by Julia Quinn
Sophie hopped out of bed, grabbed a candle, then dashed toward the door of her room, grabbing hold of the waistband of the too-big breeches Benedict had lent her when they started to slip down her hips. When she reached the hall she heard the sound that must have woken her up.
It was a deep groan, followed by a thrashing noise, followed by what could only be called a whimper.
Sophie dashed into Benedict’s room, stopping briefly at the furnace to light her candle. He was lying in his bed, almost preternaturally still. Sophie edged toward him, her eyes focusing on his chest. She knew he couldn’t possibly be dead, but she’d feel an awful lot better once she saw his chest rise and fall.
“Mr. Bridgerton?” she whispered. “Mr. Bridgerton?”
No response.
She crept closer, leaning over the edge of the bed. “Mr. Bridgerton?”
His hand shot out and grabbed her shoulder, pulling her off-balance until she fell onto the bed.
“Mr. Bridgerton!” Sophie squealed. “Let go!”
But he’d started to thrash and moan, and there was enough heat coming off his body that Sophie knew he was in the grips of a fever.
She somehow managed to wrench herself free, and she went tumbling off the bed while he continued to toss and turn, mumbling streams of words that made no sense.
Sophie waited for a quiet moment, then darted her hand out to touch his forehead. It was on fire.
She chewed on her lower lip as she tried to decide what to do. She had no experience nursing the feverish, but it seemed to her that the logical thing would be to cool him off. On the other hand, sickrooms always seemed to be kept closed, stuffy, and warm, so maybe . . .
Benedict started to thrash again, and then, out of nowhere, he murmured, “Kiss me.”
Sophie lost hold of her breeches; they fell to the floor. She let out a little yelp of surprise as she quickly bent to retrieve them. Clutching the waistband securely with her right hand, she reached out to pat his hand with her left, then thought the better of it. “You’re just dreaming, Mr. Bridgerton,” she told him.
“Kiss me,” he repeated. But he did not open his eyes.
Sophie leaned in closer. Even by the light of one solitary candle she could see his eyeballs moving quickly under his lids. It was bizarre, she thought, to see another person dream.
“God damn it!” he suddenly yelled. “Kiss me!”
Sophie lurched back in surprise, setting her candle hastily on the bedside table. “Mr. Bridgerton, I—” she began, fully intending to explain why she could not even begin to think about kissing him, but then she thought—Why not?
Her heart fluttering wildly, she leaned down and brushed the barest, lightest, most gentle of kisses on his lips.
“I love you,” she whispered. “I’ve always loved you.”
To Sophie’s everlasting relief, he didn’t move. It wasn’t the sort of moment she wanted him to remember in the morning. But then, just when she was convinced that he’d settled back into a deep sleep, his head began to toss from side to side, leaving deep indentations in his feather pillow.
“Where’d you go?” he grunted hoarsely. “Where’d you go?”
“I’m right here,” Sophie replied.
He opened his eyes, and for the barest of seconds appeared completely lucid, as he said, “Not you.” Then his eyes rolled back and his head started tossing from side to side again.
“Well, I’m all you’ve got,” Sophie muttered. “Don’t go anywhere,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I’ll be right back.”
And then, her heart pounding with fear and nerves, she ran out of the room.
If there was one thing Sophie had learned in her days as a housemaid, it was that most households were run in essentially the same way. It was for that reason that she had no trouble at all finding spare linens to replace Benedict’s sweat-soaked sheets. She also scavenged a pitcher full of cool water and a few small towels for dampening his brow.
Upon her return to his bedroom, she found him lying still again, but his breathing was shallow and rapid. Sophie reached out and touched his brow again. She couldn’t be certain, but it seemed to her that it was growing warmer.
Oh, dear. This was not good, and she was singularly unqualified to care for a feverish patient. Araminta, Rosamund, and Posy had never had a sick day in their lives, and the Cavenders had all been uncommonly healthy as well. The closest she’d ever come to nursing had been helping Mrs. Cavender’s mother, who’d been unable to walk. But she’d never taken care of someone with a fever.
She dunked a cloth in the pitcher of water, then wrung it out until it was no longer dripping from the corners. “This ought to make you feel a little better,” she whispered, placing it gingerly on his brow. Then she added, in a rather unconfident voice, “At least I hope it will.”
He didn’t flinch when she touched him with the cloth. Sophie took that as an excellent sign, and she prepared another cool towel. She had no idea where to put it, though. His chest somehow didn’t seem right, and she certainly wasn’t going to allow the bedsheet to drift any lower than his waist unless the poor man was at death’s door (and even then, she wasn’t certain what she could possibly do down there that would resurrect him.) So she finally just dabbed with it behind his ears, and a little on the sides of his neck.
“Does that feel better?” she asked, not expecting any sort of an answer but feeling nonetheless that she ought to continue with her one-sided conversation. “I really don’t know very much about caring for the ill, but it just seems to me like you’d want something cool on your brow. I know if I were sick, that’s how I’d feel.”
He shifted restlessly, mumbling something utterly incoherent.
“Really?” Sophie replied, trying to smile but failing miserably. “I’m glad you feel that way.”
He mumbled something else.
“No,” she said, dabbing the cool cloth on his ear, “I’d have to agree with what you said the first time.”
He went still again.
“I’d be happy to reconsider,” she said worriedly. “Please don’t take offense.”
He didn’t move.
Sophie sighed. One could only converse so long with an unconscious man before one started to feel extremely silly. She lifted up the cloth she’d placed on his forehead and touched his skin. It felt kind of clammy now. Clammy and still warm, which was a combination she wouldn’t have thought possible.
She decided to leave the cloth off for now, and she laid it over the top of the pitcher. There seemed little she could do for him at that very moment, so Sophie stretched her legs and walked slowly around his room, shamelessly examining everything that wasn’t nailed down, and quite a bit that was.
The collection of miniatures was her first stop. There were nine on the writing desk; Sophie surmised that they were of Benedict’s parents and seven brothers and sisters. She started to put the siblings in order according to their ages, but then it occurred to her that the miniatures most likely hadn’t been painted all at the same time, so she could be looking at a likeness of his older brother at fifteen and younger brother at twenty.
She was struck by how alike they all were, with the same deep chestnut hair, wide mouths, and elegant bone structure. She looked closely to try to compare eye color but found it impossible in the dim candlelight, and besides, eye color often wasn’t easily discerned on a miniature, anyway.
Next to the miniatures was the bowl with Benedict’s rock collection. Sophie picked a few of them up in turn, rolling them lightly over her palm. “Why are these so special to you, I wonder?” she whispered, placing them carefully back in the bowl. They just looked like rocks to her, but she supposed that they might appear more interesting and unique to Benedict if they represented special memories for him.
She found a small wooden box that she absolutely could not open; it must have been one of those trick boxes she’d heard about that came from the Orient. And most intriguing, leaning against the side of the desk was a l
arge sketchbook, filled with pencil drawings, mostly of landscapes but with a few portraits as well. Had Benedict drawn them? Sophie squinted at the bottom of each drawing. The small squiggles certainly looked like two Bs.
Sophie sucked in her breath, an unbidden smile lighting her face. She’d never dreamed that Benedict was an artist. There had never even been a peep about it in Whistledown, and it seemed like the sort of thing the gossip columnist would have figured out over the years.
Sophie drew the sketchbook closer to her candle and flipped through the pages. She wanted to sit with the book and spend ten minutes perusing each sketch, but it seemed too intrusive to examine his drawings in such detail. She was probably just trying to justify her nosiness, but somehow it didn’t seem as bad just to give them a glance.
The landscapes were varied. Some were of My Cottage (or should she call it His Cottage?) and some were of a larger house, which Sophie supposed was the country home of the Bridgerton family. Most of the landscapes featured no architecture at all, just a babbling brook, or a windswept tree, or a rain-dappled meadow. And the amazing thing about his drawings was that they seemed to capture the whole and true moment. Sophie could swear that she could hear that brook babbling or the wind ruffling the leaves on that tree.
The portraits were fewer in number, but Sophie found them infinitely more interesting. There were several of what had to be his littlest sister, and a few of what she thought must be his mother. One of Sophie’s favorites was of what appeared to be some kind of outdoor game. At least five Bridgerton siblings were holding long mallets, and one of the girls was depicted at the forefront, her face screwed up in determination as she tried to aim a ball through a wicket.
Something about the picture almost made Sophie laugh out loud. She could feel the merriment of the day, and it made her long desperately for a family of her own.
She glanced back at Benedict, still sleeping quietly in his bed. Did he realize how lucky he was to have been born into such a large and loving clan?
With a sigh, Sophie flipped through a few more pages until she reached the end of the book. The very last sketch was different from the rest, if only because it appeared to be of a night scene, and the woman in it was holding her skirts above her ankles as she ran across—
Good God! Sophie gasped, thunderstruck. It was her!
She brought the sketch closer to her face. He’d gotten the details of her dress—that wonderful, magical silver concoction that had been hers for only a single evening—perfectly. He’d even remembered her long, elbow-length gloves and the exact manner in which her hair had been styled. Her face was a little less recognizable, but one would have to make allowances for that given that he’d never actually seen it in its entirety.
Well, not until now.
Benedict suddenly groaned, and when Sophie glanced over she saw that he was shifting restlessly in the bed. She closed up the sketchbook and put it back into its place before hurriedly making her way to his side.
“Mr. Bridgerton?” she whispered. She wanted desperately to call him Benedict. That was how she thought of him; that was what she’d called him in her dreams these long two years. But that would be inexcusably familiar and certainly not in keeping with her position as a servant.
“Mr. Bridgerton?” she whispered again. “Are you all right?”
His eyelids fluttered open.
“Do you need anything?”
He blinked several times, and Sophie couldn’t be sure whether he’d heard her or not. He looked so unfocused, she couldn’t even be sure whether he’d truly seen her.
“Mr. Bridgerton?”
He squinted. “Sophie,” he said hoarsely, his throat sounding terribly dry and scratchy. “The housemaid.”
She nodded. “I’m here. What do you need?”
“Water,” he rasped.
“Right away.” Sophie had been dunking the cloths into the water in the pitcher, but she decided that now was no time to be fussy, so she grabbed hold of the glass she’d brought up from the kitchen and filled it. “Here you are,” she said, handing it to him.
His fingers were shaky, so she did not let go of the glass as he brought it to his lips. He took a couple of sips, then sagged back against his pillows.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Sophie reached out and touched his brow. It was still quite warm, but he seemed lucid once again, and she decided to take that as a sign that the fever had broken. “I think you’ll be better in the morning.”
He laughed. Not hard, and not with anything approaching vigor, but he actually laughed. “Not likely,” he croaked.
“Well, not recovered,” she allowed, “but I think you’ll feel better than you do right now.”
“It would certainly be hard to feel worse.”
Sophie smiled at him. “Do you think you can scoot to one side of your bed so I can change your sheets?”
He nodded and did as she asked, closing his weary eyes as she changed the bed around him. “That’s a neat trick,” he said when she was done.
“Mrs. Cavender’s mother often came to visit,” Sophie explained. “She was bedridden, so I had to learn how to change the sheets without her leaving the bed. It’s not terribly difficult.”
He nodded. “I’m going back to sleep now.”
Sophie gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. She just couldn’t help herself. “You’ll feel better in the morning,” she whispered. “I promise.”
Chapter 9
It has oft been said that physicians make the worst patients, but it is the opinion of This Author that any man makes a terrible patient. One might say it takes patience to be a patient, and heaven knows, the males of our species lack an abundance of patience.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2 MAY 1817
The first thing Sophie did the following morning was scream.
She’d fallen asleep in the straight-backed chair next to Benedict’s bed, her limbs sprawled most inelegantly and her head cocked to the side in a rather uncomfortable position. Her sleep had been light at first, her ears perked to listen for any sign of distress from the sickbed. But after an hour or so of complete, blessed silence, exhaustion claimed her, and she fell into a deeper slumber, the kind from which one ought to awaken in peace, with a restful, easy smile on one’s face.
Which may have been why, when she opened her eyes and saw two strange people staring at her, she had such a fright that it took a full five minutes for her heart to stop racing.
“Who are you?” The words tumbled out of Sophie’s mouth before she realized exactly who they must be: Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree, the caretakers of My Cottage.
“Who are you?” the man demanded, not a little bit belligerently.
“Sophie Beckett,” she said with a gulp. “I . . .” She pointed desperately at Benedict. “He . . .”
“Spit it out, girl!”
“Don’t torture her,” came a croak from the bed.
Three heads swiveled in Benedict’s direction. “You’re awake!” Sophie exclaimed.
“Wish to God I weren’t,” he muttered. “My throat feels like it’s on fire.”
“Would you like me to fetch you some more water?” Sophie asked solicitously.
He shook his head. “Tea. Please.”
She shot to her feet. “I’ll go get it.”
“I’ll get it,” Mrs. Crabtree said firmly.
“Would you like help?” Sophie asked timidly. Something about this pair made her feel like she were ten years old. They were both short and squat, but they positively exuded authority.
Mrs. Crabtree shook her head. “A fine housekeeper I am if I can’t prepare a pot of tea.”
Sophie gulped. She couldn’t tell whether Mrs. Crabtree was miffed or joking. “I never meant to imply—”
Mrs. Crabtree waved off her apology. “Shall I bring you a cup?”
“You shouldn’t fetch anything for me,” Sophie said. “I’m a ser—”
“Bring her a cup,” Benedict ordered.
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“But—”
He jabbed his finger at her, grunting, “Be quiet,” before turning to Mrs. Crabtree and bestowing upon her a smile that could have melted an ice cap. “Would you be so kind as to include a cup for Miss Beckett on the tray?”
“Of course, Mr. Bridgerton,” she replied, “but may I say—”
“You can say anything you please once you return with the tea,” he promised.
She gave him a stern look. “I have a lot to say.”
“Of that I have no doubt.”
Benedict, Sophie, and Mr. Crabtree waited in silence while Mrs. Crabtree left the room, and then, when she was safely out of earshot, Mr. Crabtree positively chortled, and said, “You’re in for it now, Mr. Bridgerton!”
Benedict smiled weakly.
Mr. Crabtree turned to Sophie and explained, “When Mrs. Crabtree has a lot to say, she has a lot to say.”
“Oh,” Sophie replied. She would have liked to have said something slightly more articulate, but “oh” was truly the best she could come up with on such short notice.
“And when she has a lot to say,” Mr. Crabtree continued, his smile growing wide and sly, “she likes to say it with great vigor.”
“Fortunately,” Benedict said in a dry voice, “we’ll have our tea to keep us occupied.”
Sophie’s stomach grumbled loudly.
“And,” Benedict continued, shooting her an amused glance, “a fair bit of breakfast, too, if I know Mrs. Crabtree.”
Mr. Crabtree nodded. “Already prepared, Mr. Bridgerton. We saw your horses in the stables when we returned from our daughter’s house this morning, and Mrs. Crabtree got to work on breakfast straightaway. She knows how you love your eggs.”
Benedict turned to Sophie and gave her a conspiratorial sort of smile. “I do love eggs.”
Her stomach grumbled again.
“We didn’t know there’d be two of you, though,” Mr. Crabtree said.
Benedict chuckled, then winced at the pain. “I can’t imagine that Mrs. Crabtree didn’t make enough to feed a small army.”