Chapter Twenty #3
Claude coughed again for some minutes, his eyes glassy as he fought to get his breath.
“The pain . . . in my chest . . . sharp,” he managed to say.
“Your lungs are inflamed, my lord,” Dr. Simmons said. “It is the infection.”
“Do . . . something,” Claude said, his tone between demanding and pleading.
“My lord, there is nothing more to be done for you,” the physician said, his tone kind.
“Then . . . get out.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Dr. Simmons went to the door, and David followed him.
“What can we do?”
“I would suggest if we do not see any improvement by tomorrow, we begin to give him laudanum. It will numb the pain—and him. You will find it almost impossible to communicate with Lord Sheridan at that point.”
He glanced to the bed and back. “He seems to be suffering greatly now. Will you change your mind? Give him the laudanum now?”
“If that is your wish.” He withdrew a small bottle. “Only a few drops. It will help him sleep and ease his pain.”
“How often should this be given to him?”
“Once you start? Anytime he awakens. Because he will need it. Not only will his pain increase, but laudanum is highly addictive. I must emphasize, however, that it will be difficult—if not impossible—to communicate with him once you begin administering it. The laudanum will dull his senses.”
“I understand.”
He did. Because he had been to war. He had seen vile injuries.
Heard the cries of men. Knew that laudanum would send Claude into a haze.
But at least he would not continue to suffer so.
He might not have any love in his heart for his brother, but he did feel compassion and wished for Claude not to suffer needlessly.
Dr. Simmons left. David asked the servant and Edwards to leave the bedchamber in order for him to have a private moment with his brother. They exited the room.
He looked to the cup and doubted his brother could drink from it. That caused him to decide to directly place the drops of laudanum on Claude’s tongue.
“Claude?” he asked gently.
His brother opened his eyes. “Sheridan,” he snarled.
He kept his emotions from showing on his face. “I am going to place a few drops of this laudanum upon your tongue. It will bring you comfort.”
“Or kill me.”
David sighed. “Claude, you are already dying. You might as well do so without pain. Believe me, I saw enough of death on the continent. There is no need for you to suffer anymore.”
Claude nodded imperceptibly. David squeezed, bringing drops of the liquid into the dropper. He brought it to his brother’s mouth.
“Open.”
Claude barely did so, but David slipped the dropper into his mouth and placed a few drops upon Claude’s tongue. He sank back into the pillows, his eyes closed, as David sealed the bottle and placed it on the bed next to the table. He sat again. Waiting. Wondering.
Then his brother spoke.
“Killed him.”
“What?” It was such an odd statement, and so he asked, “Killed who, Sheridan?”
The word slurred, but he understood what Claude murmured.
Papa . . .
“Is this some kind of joke?” he asked, not bothering to hide the anger he felt.
“Call it a . . . deathbed . . . confession.”
Another coughing spell hit. Not as violent as the previous ones. The laudanum must already be calming Claude. David couldn’t help but recall what the doctor said.
And if he were to get answers, he needed to do so in the next few minutes. Before his brother lost consciousness.
“Sheridan. Sheridan,” he said a second time, more sternly than before. “How did you kill Papa?”
A sleepy smile crossed Claude’s face. “With his gun. They . . . said . . . was cleaning. No. Was so . . . useless. Sitting every day. Wasting . . . his life.”
Claude’s eyes widened a moment, and he met David’s gaze.
“And I . . . wanted to . . . be . . . Sheridan.”
The words were painful to hear. He shook Claude, demanding him to say more, but his brother had floated away.
At least Papa had not killed himself. David had worried off and on for years now, thinking his father’s soul burned in the depths of Hell.
Now he knew that Papa was safe—and that Claude, a murderer, would be the one who did so instead.
David sat another three hours at his brother’s deathbed, hearing his breathing slow more and more.
The coughing grew less. He placed his palm against Claude’s forehead and quickly lifted it, feeling as if he had scalded himself.
He dampened a cloth and put it against his brother’s brow, hoping it would somehow ease the fever.
Then, the noisy breathing came to a halt. He waited several minutes before removing the cloth and feeling Claude’s brow, which was now cool to the touch.
Claude was gone—and David was now the Earl of Sheridan.
He left the bedchamber, finding both Edwards and the valet waiting in the corridor.
“Lord Sheridan has passed,” he told the pair.
Edwards eyed him with sympathy. “You look exhausted, Lord Sheridan. Mrs. Edwards has made up your former bedchamber. Go now and get some rest.”
He nodded, shuffling down the hallway. Finding his room. Falling into bed. His last conscious thought was of Justina.
And how he hoped he could finally make her his.