Chapter Twenty #2
“I am afraid not, Mr. Rochester. I only know that his lordship fell ill. The friends who were visiting him at Sheridale left, and Dr. Simmons has been calling daily for a week.”
Edwards would be able to tell him more. Hopefully, Dr. Simmons would also be there when he arrived.
With the speed of the carriage, they reached Sheridale a little over half an hour later, first heading north to Keswick and just before reaching the town, turning west. Five miles later, they had arrived at Sheridale.
It was dark by the time they arrived, so he could not see much of the land.
He would have liked to have done so. As a boy, he had roamed the estate far and wide.
Being here now, David realized just how much he had missed his childhood home.
He had put all thought of Sheridale from his mind, knowing it would never be possible to return again.
Yet here he was—and under dire circumstances.
He knew nothing about Claude’s life. When David had met with Edwards after he returned from war, both men had deliberately avoided bringing up the earl.
Walking into the house now, he had no idea if Claude had wed.
If he had children. For all intents and purposes, his brother was a stranger to him.
Then again, Claude always had kept David at a distance, even before their parents’ deaths.
Edwards now admitted him. “Good evening, Mr. Rochester. Thank you for coming.”
“What is wrong with Lord Sheridan?”
“Dr. Simmons is with his lordship now. I will tell him that you have arrived. You can meet in the drawing room. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Yes, tea would be good. Thank you, Edwards.”
David climbed the staircase he had gone up for years. Everything still looked familiar to him as he entered the drawing room. If Claude had wed, his wife had not touched the furnishings, at least in this room.
He went straight to the fire, standing before it and warming his hands. After a few minutes, he turned to allow the heat to seep into his back. Mrs. Edwards arrived with a cup of tea.
“Just as you like it, Mr. Rochester,” she said. “The doctor is coming.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Edwards.”
He sipped on the tea, which warmed him considerably, and had just drained the cup and set it aside when the doctor entered the room.
“I am Dr. Simmons,” he said, offering his hand, which David took.
“Tell me of my brother. No one has discussed what this illness is that he has.”
“It is the pneumonia, I am afraid.”
A chill ran through him. The pneumonia was, more often than not, deadly.
“Have a seat, Mr. Rochester,” the physician said.
Once they both were seated, Dr. Simmons said, “I am going to be brutally frank with you. Lord Sheridan was in poor health before being stricken by the pneumonia. He drinks far too much and indulges constantly in rich foods.”
He recalled how much weight Claude had carried when he had seen him at White’s and how flushed his face was. David had chalked that up to anger, but his ruddy coloring could also have indicated poor health.
“How long has he had the pneumonia?”
“A little over a week now,” Dr. Simmons told him.
“Lord Sheridan had asked a few friends to join him at Sheridale for Christmas. From what Edwards has told me, they were in a constant state of drunkenness. They had gone out on the estate while deep in their cups. Somehow, Lord Sheridan fell into the lake.”
David winced. The lake was always cold, even in summer. He could not imagine how frigid it would be in January.
“Somehow, they managed to drag him from the waters, to the shore, but he was unconscious. They were in no condition to carry him back to the house. It was difficult enough for them to manage to make it back themselves. They told Edwards where His Lordship was and what had happened. Immediately, footmen were sent with a wagon to retrieve Lord Sheridan. Mr. Edwards himself went to supervise, taking a good number of blankets so as to warm him. Mrs. Edwards sent for me, and by the time I arrived, the earl was being carried upstairs.”
Dr. Simmons shuddered. “His clothes were so wet, they could not be stripped from him. We had to cut them off. Obviously, Lord Sheridan caught a chill during all of this. It has turned into the pneumonia. His fever is raging. His lungs are inflamed. His breathing is shallow. And he has a cough which sounds worse each day.”
David met the doctor’s gaze. “Will my brother survive this?”
“Even a man in the prime of his health would not be able to fight off this illness, Mr. Rochester, and his lordship was not healthy to begin with. I am afraid he will be gone, most likely in the next day or two. That is why I thought it best to send for you. You may say your last goodbyes.”
His thoughts swirled, leaving it impossible to think. All he could say was, “I must go to him.”
Dr. Simmons accompanied David to the earl’s rooms, a place he could not remember ever seeing. While he had spent an inordinate amount of time in the countess’ rooms with his mother, he did not think he had ever been inside this bedchamber.
As he crossed the room, he saw a servant, likely Claude’s valet, sitting in a chair beside the bed. Edwards was also present. The servant vacated the chair, allowing David to sit in it. He did not take Claude’s hand. It seemed disingenuous to do so. He could not muster any compassion for this man.
It was obvious his brother was quite ill.
His face was flushed bright red from fever, his hair greasy, his nightshirt sticking to him.
The stench of sweat came off Claude, and his breath was short.
He began coughing suddenly and could not stop.
Edwards held a cup to his lips, but Claude did not seem to have the will to drink from it.
Once the coughing fit ended, their gazes met.
“You. Here to gloat.”
Even close to death, his brother was surly.
“No, Claude. I only came to see how you were. To see if you needed anything.”
“You . . . cannot be earl. I . . . will not . . . let you.”
It struck him that he most likely would be the Earl of Sheridan.
And very soon.