"It's Dr. Shaw," the butler insisted, "not the young Master Brody, my lady."
Emelia bit her lip. "I know. It's the doctor that I wish to see."
The butler stepped aside and Emelia hurried past, setting aside the sweet rolls she'd made as though they were an afterthought and hurrying on up the hall to the staircase and then upstairs. She knew where the family rooms were, and as she approached she saw the yellow glow of a candle in the guest room beside Montgomery's chambers. She slowed by the door, and knocked gently.
"Come in, Eloise," Mrs. Shaw's voice came from inside. She must assume Emelia was their new maid, come to deliver tea or fulfill some other such duty.
She pushed at the door and stepped quietly inside. "It's not Eloise," she said softly.
Montgomery's mother looked up with a little start of alarm, but when she recognised Emelia her face noticeably relaxed. She took a deep, shaky breath. "Oh, it's you, dear."
"Mrs. Shaw, what's happened?" Emelia came over to the older woman's chair and knelt down beside her like a little girl crawling up to her nanny's knees. She could see that the woman's face was lined with fear and exhaustion. She was wearing the same black gown of mourning she'd worn since her husband's death, but now she had a sick apron pinned across the top and her silver curls were pulled back under a black wimple. "I came by to visit and the butler said everyone was either gone or indisposed."
"Yes, Brody's gone to the city for a week," the mother said blankly, plucking at her skirts. "I don't know when he's expected back. But Montgomery—he took sick a few days ago after his work at the clinic and he's gotten worse every hour. The doctor was just here…"
Took sick. Emelia felt a surge of nausea in her own stomach at the prospect. Suddenly she was looking back on the night they'd spent caring for Aggie with new eyes. He had seemed unusually weary and languid; once, when she'd woken him to bathe Aggie and bring the cook's temperature down, she'd thought Montgomery's own face felt a little warm, but she'd dismissed it.
"Did the doctor say what it was?"
"He wasn't sure, but the primary evidence is a fever and a great weakness. The doctor told me that if the fever doesn't come down soon, he might suffer brain damage, or worse." The mother dropped her head into her hands. "It's all that time at the clinic—I just know it is. He worked himself ragged and then caught whatever disease those people brought in to him."
Emelia knew that Montgomery would never look on his work and patients as "those people," but she also understood the deep distress she saw reflected in the other woman's face, and she didn't even think of correcting her.
"What are we to do?"
"There's nothing we can do now except wait and pray."
Emelia nodded. That was the normal response for noble women in this position; just sitting by while their loved ones fought for their lives, but Montgomery had taught her a bit more. "What I meant," she pressed, "is what does the doctor want done with Montgomery while we wait?"
"Oh, he's told the servants to keep cool clothes on him and try to get him to drink fluids. There's also a syrup of some sort for him to take if his breathing thickens."
Emelia stood, smoothing her hands down her skirt and then putting one of them gently on the older woman's shoulder. "Alright, then. That's what we'll do."
"What do you mean dear?" The mother looked up with anguish in her eyes. "I don't expect you to stay and tend to him. We have servants for that."
"It isn't about what you expect or don't expect," Emelia said as kindly as possible while still maintaining her firm nature. "But I must stay. I think I might be of some assistance. Your son helped my cook a few days back, and I think he may have weakened his constitution somewhat in the act. It would honor me so much if you would allow me to help him as he helped me."
The older woman blinked. "You, nurse him?"
Emelia reached down, and in an unprecedented action that would have been considerably frowned upon in most polite circles, embraced the woman. "I know you're afraid," she said softly, "because of what happened to your husband, but this isn't a mystery onset of an illness. We can fight it, and I'm going to help. Montgomery is strong."
A sheen of moisture came into Mrs. Shaw's eyes. "I am afraid; you're right. And it's hard to have Brody gone again as Montgomery was last time."
"You don't have to bear it on your own this time," Emelia reassured her. "You have me."
"You always were a kind little thing," Mrs. Shaw said, tapping Emelia's hand gently with her own.
Emelia felt a pinprick of realisation that her motivations were not, perhaps, entirely out of casual friendship. She felt a surge of responsibility for Montgomery, and a desire to be near him in his time of need that was stronger than childhood acquaintances ought to feel. As she prepared for the sickroom, tying up her loose braid into a more rigid bun at the base of her neck and fetching one of the servant's aprons from the downstairs closet, she wrestled with that pinprick and tried to ignore what it might mean.
Montgomery was just a good friend. A good, kind, noble friend who was now in deathly danger because of a fever he may well have contracted from Aggie; or, perhaps, contracted earlier and was weakened in fighting it because of staying up all night nursing her cook.
Emelia wondered if the desire to be by his bedside was just another brand of guilt, but even as she embraced the thought she knew it was ludicrous. No, this desire was deeper, rooted in a place so tender and longing that she couldn't examine it—not now; not while Montgomery's life was on the line.
She told Mrs. Shaw to rest; not to trouble herself for a time at least, and then went into the sick room and relieved the servants standing there. It wasn't until she was alone at last that she allowed herself to look at the still form in the bed. The four-poster in which he sat seemed very dark in the shade-drawn room, and Montgomery, who was ordinarily a tall and broad man, looked slimmer and paler than she'd ever seen him. He lay quite properly under the covers, too properly, actually, with his hands pressing the covers down along his sides and his head tilted a little back and up at the ceiling. His eyes were closed, his lips pale, and his breathing labored. There was a fine sheen of sweat on his brow.
One of the maids, upon ducking gratefully out into the fresh air, had told Emelia, "The master was tossing and turning earlier, but he's resting again now. We tucked him in properly for you."
Emelia didn't like that he was so still. She had seen Aggie fight the fever all night, and it had been evidence that the cook was not willing to give up. Now, watching the heat still pulse through Montgomery's body and watching him accept it like it was his burden to bear in silence, broke her heart.
She walked forward and laid a hand on his wrist, feeling the weak tremor there. "Dr. Shaw?" she ventured, quietly. His eyes seemed to quiver beneath his eyelids, but he didn't otherwise move. She changed out the cloths on his head, loosened his bedcovers somewhat, and held a cold, moistened cloth to his chapped lips. He didn't move to drink, stuck somewhere between sleep and hallucination. "I'm here," she said, taking his hot, dry hand in her own cool one. "You don't have to worry anymore. I've come to care for you, and I won't leave until you're well again."
Chapter 26
Montgomery felt the world around him like a sort of overwhelming fog. The covers felt so heavy against his chest, weighing down, down, down upon his lungs. He felt shivers running through him, followed almost immediately by the sense that he was being suffocated by heat.
He heard a familiar voice, a voice that he was drawn to but couldn't quite place, speaking over him. He couldn't make out the words, but the hands attached to the voice were soft and cool. So cool. He didn't want them to ever leave, but leave they did, again and again.
He just wanted to rest. Somewhere, the doctor's voice hidden far back in his mind reared its head and forced him to fight back against the exhaustion. You have to get water; you have to make sure they're taking care of you. But then the cool hands would be back with a spoonful of liquid or a gentle, soothing touch;
and somehow he knew he was being cared for. He closed his eyes and drifted off again.
***
Two days passed with little change. The fever lessened, which was a good sign, but Emelia could still see the beads of sweat and the pale lips and knew that Montgomery was not yet out of the woods. Hannah came by with a change of clothes for Emelia, her simplest brown gown as requested, and expressed concern about her sister.
"I don't want you to fall sick as well," she said, biting her lip. "Montgomery grew sick after caring for Aggie."
"He grew sick after caring for the entire community, actually," Emelia said wryly. "He broke himself tending to the wounds of those we chose to overlook. I don't think I'll suffer the same fate after only a few days of nursing."
But she was more tired than she cared to admit. She fought to stay awake and had only taken a few hours of sleep when absolutely necessary. Brody had still not returned, so at moments like this, when Emelia couldn't hold her eyelids open any longer, Mrs. Shaw ventured back into the sickroom and sat by her son's side. It was a kindness, Emelia saw, which wore sorely on the other woman. It must remind her of her husband's illness and death. Emelia tried to rest as little as possible and give Mrs. Shaw a break as soon as she could.
Furthermore, she found herself more and more reluctant to leave Montgomery's side. She was fond of him, even in that pathetic state he was in now, and she didn't want to miss even a moment with him.
The days passed into nights and then back to days again, blurring the lines of division in a dizzying way. During the night on the third day, after a particularly bad spike in Montgomery's fever and a rushed attempt to cool him again, Emelia fell asleep beside the bed, sitting in the chair with her head spread out on the coverlet.
One hand lay near Montgomery's still arm so that she could feel if he woke suddenly, thrashing in the throes of the fever again, and needed assistance.
She slept far longer and harder than she'd intended; apparently the exhaustion of the last few days had caught up to her, and when she at last felt a bit of movement from Montgomery's hand, she woke to a stream of early morning light spilling over the bed. She opened her eyes slowly, adjusting to the light, and saw Montgomery, wide awake and clear-eyed for the first time in days, watching her from where he lay.
"You're…" she sat up, feeling suddenly improper laying even a little bit on her patient's bed. "You're awake."
He nodded as though with great effort and smiled weakly. "I can feel it," he half whispered through a hoarse throat. "The beast has left me."
"The fever?" Emelia stood quickly and went to Montgomery's side, laying a hand against his forehead. It was still a bit warm, but it had none of the burning danger of the last few days. She looked down and saw Montgomery looking at her rather strangely. "What is it?"
"Your hands. I remember them. How long have I been sick?"
"Almost a week, but you've been dangerously so for the last few days."
"And how long have you been here?"
Emelia didn't know why, but she felt a sudden need to pull her hands away from his forehead. She tucked them into the great pockets on her pinafore. "Three days."
"That long?" He cocked his head to the side in confusion. "That would account for the look of weariness about your face. Have you been nursing me that entire time?"
"I've taken a few rests."
"Few and far between, I'd reckon." There was the confusion, still strong and groping, in his eyes. He wanted to know why; Emelia could see it. Why would she pour so much energy into nursing him, a childhood friend she hadn't seen in years? Why would she fall asleep by his bedside as though sitting vigil for a loved one?
She turned away and busied herself with the basin of water, pouring fresh water in and rinsing a cloth there needlessly. She didn't want to turn around and face the questions in those grave dark eyes because she didn't want to face them in herself. Because that was the end of it, wasn't it? She had been sitting vigil for a loved one.
"Let's speak no more of me at present," she said hurriedly, waving her hand in the air as if to clear something invisible away. "Your mother will be thrilled to know you're better, and the doctor. I'll have to ask him what to do next."
"Or you could just ask me, since I'm lucid now." He smiled, a boyish, intoxicating smile.
"Really?" Was she sounding as casual as she meant to sound? "What would you suggest?"
"When the patient seems strong enough to move to a chair—which is now, I will tell you—you ought to wash all the linens and air out the room to free it of disease. If it's a fine day, you can leave the windows open for an hour, and then you ought to close them up again to ward off a chill. I ought to be bathed as well, and given some broth or other such food. I'm very dehydrated; I can tell."
Emelia blinked. "You ought to be…bathed?"
Was that a twinkle of amusement in his eye? "Most certainly." Then, after a moment of awkward silence, he added with a laugh, "You won't have any part in that particular bit of nursing, Emelia. The valet will do quite fine."
"Of course not," she said, blushing furiously and hating the heat flooding her face. "I didn't think that's what you meant."
"And you should go home." He put a hand to his head. "Get a good night's sleep—or day's sleep, as it is. You've been working hard, I can see it."
***
Montgomery was sad to see her go, even though he'd commanded her to do so and knew it would be best for her. He'd seen the weary, pale tenor of her skin and the way her hands shook when she filled the water basin with water. She'd worn herself out caring for him over the past few days, and that fact alone interested him extremely.
When he'd woken to find her head sleeping peacefully only a few inches from his fingertips he'd stayed as still as possible, watching and trying to put together what had happened.
He'd been very sick—that much was evident, but what was far more confusing was the presence of Emelia in his sickroom. Her long lashes brushed across her cheeks and her breathing came smooth and steady. He thought he'd never seen her look more beautiful.
When she left, she took the light with her. The servants changed out his covers and helped him bathe, a miserable affair that left him shivering and slightly feverish before they tucked him into the covers once again. Montgomery wasn't frightened; he knew the return of a light fever was common during the recovery process, but he was glad to have the rest at last. He closed his eyes and slept deeply for the first time in days.
When he woke, she was back.
"Good afternoon," she said lightly, looking up from a book she was reading. She had changed into something pale blue and plain—almost as simple as a peasant girl would wear, but of a tell-tale fine fabric. Her hair was up again, pulled back in a neat bun away from her smooth complexion. Her eyes looked like dark amber staring back at him soberly.
"I told you to go home."
"I did."
"And rest."
"I did."
Montgomery looked at the clock on the wall in serious doubt. "You've only been gone a few hours."
"I slept for most of that time and then freshened up. I found I didn't need more than that." She shrugged and set the book aside, coming to sit by him in the nearest chair.
"Surely your father and sister miss you."
She smiled. "Neither of them nearly died from a dangerous illness, so they can spare me a few more days. We're going to help you regain your strength, Montgomery. I promise. "
He knew he ought to fight back more and insist she spend a few days away from the sickroom, but his selfish side won over in the end. He reached out and patted the flat space of bed by his side. "I suppose you can always drift off here again if you so need."
She blushed furiously at that, much to his gratification, and shook her head. "That was an unprofessional oversight that I shall certainly not repeat."
A Lady's Perfect Match: A Historical Regency Romance Book Page 19