory stuck with him.
“Speak plainly,” Duncan said, turning toward the doctor.
The man bowed his head. “It’s fever, Your Grace. Aggressive. The best we can do is keep him cool, keep him drinking broth and water when possible, and pray he lasts till morning. If he does, there’s a chance. If not…”
He didn’t finish.
Catherine made a faint sound beside him, barely audible—a small, broken breath that cut him to the core. When he turned, she was staring at the boy, her hands trembling so violently that the cloth she held slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.
“He’s just a child,” she whispered. “He doesn’t deserve this.”
Duncan’s jaw flexed. He looked toward the physician. “Leave us. All of you.”
Mrs. Simms hesitated. “Your Grace—”
“Out,” Duncan said, quietly but with the kind of finality that brooked no argument.
They left without another word, the door closing softly behind them, and silence settled over the room.
Catherine knelt beside the bed again, reaching for the fallen cloth with shaking fingers. “We must keep him cool. The doctor said—”
“I heard him.” Duncan took the cloth from her hand, dipped it into the basin, wrung it out, and pressed it to the boy’s forehead. “I promise that this boy will not fight this fever alone.”
She looked up at him, but he couldn’t meet her eyes. The sound of rain filled the quiet.
Duncan held the boy steady while Catherine spooned thin broth past his lips. She whispered encouragements, her voice raw but soft. When Henry’s small body shuddered in pain, Duncan reached out instinctively, steadying him with a hand at his shoulder, murmuring low.
“It’s all right, lad. You’ve got fight in you. Don’t let it go.”
Catherine froze mid-motion. He could feel her gaze on him, surprised and uncertain, as though this side of him were something she could not reconcile with the man she thought she knew.
He did not look up. He could not bear it. Instead, he kept working, methodically, wiping the boy’s face, adjusting the blankets, feeding the fire just enough to keep the chill away.
Catherine rose to fetch more water. He caught her wrist gently before she could step away. “Sit. You’re exhausted.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
The defiance in her eyes vexed him greatly.
What did she suffer in my absence? Why did I not come sooner, when I read the first missive?
She was beautiful even now, pale and undone, strands of hair clinging to her cheek. She looked like something fragile the world had tried to break and failed.
Duncan released her hand slowly. “Rest a moment. I’ll get it.”
She hesitated, pride warring with fatigue, and then sat.
He crossed the room to the small washstand, poured fresh water into the basin, and returned. The simple act steadied him. It gave his hands something to do other than reach for her.
When he turned, she was watching him still.
“You needn’t have come,” she said softly.
“Yet here I am.”
“Why?” Her voice was so quiet that it was almost drowned by the storm.
He looked at the boy instead of her. “Because you needed me.”
She bit her lip. “You could not know that for certain.”
“I did.”
Their eyes met. For a long, unbroken moment, neither looked away. The distance that had lived between them for days narrowed, drawn tight by fear and something else.
Catherine was the first to look downward. Her hand brushed against his as she reached for the cloth. The contact was brief, accidental, but it set something alight beneath his skin.
“Thank you,” was all she could respond before turning back to the ailing boy.
Duncan hoped with every part of his soul that he’d survive the night.
Hours passed. The storm outside softened into drizzle, the candle burned low.
Henry’s fever raged and waned, a cruel tide that offered no mercy. Duncan changed the compresses, and Catherine coaxed the boy to drink.
When Henry’s small body convulsed once more, Duncan caught him before he could twist the sheets from the bed. Catherine pressed the damp cloth to his chest, whispering, please, please.
“It’s all right,” Duncan murmured, steadying the boy against his arm. “Breathe, lad. Just breathe.”
Henry’s breathing slowed again, shallow but even. The danger passed, for now.
Catherine sagged forward, her head bowing until her forehead nearly brushed the boy’s arm.
“I can’t bear it,” she whispered. “To lose him—”
“You won’t.”
She looked up at him, eyes glistening. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Because we’ll not let him go.”
She exhaled shakily, as though his words were a promise she wanted to believe but didn’t know how.
He reached out without thinking, brushing his thumb across the tears that trembled on her cheek. She went utterly still.
“Catherine,” he said, her name low, rough, the sound of it almost reverent.
She turned her face slightly into his hand, as if against her will, her breath catching.
For a heartbeat, the room shrank to nothing but the two of them—the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, the scent of her, the soft rise and fall of her chest as she steadied herself.
He should have pulled away. He didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured suddenly, breaking the silence. “For being angry. For thinking you wouldn’t come.”
“You had reason,” he said.
She shook her head, tears slipping free despite her effort. “No. You always come when it matters.”
Duncan swallowed hard, the words landing somewhere deep and unguarded. He wanted to tell her that she mattered more than he knew how to admit, that the thought of her alone in this place had driven him nearly mad. But he couldn’t. The words wouldn’t emerge.
Instead, he said softly, “You did well.”
She looked at him then, really looked, her eyes searching his face as though seeing something she hadn’t before.
“You care for them,” she whispered. “For the children.”
He hesitated. “They’ve no one else.”
Her lips parted, her breath unsteady. “That’s not the only reason.”
He didn’t answer, but the undeniable truth hung between them unspoken. He cared because she cared. Because every time she walked into a room, she made him remember what decency felt like.
Henry stirred again, drawing a faint sound from them both. Duncan reached to adjust the blanket, his hand brushing hers. She didn’t pull away this time.
For the rest of the night, they moved together as if they had done this always.
Wordless, in rhythm, bound by shared purpose and something deeper.
When she faltered, he steadied her. When he went still, she took over.
Occasionally, the physician or Mrs. Simms reappeared, but mostly, Catherine and Duncan saw to Henry’s care.
“Eat something.”
Duncan’s voice broke the quiet, low but firm, as though command might accomplish what gentleness could not.
The candle had burned nearly to its base, its flame flickering against the curve of Catherine’s cheek.
She sat slumped beside the bed, eyes fixed on the boy, her hands clasped so tightly that the knuckles had gone white.
She didn’t move. “I’m not hungry.”
“You’ve not eaten since yesterday.”
“I said I’m not hungry.”
Duncan frowned. He straightened from where he stood at the foot of the bed, every inch of him taut with frustration. “Then sleep, at least. You’ll collapse before dawn.”
She shook her head slowly. “What if something happens to him while I—”
“Nothing will. I am here. Both for you, and for him.”