Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Octavia stared at the canopy of her four-poster bed, her hands gripping the coverlets tightly. She did not dare to look at the clock to see how many hours she had been lying there, hopelessly willing sleep to come, while being more awake than she had ever been.
Her mind simply would not quieten.
What if he has forgotten me? What if his condition got worse due to the exertion of the ride, and now has no memory of me whatsoever? What if he really has returned to Scotland? What if he is riding there right now? Should I go after him?
They were only a handful of the unanswered questions that circled around and around in her head. It was relentless. She had hoped that, eventually, the constant thinking would exhaust her enough to make her doze off, but, as of yet, she had had no such luck.
But is that not what I wanted? She frowned at the embroidered flowers, stitched into the canopy.
If he had gone back to Scotland, should she not be elated? Why did the very idea make her feel unsteady, uneasy, tying her stomach in knots?
She squeezed her eyes shut in frustration, but there was no respite there. All she could see was Malcolm’s face when he had grabbed her hand on the bowling green: the fear, the confusion, the sweeping, crushing pain that had creased his eyes and clenched his jaw.
Was it really just a headache?
Deep down, she doubted it, but he was not there to ask. He had denied her that.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, and threw back the coverlets.
Clambering out of bed, she grabbed her housecoat off the back of her writing desk chair and headed out into the darkened corridors of the manor.
Halfway to the landing, she considered going up to the nursery to sneak into bed beside her son. Maybe the comfort of being near to her beloved boy would be enough to send her off to sleep. Then again, she might disturb his sleep, and then he would be grouchy tomorrow.
With a groan, cursing her husband for throwing her life into disarray for a second time, she made her way downstairs and sought out the peace of the library. If she could not sleep, she would read a book, and choose something so dull that it might finally knock her out.
Opening the library door, she froze. The fire had been lit, an orange glow bathing the reading chairs… and the figure who sat in the nearest one, his back to her.
The wavy curls at the nape of his neck, the broad shelf of his shoulders, the glimpse of his muscular forearm draped on the armrest, a glass of something in his hand; she would have known him anywhere.
He is here. He came back.
“I did not realize you had returned,” she said, instead of the relief she wished she could show. “Indeed, I did not realize anyone else was here. I will leave you in peace.”
“Don’t leave on my account,” he replied, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in her chest.
She cleared her throat, torn between retreat and looking upon his face. It annoyed her that she had missed it, that she had worried he might never come back.
“When did you arrive?” she asked crisply and walked around to the opposite reading chair.
She waited until she had sat down before she raised her gaze to take him in, with that lustrous dark brown hair and those lovely green eyes of his. He looked tired, but no worse for wear. As handsome as ever.
“Nae long ago,” he replied as he lifted his drink to his lips and sipped.
She took a breath. “Are you going to explain to me why you took off like that? I had assumed you were in your rooms, but Mr. Lincoln informed me that you had ridden away and had given no indication as to when you might be back.”
“I went to find the doctor,” he said, though he would not look at her.
In truth, even his tone was different, lacking the warmth and cheer that she had, despite herself, come to appreciate. He looked… heavier, if such a thing were possible, as though he had come back to Huntfield carrying more than he had left with.
“I do not see him,” Octavia said, gesturing.
Malcolm shook his head. “He didn’t return with me.”
“Did you… get whatever it was that you needed?”
He paused, swirling his drink. “I’m nae yet sure.”
You have come back to me, but… you are not yourself.
The Malcolm sitting opposite was not at all the one who had burst back into her life with an embrace and a grin. This Malcolm was quiet and withdrawn. Gloomy. Indeed, he had not offered a single smile since she sat down.
Had it been bad news he had received from the doctor? Why had he gone after the doctor in the first place? After all, Doctor Stanforth had explained that he would be back in a few days. What could have been so urgent that it would send Malcolm in pursuit of him?
“What is wrong?” she asked bluntly. “Forgive me, but you do not seem like yourself.”
Malcolm seemed to hesitate, then he shook his head slowly. “I’m just tired, that’s all. The ride was longer and more arduous than I remember.”
“Why did you not stay in London until morning? You have been told not to overexert yourself,” she scolded lightly, cautiously. “You should have rested instead of riding back at such an hour.”
It chilled her to think of him journeying through the countryside in the darkness, especially with the loss of his memories. The ride would have been difficult enough in the daylight.
“I didn’t want to stay longer than necessary,” he replied, his tone strange. Detached.
Unsatisfied with his response, she might have pressed him further if it had not been for a shrill, pained cry, shivering all the way through the manor. A scream of such desperation that Octavia was on her feet in an instant, running for the door.
“Simon!” she shouted, for she would have known her son’s wails anywhere. “Simon, Mama is coming!”
It took her a moment to realize that Malcolm was behind her, his footsteps matching the echo of her own as he followed her up the stairs to the nursery.
He could have easily passed her, but he allowed her to stay ahead of him, as if he knew that she would want to be the one to reach their son first.
She burst through the door to find Simon writhing on his bed, his face a startling shade of red, bleating out pained cries. The nursemaid was nowhere to be seen, but Octavia had no time to be angry about that.
Rushing to her son’s bedside, Octavia scooped him into her arms and pressed her palm to his forehead. She doubted she had ever felt skin so hot, beads of sweat trickling down the sides of his face.
“He has a fever,” she rasped, her throat tight. “Malcolm, he has a fever! What do I do? Oh… Oh, my sweet boy, what do I do?”
Simon had suffered a few fevers and colds before, but never like this, never so terrifyingly hot.
“My darling?” she whispered, rocking her son. “My darling, wake up. Can you hear me? Simon?”
The little boy whimpered, his face creasing into pained lines, his hands curled into tight fists. But his eyes would not open.
“Malcolm?” Octavia urged, staring at her husband in desperation. “He is so warm, Malcolm.”
Malcolm stood, observant, a short distance away. Rather than answer her, he walked to the basin in the room and poured out fresh water. Taking the clean cloth and draping it over his shoulder, he carried the basin back to the bed.
There, he knelt beside his son and soaked the cloth, wringing it out a little before placing it on Simon’s head.
“He needs blankets,” Malcolm said. “Sweat the fever out. The cloth will keep his forehead cool, and he’ll need to drink water. Ye wring it into his mouth from the cloth.”
He showed her the trickling droplets falling into the boy’s mouth. Some instinct made their son swallow the water, though Octavia knew that water would not be enough. Simon needed medicine; he needed a doctor.
“Why did Doctor Stanforth have to go to London?” she hissed. “Why did he not come back with you? You should have made him come back with you!”
None of this was Malcolm’s fault, she knew that, but she needed someone to turn her worries on.
“He’ll return today,” he replied with surety. “In the meantime, grant me a moment.”
He rose and departed the room, Octavia’s heart racing in fear as she held her son tightly and rocked him back and forth, whispering soothing things.
She could not bear to see Simon in pain, knowing she could not take it away for him.
It was a feeling of helplessness she was not used to; a feeling she despised.
“I cannot lose you,” she murmured, kissing her son’s soft hair. “I cannot. I will not survive it, my darling. I will not.”
“Ye won’t lose him,” Malcolm’s voice reassured, as he reappeared at her side and sank down onto the edge of the bed.
His strong arms encircled her and their son, his solid chest giving her something to lean against to strengthen herself, the warmth of his presence taking the edge off her helplessness, the confidence in his voice encouraging her to believe that he was telling the truth. That Simon would be all right.
“I’ve asked Mr. Lincoln to fetch the doctor from the village,” Malcolm explained softly. “Simon will be tended to until Doctor Stanforth comes back. It’s just a fever, lass. A sickness that’ll soon pass. Ye’ll see.”
She nodded her head. “Just a sickness. Just a fever.”
“Aye. All will be well,” he murmured, holding them both, making her feel so safe, so reassured, so protected that, for the first time, she began to believe that they might be a family after all.
With one arm still around his wife, Malcolm drenched the cloth afresh and placed it back on Simon’s perspiring brow.
The boy murmured in his delirium, his face scrunching, but he at least seemed calmer now that he was in his mother’s embrace.
His parents’ embrace, really, for though Octavia was holding Simon, Malcolm was holding Octavia.
Before his accident, nothing could have compelled him to be this close to his wife. It was not safe for him to be so near to her.
Yet, he could not pull away.
When he went to ask the butler to fetch the physician, he could have used it as an excuse to put himself at a polite distance upon his return, but the moment he had seen his wife’s anguish, her worry, all he had wanted to do was bear as much of the burden of her struggle as possible.
“Do you really think he will be all right?” Octavia asked, her voice thick.
Dipping his head to rest his chin on her shoulder, Malcolm whispered back, “I do, lass. He’s got so much strength in him; he’ll be fine. I promise ye, he’ll be fine.”
He’s half mine, after all, he neglected to add.
His brow creased as he gazed down at his firstborn, his heir, his only child, his bloodline, surprised by the powerful swell of protectiveness that crested in his chest. He had never planned to meet his son, for that had been the agreement: he left his wife and child to live as they pleased, while he remained in Scotland to continue his hermit-like existence.
He was never supposed to care. He was never supposed to get attached.
Thinking back to the library, before Simon’s cries had disturbed them, he had had ample time to tell Octavia that his memories had returned. She had asked what was wrong, yet he had not told her the truth. He was tired, but that obviously was not all.
That had been the moment to tell her, but he had let it pass by, and he still did not know why.
Why did I say nothing? Why on earth have I kept it to myself?
His arms shifted to hold his wife and son closer. At least for now, at least for tonight, he would be there for them.