Chapter 17
. . . regardless, Daphne, I do not think you should have run off.
—from Eloise Bridgerton to her
sister the Duchess of Hastings,
during Daphne’s brief separation
from her husband,
mere weeks into their marriage
The ride to Benedict’s was rutted and bumpy, and by the time Eloise stepped down at her brother’s front steps, her mood had gone from bad to foul. To make matters worse, when the butler opened the door he looked at her as if she were a madwoman.
“Graves?” Eloise finally asked, when it became clear that he was beyond speech.
“Are they expecting you?” he asked, still gaping.
“Well, no,” Eloise said, looking quite pointedly beyond him into the house, since that, after all, was where she wanted to be.
It had started to drizzle, and she was not dressed for the rain.
“But I hardly think . . .” she began.
Graves stepped aside, belatedly remembering himself and allowing her entrance. “It’s Master Charles,” he said, referring to Benedict and Sophie’s eldest son, just five and a half years old. “He’s quite ill. He—”
Eloise felt something awful and acidic rise in her throat. “What is wrong?” she asked, not even bothering to temper her urgency. “Is he . . .” Good heavens, how did one ask if a young child was dying?
“I’ll get Mrs. Bridgerton,” Graves said, swallowing convulsively. He turned and scurried up the stairs.
“Wait!” Eloise called out, wanting to ask him more, but he was already gone.
She slumped into a chair, feeling sick with worry, and then, as if that weren’t enough, rather disgusted with herself for having been even the least bit dissatisfied with her own lot in life.
Her troubles with Phillip, which in truth weren’t even troubles at all but nothing more than small irritants—well, they seemed very small and insignificant next to this.
“Eloise!”
It was Benedict, not Sophie, who came down the stairs.
He looked haggard, his eyes red-rimmed, his skin pale and pasty.
Eloise knew better than to ask him how long it had been since he’d slept; the question would be beyond annoying, and besides, the answer was right there on his face—he hadn’t closed his eyes for days.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I came for a visit,” she said. “Just to say hello. I had no idea. What is wrong? How is Charles? I saw him just last week. He looked fine. He— What is wrong?”
Benedict required several seconds to muster the energy to speak. “He has a fever. I don’t know why. On Saturday, he woke up fine, but by luncheon he was—” He sagged against the wall, closing his eyes in agony. “He was burning up,” he whispered. “I don’t know what to do.”
“What did the doctor say?” Eloise asked.
“Nothing,” Benedict said in a hollow voice. “Nothing of use, anyway.”
“May I see him?”
Benedict nodded, his eyes still closed.
“You need to rest,” Eloise said.
“I can’t,” he said.
“You must. You’re no good to anyone like this, and I’d wager Sophie is no better.”
“I made her sleep an hour ago,” he said. “She looked like death.”
“Well, you don’t look any better,” Eloise told him, keeping her tone purposefully brisk and businesslike. Sometimes that was what people needed at times like this—to be ordered about, told what to do. Compassion would only make her brother cry, and neither of them wanted to be witness to that.
“You must go to bed,” Eloise ordered. “Now. I’ll care for Charles. Even if you sleep only an hour, you’ll feel so much better.”
He didn’t reply; he’d fallen asleep standing up.
Eloise quickly took charge. She directed Graves to put Benedict to bed, and she took over the sickroom, trying not to gasp when she first stepped in and saw her small nephew.
He looked tiny and frail in the large bed; Benedict and Sophie had had him moved to their bedchamber, where there was more room for people to tend to him.
His skin was flushed, but his eyes, when he opened them, were glassy and unfocused, and when he wasn’t lying unnaturally still, he was thrashing about, mumbling incoherently about ponies and treehouses and marzipan candy.
It made Eloise wonder what she would mumble incoherently about, were she ever to be gripped by a fever.
She mopped his brow, and she turned him and helped the maids change his sheets, and she didn’t notice as the sun slipped below the horizon.
She just thanked the heavens that Charles did not worsen under her care, because according to the servants, Benedict and Sophie had been at his side for two days straight, and Eloise did not want to have to wake either of them up with bad news.
She sat in the chair by the bed, and she read to him from his favorite book of children’s tales, and she told him stories of when his father was young. And she doubted that he heard a word, but it all made her feel better, because she couldn’t just sit there and do nothing.
And it wasn’t until eight in the evening, when Sophie finally rose from her stupor and asked after Phillip, that it occurred to her that she ought to send a note, that he might be growing worried.
So she scrawled something short and hasty and resumed her vigil. Phillip would understand.
* * *
By eight in the evening, Phillip realized that one of two things had happened to his wife. She had either perished in a carriage accident, or she had left him.
Neither prospect was terribly appealing.
He didn’t think she would have left him; she seemed mostly happy in their marriage, despite their quarrel that afternoon.
And besides, she hadn’t taken any of her belongings with her, although that didn’t mean much; most of her belongings had yet to arrive from her home in London.
It wasn’t as if she’d be leaving much behind here at Romney Hall.
Just a husband and two children.
Good God, and he’d just said to them this afternoon— I do believe she’s here to stay.
No, he thought savagely, Eloise would not leave him. She would never do such a thing. She didn’t have a cowardly bone in her body, and she would never slink off and abandon their marriage. If she was displeased in some way, she’d tell him so, right to his face and without mincing words.
Which, he realized, yanking on his coat as he practically hurled himself out the front door, meant that she was dead in some ditch on the Wiltshire road. It had been raining steadily all evening, and the roads between his house and Benedict’s were not well tended to begin with.
Hell, it would almost be better if she’d left him.
But as he rode up the drive to My Cottage, Benedict Bridgerton’s absurdly named house, soaking wet and in a terrible temper, it was starting to look more like Eloise had decided to abandon her marriage.
Because she hadn’t been lying in a ditch by the side of the road, and there hadn’t been any sign of any sort of carriage accident, and furthermore, she hadn’t been holed up at either of the two inns along the way.
And as there was only one route between his home and Benedict’s, it wasn’t as if she were in some other inn on some other road, and this entire farce could be chalked up to nothing more than a big misunderstanding.
“Temper,” he said under his breath as he stomped up the front steps. “Temper.”
Because he had never been so close to losing his.
Maybe there was a logical explanation. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to drive home in the rain. It wasn’t that bad, but it was more than a drizzle, and he supposed she might not have cared to travel.
He lifted up the knocker on the door and slammed it down. Hard.
Maybe the carriage had broken a wheel.
He banged the knocker again.
No, that couldn’t explain it. Benedict could easily have sent her home in his carriage.
Maybe . . .
Maybe . . .
His mind searched fruitlessly for some other reason why she would be here with her brother and not at home with her husband. He couldn’t think of one.
The curse that hissed out of his mouth was one he had not uttered in years.
He reached up for the knocker again, this time prepared to yank the damned thing off the door and hurl it through the window, but just then the door opened, and Phillip found himself staring at Graves, whom he had met less than a fortnight earlier, during his farce of a courtship.
“My wife?” Phillip practically growled.
“Sir Phillip!” the butler gasped.
Phillip didn’t move, even though the rain was streaming down his face. Damned house didn’t have a portico. Whoever heard of such a thing, in England, of all places?
“My wife,” he bit off again.
“She’s here,” Graves assured him. “Come in.”
Phillip stepped in. “I want my wife,” he said again. “Now.”
“Let me get your coat,” Graves said.
“I don’t give a damn about my coat,” Phillip snapped. “I want my wife.”
Graves froze, his hands still poised to take Phillip’s coat. “Did you not receive Lady Crane’s note?”
“No, I did not receive a note.”
“I thought you’d arrived rather quickly,” Graves murmured. “You must have crossed with the messenger. You’d better come in.”
“I am in,” Phillip reminded him testily.
Graves let out a long breath, almost a sigh, which was remarkable for a butler bred not to show even a hint of emotion. “I think you will be here for some time,” he said softly. “Take off your coat. Get dry. You will want to be comfortable.”
Phillip’s anger suddenly slid into bone-deep terror. Had something happened to Eloise? Good God, if anything— “What is going on?” he whispered.
He’d just found his children. He wasn’t ready to lose his wife.
The butler just turned to the stairs with sad eyes. “Come with me,” he said softly.
Phillip followed, each step filling him with dread.