by Jane Goodger
“Better?”
“No. All, please.”
Charlie hesitated, wondering if she would be too cold without any covers, even though the room was quite warm.
“So hot,” she muttered. Indeed, her face was covered with a fine sheen of perspiration. When he’d first brought her in, she’d been shaking uncontrollably. If she grew too cool, he’d simply pull the covers back up, he reasoned, drawing down the blankets.
“Holy God.” He immediately averted his eyes. She was wearing only a thin cotton gown and was quite drenched with sweat, which allowed him to see things he oughtn’t. Things he’d dreamed about seeing, but things at the moment—at any moment, really—he had no business seeing. “Perhaps one cover,” Charlie said in near desperation. Her nipples, brown and lovely, were completely visible; it was a sight Charlie never in his life would have dreamed he would see. Her full breasts, her flat stomach, the dark hair between her legs, all there for him to gaze upon if he chose to. He tried not to look down, tried not to be tempted to look, but not being a candidate for sainthood, he did look—right before he drew up one of the blankets.
“I don’t want you to become too chilled,” he said. “The doctor says you should drink as much water as you can. Here.” He brought a glass to her lips, placing one hand behind her head to help her lift it so she could drink.
“Thank you, Charlie. What would I do without you?”
That was the last lucid sentence she said that night. After she fell into a gentle sleep, Charlie sat in a nearby chair and allowed exhaustion to overtake him. The chair was large and sinfully comfortable, with a winged back that was perfect for laying his head against. Within minutes, he was asleep.
Her scream woke him up.
He jerked awake, his heart slamming painfully against his chest, and got up so quickly, he nearly overturned the heavy chair. “Rose,” he said, surprised to see her sitting up.
She looked at him, her eyes glassy and unseeing, her breathing labored. “Where’s your head?” she asked, looking terrified. “Your head is gone. Charlie, your head is gone!”
Charlie rushed forward and she moved back, as if he was indeed an apparition without a head. “No, no, love. I’m fine. I still have my head.”
She refused to look at him, apparently convinced he was headless. He gently put his hand on her upper arm, withdrawing, shocked at how hot she was.
Mrs. Fitz came into the room in her dressing gown, her graying hair in a long braid and topped with a ridiculous nightcap, a frilly thing that contrasted with the woman’s serious countenance. “Oh, the poor dear is burning up,” she said, hurrying to the bedside.
“Mother? What are you doing here?” Rose asked.
“She’s out of her head,” Charlie said unnecessarily, his voice shaking. “What time is it? I was supposed to give her medicine to keep her fever down. And I was supposed to make sure she drank water.”
“It’s just past midnight, Mr. Avery,” Mrs. Fitz said soothingly, but she gave him a long, searching look. No doubt she’d never seen a servant nearly go into hysterics because his employer was ill. “You can give the lady her medicine now.”
“Of course,” Charlie said, knowing he was showing far too much emotion. It wouldn’t do to allow the servants to know how much he cared for his mistress; it wasn’t a natural thing and would embarrass Lady Rose if word got round to the house staff. Just being in this room with her was highly improper, given he was nothing but a head groom and she a lady. But he’d be damned if he let propriety dictate whether he watched over her or not. He felt fully to blame for her being so ill. “I fear I feel a bit responsible for her welfare, given she’s so far from home.”
Mrs. Fitz gave him an uncertain smile. “There’s no predicting these things, Mr. Avery,” she said sensibly. “No one is to blame for an illness.”
Rose was agitated, worrying the blankets almost frantically. “Where am I? Where am I?”
“The Cartwright home,” Mrs. Fitz said, straightening the blankets efficiently. “Now, you lie back down and we’ll give you some medicine to make you feel better.” Mrs. Fitz gently, but firmly, pushed Rose so she was prone, ignoring the younger woman’s protests.
“Lady Rose, you must be calm,” Charlie said, and his words seemed to have an instant effect. Mrs. Fitz helped him to administer the water and aspirin powder, and soon Rose was quiet, her eyes closed.
“Has Mr. Cartwright shown you where you may sleep for the night?” the housekeeper asked pointedly.
“He has not, Mrs. Fitz, and I feel it is my duty to remain with Lady Rose until I am assured she is well. No doubt you would do the same should Mr. Cartwright fall ill.”
Mrs. Fitz pursed her lips but didn’t contradict him, though he suspected if Mr. Cartwright did fall ill, she would leave his care to one of the maids. She left soon after, with a palpable reluctance, probably thinking he would do something unsavory as soon as she departed the room. Old bat.
An hour later, Mr. Cartwright entered the room, inquiring about the patient. Rose lay still, too still; the only way Charlie knew she continued to breathe was the slow rise and fall of the covers. Charlie didn’t like the way Cartwright’s eyes lingered thoughtfully on Rose’s face, almost as if he were seriously considering what it would be like to have her as a wife. Such a marriage was for the best. Charlie knew this in his mind, but his heart rebelled at the thought of another man touching Rose, never mind marrying her and all that entailed.
“Mr. Avery,” Cartwright said before leaving. “May I offer you some advice?”
“Of course, sir.”
“You might find it to your benefit if you could somehow control how very transparent your thoughts are. You are aware, I am sure, how improper your feelings for Lady Rose are. Some might find them abhorrent.”
Charlie clenched his jaw. “And you, sir, do you find them abhorrent?”
Cartwright gave him an odd smile. “I’m perhaps the last person on earth to judge a man for his feelings for another. No, Mr. Avery. But I’m also a realist with a realist’s view of society.”
Even knowing he shouldn’t, Charlie allowed himself to look at Rose, unable to disguise what his heart felt.
“Does the lady know how you feel?”
“No, sir,” Charlie said, feeling a familiar humiliation wash over him. “And she never will.”
His answer seemed to satisfy the man, who nodded grimly. “Please do have one of the servants fetch me if I’m needed here.”
“Yes, sir.” Charlie watched the man walk out of the room, hating him and admiring him in equal measure. He knew most men would not have allowed a servant to attend to his mistress. And he also knew another man might have found his love for Rose ridiculous, as ridiculous as Quasimodo’s love for Esmeralda.
When Cartwright was gone, Charlie pulled the wingback chair close to the bed and rested his arms on the bedcovers, not touching Rose but close enough to feel her warmth. He lay like that for hours, listening to her breathing, and thinking, If she lives through the night, then she will not die.
The top cover was pretty, a delicate pattern with lilacs and dark green leaves. He traced his finger on one flower, feeling overwhelmed with fear. Rose was not getting better. In the last hour, her breathing had become more difficult, rattling in her chest, and her breaths less frequent. It was almost as if she were slowly winding down, until eventually, she would stop breathing altogether. And there was nothing he could do other than try to spoon water into her mouth. At first, she’d reflexively swallowed, but now even that had ceased.
She was dying. The reality of it hit him like a black force he could not stop. He picked up one of her hands, listless and small in his calloused one, and pressed it against his lips as if he could draw the sickness out of her and into himself. “Please, Rose.” Don’t die.
Outside, he could hear the first birds begin their songs. It was still dark, but the East hinted at the sunrise, a faint glow, hardly discernible, and the birds somehow knew another day was soon be
ginning. He looked at Rose; pale, dark circles marred the delicate skin beneath her eyes. The blanket was hardly moving anymore. “Please, God.”
He began to cry, overwhelmed by the pain of watching her suffer. He hadn’t cried since he was a boy, and these tears were wrenched from him, as the purest agony he had ever felt burned his chest. Holding her hand, he lowered his head to the blanket, completely overwhelmed by grief. This was the torment and anguish Roger Browne had felt, helplessly watching his wife die.
All through the night and into the next day, he stayed by her side. When he left, even for a few minutes, the fear that she would die alone nearly overwhelmed him. At some point, the doctor came, but his visit was brief and not at all satisfying.
“She still lives, but she is far weaker than she was last night. I cannot give you hope for there is no hope to give,” Dr. Landsdowne said with his maddening calm. “It is unlikely she will survive another day.”
The man never directed his comments to Charlie, rather waiting for Cartwright to appear before speaking. “Is there nothing we can do?” Cartwright asked. He’d been in and out of the room several times to check on Rose, never staying more than a few minutes.
“Do continue to try to get her to drink water.” Dr. Landsdowne let out a sigh, then frowned, as if angry with himself for showing even that much emotion. “I cannot do more.”
After the doctor left, Charlie kept up his vigil, refusing to leave even to eat. He knew he was causing comment below stairs, but if the doctor’s prediction came true, nothing would be harmed by his staying with her. And he had to stay with her.
For long hours, Charlie listened to her breathing, watching her chest move up, move down, and prayed as he had never prayed in his life. This was all so wrong, so unfair. Rose should not die so far from home, with only her servant by her side. Cartwright had telegraphed her parents, telling them that Rose had arrived safely, but had fallen ill, and promising to telegraph again when there was news. He couldn’t imagine their reaction upon learning Rose was across an ocean and ill. Would they come immediately? Even if they did, it would be too late. She was too far away. They would be coming to take her home in a casket.
As the sun went down, Charlie’s hopes darkened with the sky. He held her hand again, as he had most of the day, and laid his head by her side. He wished he could hold her, but that was not possible. It was bad enough he was holding her hand; he’d seen the look of censure in Mrs. Fitz’s eyes but he didn’t care. Even though Rose seemed unaware he was there, perhaps she did feel his hand on hers and was comforted. God knew, her hand comforted him.
Exhausted, Charlie fell asleep, the top of his head pressing against her side.
“Charlie?”
At first he thought he’d imagined her voice, but then he felt her hand on his head, trailing her fingers through his hair as she had done so many times before. He lifted his head and saw that her brown eyes were open and studying him.
Rose couldn’t remember ever feeling so weak. Just lifting her hand to touch Charlie’s soft curls had been a major effort. A lamp was lit nearby, making his hair glow unnaturally bright in the dark room. Charlie was looking at her so oddly, as if he hadn’t seen her in years.
“Where am I?” she asked, frowning when she heard how her voice sounded. She was hardly able to speak and felt purely awful.
“In one of Mr. Cartwright’s guest rooms. Do you not remember anything?”
She furrowed her brow. “I remember getting off the ship and meeting your uncle. Oh! And that horrible person who stole all my things. The cabbie wouldn’t take me. How did I end up here?”
“You tried to walk but were so ill. Why didn’t you tell me? I found you in the snowstorm, huddled on a step, half dead, and I carried you here.”
She smiled weakly. “So strong, Charlie. I’m glad.”
Charlie stood up abruptly and dug his hand into his trouser pocket. “Look. I’ve recovered your things.” He held up her grandmother’s necklace, grinning.
“Good for you. I feared it was gone forever.” Her voice trailed off. She was so very tired it was nearly impossible to keep her eyes open. “Sleepy.”
“Before you sleep, drink some water, my lady.”
Charlie held a glass to her lips and helped her lift her head. Weak as a kitten, she was.
“Now you may sleep. I think your fever is gone, or nearly so. I shall be extremely happy to tell Dr. Landsdowne you will recover.”
“Landsdowne,” she muttered. She had no idea what Charlie was speaking of.
Rose closed her eyes, but before she drifted back to sleep, she heard another man’s voice. He sounded urgent. Rose tried to rouse herself, but felt herself sinking into sleep.
Daniel had never been one to enjoy confrontations, and he was about to be thrown in the midst of one. It was just eight o’clock in the morning and his butler had woken him from a wonderful and much needed sleep to tell him an angry gentleman was in his parlor waiting for him.
“A Viscount Granton is here to see you regarding the lady.”
“Oh, good Lord,” Daniel muttered, realizing Lady Rose’s eldest brother was in his home. He realized the viscount must have left England shortly after Lady Rose and her head groom in order to have arrived just three days after them. “I suppose he won’t wait for me to dress,” Daniel said, grabbing his dressing gown and shoving his feet into a pair of leather slippers.
He strode to the sickroom, calling out for Charlie. Her head groom looked the worse for wear; the poor man had hardly slept for two days.
“Her brother is here,” he said, whispering so as not to awaken Lady Rose, who had apparently fallen back to sleep. “Is she . . . ?”
“Better. How is it possible that one of her brothers is here?” The man looked visibly ill. “Which one?”
“Lord Granton.”
“Oh, God.” Mr. Avery looked like he might cast up his accounts. “I’m a dead man for sure.”
“Let’s get this over with. I’m certain he wants to murder someone and I’d rather have it be you than me,” Daniel said, trying for a bit of levity.
Mr. Avery gave him a withering look before following him out the door.
When they arrived in the parlor, a masculine room with dark paneling and comfortable leather furniture, they found Viscount Granton pacing back and forth like a caged animal. Or like a man who was worried sick about his sister.
“Good evening, Granton. What a pleasant surprise,” Daniel said smoothly, choosing to ignore the reason Lord Granton was in his home. He couldn’t imagine what was going through the poor man’s head, but he doubted it was related to the truth of the matter at all. He looked haunted and angry, and the dark circles beneath his eyes were quite telling. Daniel had talked with Granton a handful of times and found the man to be pleasant, if not overly jovial. He was, like so many members of the peerage, entirely dedicated to his duty.
When they entered, Granton stopped his pacing and looked from one man to the other, reserving his coldest stare for Mr. Avery. Daniel was glad that look had not been directed toward him as it was absolutely fearful. To give Mr. Avery credit, he stood there, even when Granton marched toward them, even when he drew back his fist and swung with considerable force at Avery’s face. Avery went down like a load of bricks. Daniel was frankly impressed, for he took the blow as if it was some sort of penance. Avery hadn’t been knocked out cold, but he had the sense to stay down, lying on his back and propping himself up with his elbows.
Granton stood over him, fists clenched. “You bloody cur. If you have married her, I will kill you and make her a widow this day.”
“We are not married,” Mr. Avery said, sitting up and wiping a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth.
This seemed to incense Granton even more. “How dare you take my sister with you without the benefit of a wedding! You have ruined her, do you realize that? Weston won’t have her now. No one will have her now. You are not fit to look at her never mind . . .” Raw pain was etched on the
older man’s face as he glared down at the head groom, fists clenched, as if willing the man to stand again so that he might strike him once more.
“I understand that you’re upset,” Daniel said, stepping between the two men and handing Granton a glass of brandy. “But this man saved your sister’s life. More than once, apparently.”
That gave Granton pause. “What do you mean?”
“Lady Rose is recovering now, but when she arrived, after Mr. Avery found her freezing on the street, she was quite ill,” Daniel said calmly.
“She wouldn’t have needed saving if this piece of shit hadn’t stolen her from her home and ruined her.” He stopped as if Daniel’s words were just reaching his brain. “Ill, you say?”
“She very nearly died, and may still.”
Granton began pacing back and forth. “And why would she come here? To you? She only met you that once, at her ball. What the hell is going on here?” the man shouted.
Daniel saw that the younger man was about to stand, but he shook his head in warning. Granton was raring to strike again and Daniel didn’t much care for violence or the sight of blood. “If you recall, I said Mr. Avery saved Rose twice. Apparently she was escaping Weston.”
“We know. Rose sent a telegram saying only that she could not marry him, but we are all baffled as to why. My mother is beside herself with worry and my father . . . let’s just say it’s a good thing for Rose that I volunteered to fetch her home. As far as I know, Weston remains unaware she’s disappeared.” Granton turned to Mr. Avery, who still sat, his forearms resting on his bended knees. By the look of the man, he’d be able to hold his own against Granton, but Daniel had no wish for fisticuffs in his parlor; he had far too many valuable artifacts for that sort of activity.
“Tell me, Charlie, is there any reason Rose cannot still marry Weston?” The warning in his voice gave Daniel the chills.
“Weston hurt her,” Avery said, staring directly ahead.