Chapter 22
MARIANNE
Marianne didn’t know much about children and even less about children’s illnesses. Being the youngest, there had never been anybody to look after in that sense.
Still, she knew that the cough didn’t sound good, and when within the hour he became extremely sweaty and complained of body aches, she became even more concerned.
Lucien was getting ever more frantic. He wasn’t showing it outwardly, but she could see it by the way his breathing quickened, and his fingers fidgeted as he tucked Henry back into bed.
“I should call for a physician,” he said quietly as she sat beside Henry’s bed. “Will you stay with him?”
“Of course I will,” Marianne replied. Lucien rushed out while she stayed with the little boy, who coughed occasionally underneath his blanket.
She wondered if they ought to open the window, but then thought perhaps the air would make things worse.
But fresh air couldn’t really make things worse, could it?
She ran a hand through her hair. New strands hung down the side. She hadn’t even realized. Juliet had put her hair back in a simple style that morning, but it had already become rumpled.
Lucien returned within a few minutes and pulled up a chair on the other side of Henry.
“I sent word. Hopefully, the physician will get here soon,” he said. Marianne nodded. “I’ll send for a basin of cool water so we can cool his head,” she replied. She might not know much about childcare, but she knew that when she was ill, it always made her feel better.
Lucien nodded, but she wasn’t even sure if he’d heard her. His attention was entirely on the little boy.
Mrs. Greaves came up herself twenty minutes later and brought an empty basin and a jug of water along with cloths.
Lucien was about to take it from her, but Marianne indicated for her to bring it over to her side.
She soaked a cloth and gently wiped Henry’s face.
He was sleeping now, but his breathing was ragged.
Whatever was wrong with him was proceeding rapidly.
“Poor lad,” Mrs. Greaves said. “I wonder how he got ill.”
“It is difficult to know,” Lucien said. “It could be that Marianne or I brought back some sort of illness from the ball. Perhaps he got it while playing outside by the fountain when he got wet. It could be any manner of things.”
Marianne looked up. “Has he been ill before?”
“Well, we do not know how severe this is yet,” Mrs. Greaves said, “but he has had childhood illnesses.”
“Nothing that proceeded this rapidly,” Lucien said, and the panic was quite evident in his voice.
Mrs. Greaves placed a hand on her employer’s shoulder and patted him as though he were her own son. “Do not fret, my lord. Henry is resilient. He will be just fine.”
“Even so, can you send up tea? The cook will know which one.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Greaves said and departed.
“She has a tendency to make things sound less dramatic than they actually are, at least when it comes to illnesses. When it came to my marital status before I met you, she was quite grave.”
Marianne knew that she ought to seize on the opportunity he had provided to talk about something other than Henry’s sudden illness.
“Yes, I noticed that she seems rather close to you. Close enough to give advice that some might find rather shocking for a servant to give, such as marital advice.”
He smiled at her, his eyes shimmering for a moment.
“She has been like a mother to me. Or perhaps a grandmother, given her age. My father, as you know, was not the most loving man. My mother died when I was young, so Mrs Greaves was often the one to provide me with the maternal warmth I needed. My governess certainly didn’t. ”
“Is that why Henry does not have a governess?”
“Yes,” he said. “I know at some point he will have to have one, and a tutor at that. But for the time being, I want to keep him as free of such constraints as possible. I know it isn’t exactly what is expected.”
“It isn’t, but if it is what is best for him, then that’s what you ought to do. I was fortunate. My governess was kind, although I did not have her for very long.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“I think my father thought her a little too kind. He wanted me to be more refined. And Mrs. Husby was always more like Mrs. Greaves. Kind and forgiving. Not stern enough. So my father dismissed her when I was twelve. I had the questionable joy of attending a lady’s seminary after that.
” She shuddered. “I feel terrible for the young girls who are forced to go to such establishments.”
“Why? I would’ve thought you would’ve enjoyed it. It must’ve been as rigorous as the convent.”
She let out a laugh. “Certainly not. At the convent, you are inspired to be contemplative, to look within yourself. There is much quiet time that you spend reflecting. You pray, and you find your own center. At the finishing school, it is the opposite. You are encouraged to conceal yourself as much as possible. To give the face of a public persona rather than who you truly are.” She wrung out the cloth again before placing it on Henry’s head once more.
“At the convent I was encouraged to be who God intended me to be, not who society wanted me to be. It is one of the things I so enjoyed.”
“So you are religious? I thought you were not,” he said.
“I believe in God. But how can anyone not?”
“I do not,” he said, and Marianne looked at him wide-eyed.
“You do not? Not at all?”
“I do not really think about it,” Lucien replied. “And I suppose so much has happened in my life, it just made me doubt the existence of a benevolent spirit that wants the best for all of us.”
Was he talking about his wife’s death? She wondered. Or about the way he was treated by his father? She couldn’t be certain, and she didn’t want to press.
“What gives you such a belief?” he asked.
She turned back and crossed her hands in her lap.
“Look outside. The sky and the earth and the creatures that run everywhere—the squirrels in the trees, the horses in the paddock. It all must’ve come from somewhere, must it not?
It did not all appear on its own one day because it thought it good.
Someone or something must’ve created it all. ”
“There are a great many theories about where the world comes from, and they do not all include an old man with a white beard sitting up on a throne in the heavens, making it so as he snapped his fingers.”
“I do not think of God as a man sitting on a throne. I think of it more as a spirit, some essence, something that brought it all into being. The world is too glorious to have been created by accident.”
“But then why do we not know it?” he challenged her. “If there was some greater being, wouldn’t it be in that being’s best interest that we knew it existed so we would behave properly?”
“But why?” she replied. “If we knew to be on our best behavior, then we would be on our best behavior out of fear, not because we truly wanted to be good and kind. We would make acts of kindness because we would think that it would please the creator, as it were, not because it was something we genuinely wanted.” She shifted a little so that they were face-to-face.
He sat across from her, one leg over the other, his hands in his lap mirroring her pose.
“If you are watched by your parents or your wife, or by the other lords, does that alter the way you act?”
He paused for a moment, then nodded. “I suppose. As a child, if I knew my father was watching me, I would always act more proper. I would do things differently because he was watching, because I knew what he expected of me.”
“Exactly. If we knew it was certain that there was a God and that he watches us all the time, we would behave differently. If we knew what he expected of us, we would act exactly as he expected. That would not make us grow as beings.”
He tipped his head to one side. “Grow as beings? You think we have a purpose such as this here?”
“I do not know. Perhaps. Perhaps we are to grow into good people, but without outside interference.”
“And if we fail?” he challenged.
“I do not know. There are some eastern religions that believe we are destined to return in another body, time and again, until we do learn our lesson.”
“Dreadful,” he said. “I must say I always liked the idea of there being an afterlife where we dance upon the clouds and we see those we loved again.”
She chuckled. “I thought you said you did not believe in heaven.”
“I said I do not believe in God. And I do not truly believe in heaven either. But I hope it is there. I hope we go on and that we see our loved ones again. I do not know that I like the idea of returning again and again and not knowing those I used to love. Starting over.”
“But if that is truly so, then you would not know that you knew somebody before,” she argued.
“Besides, I have a feeling that if you were close to somebody in a previous life, and in this life you meet them again, you would recognize them somehow. I think it would be a feeling. Perhaps a prickle within.”
He paused for a moment, lost in thought. “I would like to know that I would recognize somebody I knew in a previous life if they were important enough.”
They sat and smiled at one another before a somber quiet set in. Some time later, a knock on the door sounded. The physician, Mr. Fitzroy, entered the room.
“Good day, Lord Wexford, Lady Wexford,” he said.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Mr. Fitzroy,” Lucien said, standing to shake the man’s hand.
“Of course, my lord. Now, let us see what ails the young master.” Mr. Fitzroy leaned over Henry. The physician placed a hand on the boy’s forehead, then examined his throat.
After several minutes, Mr. Fitzroy straightened and turned to face them both.
“It is a severe cold,” he said. “His throat is quite inflamed, and there is some congestion in his chest. It is not uncommon for children to contract such illnesses.”
“A cold?” Lucien repeated, and Marianne could hear the relief in his voice even as worry still creased his brow. “Nothing more serious?”
“At present, no,” Mr. Fitzroy said. “However, I must caution you that it will likely get worse before it gets better. The fever may rise over the next day or two, and the cough will probably worsen. But with proper care, he should recover in short order.”
He opened his bag. “I am prescribing a tonic to help reduce the fever. You must give him two spoonfuls three times daily—morning, midday, and evening. Keep him warm but not overheated, and ensure he drinks plenty of fluids. Weak tea with honey, beef broth, barley water—all of these will help.” He produced several small bottles and packets.
“This powder can be mixed with warm water to ease the cough. And these are willow bark preparations for the fever and pain.”
“Keep the room well-ventilated but avoid drafts,” Mr. Fitzroy continued. “If the fever rises significantly or if his breathing becomes labored, send for me at once.”
“We will,” Lucien said.
“He is a strong boy,” Mr. Fitzroy said. “I have no doubt he will come through this well.”
Once the door closed behind him, Lucien let out a long breath and sank back into his chair. “A severe cold,” he said. “I know I should feel relieved, and I do, but—”
“But it is still difficult to see him suffer,” Marianne finished for him.
“Yes,” he said.
Marianne glanced toward the window. The sun was setting. She had been here all day, she realized, and had no intention of leaving now.
“I think I shall settle in for the night,” she said. “I do not wish to leave him alone, and you look as though you could use some rest yourself.”
Lucien opened his mouth as if to protest, then seemed to think better of it. “Thank you,” he said. “I confess I am exhausted, though I hesitate to leave him.”
“Then do not leave entirely,” she said. “Rest in your chamber, and I shall send for you if anything changes. You will be of no use to Henry if you collapse from exhaustion.”
“You are quite right, of course.” He stood and moved to Henry’s bedside, placing a gentle kiss on his son’s forehead. “Sleep well, my boy,” he murmured.
Then he turned to Marianne. “Thank you,” he said again, his voice thick with emotion. “Truly.”
She nodded. “Of course.”
After Lucien departed, Marianne settled into the chair beside Henry’s bed, prepared for a long night of watching over the little boy who had, somehow, without her even realizing it, worked his way into her heart.