Chapter 16
As a lad, Adrian had slept in far past the first rays of morning light, but ever since his time overseas he had shifted. No matter how weary, he found himself waking with the grey of dawn and the birds, his mind already searching for a foothold in the day ahead.
Today, as he stood blearily and began to dress, his mind drifted to thoughts of Thornefield. More precisely, his mind drifted to thoughts of Rosalind.
He had been impressed, yet again, by her response to Sir Percival’s attentions. Any woman would have been forgiven for falling prey to the flattery and attentions of a handsome stranger, but Rosalind seemed completely unaffected—offended, almost.
She had good sense, and Adrian had to admit, as he buttoned up his coat, that he was more than a little relieved to find she had not been taken in by Sir Percival’s charms.
No sooner had he walked downstairs, though, he found a letter from Thornefield,, written and signed in Mrs. Hollis’ sophisticated hand.
Master Henry is ill and will be unable to attend his lessons today. The illness is sudden, and seems to be severe. Lessons should be suspended for some time. Our sincerest regrets.
Adrian did not hesitate. He forewent breakfast and the company of his sister and friend, and saddled instead for a quick ride to Thornefield. He saw the doctor’s carriage pulled up outside the front door, and tied his own mount nearby before taking the stairs two at a time.
The butler answered the door, solemn and quiet. “I am sorry, my lord,” the older man said. “We are not accepting visitors today. There is sickness in the house.”
“Yes, I know,” Adrian said quietly. “Mrs. Hollis sent for me.” This was more than a little stretch of the truth, but it served its purpose and the butler stepped aside after a moment’s pause to admit him.
He walked into the house, which was strangely silent. The usual bustle of servants moving about was stilled, and after striding through the downstairs rooms and determining their vacancy, he climbed the stairs quickly in search of Harry’s chamber.
In the hall upstairs, he stopped as a door opened and a maid came out. The girl was carrying a bucket of water in a towel. She glanced briefly at him, and then scurried away. He went to the door from whence she had appeared and knocked quietly.
There was a scuffle inside, and then the door was pulled open by Rosalind herself. Her appearance took him aback. She was dressed in a long nightgown, a shawl fastened around her shoulders and tied about her waist, her long hair loose in the early morning light.
She looked pale, and he could see the wince in her eyes that accompanied a headache. Her eyes widened with surprise.
“My lord,” she murmured. “Mrs. Hollis was supposed to send word. We are not able—”
“She wrote. That is why I am here.” He looked beyond her into the room. “Is it a concussion?”
“No,” she said. She looked so weary that he felt she would fall over if she closed her eyes for even a moment. She stepped aside, showing him in. “It is a putrid sore throat. Very dangerous in one so young.”
“Harry is strong,” Adrian said quietly. He surveyed the room.
The boy lay in the bed, his head tossing side to side, eyes shut with the fever.
When he coughed, the sound was like claws scratching on a board.
He looked so thin and small in the four-poster bed, more like a child than he had ever seemed to Adrian before.
Beside the bed, Dr. Ashcombe sat. He was holding the boy’s wrist now, checking his pulse against a pocket watch in his hand. He looked up, clearly surprised at the viscount’s appearance.
“I am here to help,” Adrian said, preempting the doctor’s concern. “I will not be underfoot, I assure you. I simply wish to lend my services as best I might.”
The doctor nodded quietly. “Help is welcome, but we are in a place of waiting until the fever breaks.”
Adrian took a step closer and saw the swelling around Harry’s neck. He looked at Rosalind, and saw her eyes glued to her brother as well. She looked terrified.
“I will stay with him,” he said quietly. “Go and wash; dress. I will come get you if the doctor believes he is taking a turn.”
She shifted her eyes to him as though seeing him for the first time. “You… will stay?”
“By his side. I will not move.”
She took a long, shallow breath, and then nodded. “I will be back quickly.”
“I do not doubt it.”
When she had slipped out of the room, he sat on the opposite side of the bed from the doctor, his eyes on the boy. “How bad is it, Ashcombe?” he asked in a low voice. “Tell me what it is that you do not wish to tell her.”
The doctor sighed and leaned back, crossing his arms. “It is still early,” he said quietly. “I can see the membrane in his throat, which is a bad sign. If it grows it will block his breathing entirely. You noticed the swelling?”
“I did.”
“The fever is trying to fight the sickness. I should be bleeding him—that is what my training dictates—but I fear such a process with children. It seems to weaken them sometimes more than the illness.” The doctor put a hand to his forehead.
“I asked the maids to prepare a drink of honey, vinegar, and a few herbs. If he wakes and has enough strength to swish it about in his mouth…. that may help.”
“May?” Adrian’s heart felt wooden.
“It is a dangerous illness for children.”
Adrian nodded. “You are the most capable person to care for him, Dr. Ashcombe. Do not doubt yourself. When Miss Thorne returns, I will go down to the kitchens and see about that honey mixture.”
Dr. Ashcombe nodded, looking suddenly tired. “When you are down, will you fetch my other medical bag from the gig? I left some instruments in it. I should go myself instead of sending a man of your standing, but I fear leaving the boy.”
“Do not think twice of it,” Adrian said quickly. “Of course I will go.”
The two men sat in silence until Rosalind reappeared. She was dressed in a plain brown gown, her hair pulled sensibly back into a braid. She still looked worn and tired, but he saw that she had washed her face and reclaimed some semblance of normalcy.
“You are still here,” she said, looking at Adrian.
“I promised,” he answered simply, standing. “I am going to fetch some things for the doctor—I will return shortly.”
As he walked past her, he felt the brush of her sleeve against his.
He hoped that she felt some comfort from his presence, and that he was not overstepping…
but he did not know what other choice he had.
From the moment he saw her standing there, white and frightened and alone, he knew he had to stay.
He walked downstairs to the gig first and retrieved the bag, then took the steps to the kitchen at a light jog. The maids were working quietly downstairs, and seemed startled to find a viscount in their midst.
“I am asking after a tonic Dr. Ashcombe requested,” he said.
“Oh, yes,” the cook said, bustling over. “I was just ready to take it off the fire and send it up. You need not come yourself, my lord.” She blushed, scanning the room as though seeing all the mess piled in the kitchen.
“I will carry it myself,” he said. “I think it will give Miss Thorne some comfort to have it on hand.”
The cook went to pour the kettle of herbs and honey into a glass cup, but Adrian stopped her. “I am not certain when the boy will wake,” he said quietly. “Might I carry the kettle and the cup up separately? I can set it in the coals of the fire, and it will be warm for the child.”
The cook nodded. “It is a good thought,” she said, as though surprised to find such common sense in a member of the aristocracy. “If you are certain you can make the trip.”
“A serving tray would be helpful, but if you can offer that I can manage the rest.” Adrian shrugged out of his coat, more comfortable in only his shirtsleeves, and balanced the kettle, cup, and doctor’s bag on the tray. “Have you any willow bark tea for Miss Thorne, before I go up?” he asked.
The cook smiled and nodded, hurrying to fashion a sashay of herbs before pouring steaming water over the top and setting that cup, too, on the tray. “Walk slowly, my lord,” she said, blushing deeply that she was instructing a viscount in the art of service. “And please, if you need any help—”
“I will not,” he assured her with a warm smile.
He climbed the stairs carefully, winding his way back to Harry’s room. When he opened the door by backing into it and turned around with the tray, he saw a look of surprise on Rosalind’s face and amusement on the doctor’s.
“My lord,” Dr. Ashcombe said, coming to retrieve his bag from the tray. “You are quite the natural with a tray. I am rather startled.”
Rosalind wrinkled her brow. “I am certain a servant could have carried that, my lord,” she said. “I am chagrined that none rose to the task.”
“They all rose to the task,” Adrian said, setting the tray down.
“I wanted to, and they were respectful of my wishes.” He walked over to the fire and nestled the kettle atop a nearby grate.
It was not in the center of the flames, but would stay warm.
“For the boy, when he wakes,” he explained, making eye contact with the doctor.
Then he walked over and placed the willow-bark tea into Rosalind’s hand.
“And for you, Miss Thorne,” he said in a low voice.
She held the cup and saucer for a moment longer than was necessary, her fingers laying ever so lightly across his in the seconds before she pulled the teacup to herself. “Thank you,” she said. Tears welled in her eyes, and she looked away.
Adrian settled in a chair near the fireplace, giving Rosalind space with her brother. The minutes ticked by into hours.
Every so often, Rosalind or the doctor would stand and tend to something with Harry, putting fresh cool clothes on his head, checking his pulse or temperature or throat, but the boy merely groaned with his eyes closed and did not respond.
At long last, Dr. Ashcombe stood and stretched, exhaustion creasing his face.