by Diana Davis
“May I see your pox?” she asked, hoping to occupy his mind that way.
He held out his hand, the most she’d seen him move of his own accord since she’d arrived. She moved closer to pull up the sleeve of his linen nightshirt. A fresh bandage was tied around his elbow from where they must have already bled him. But there was no sign of the cut where they would have placed the thread on his biceps.
“Where is your incision?”
“Back of my hand.”
She inspected his hand instead. As with her cousins, the rash that preceded the pustules was concentrated near the incision. She pointed out the rash. “The distemper is progressing.”
“Good to hear.” He let his sleeve fall again but caught hold of her hand. Cassandra froze as he met her eyes.
“Do you know?” he said. “You’re my oldest friend in the colonies.”
She gently squeezed his fingertips and released him. “That’s the fever talking.”
“It isn’t.”
“Then you’ve given me an honor I don’t deserve.” Could he really mean that? What had she ever done to merit his friendship? And would that prove to be a blessing or a curse?
First it would have to prove stronger than the fever.
Lord David held her gaze. “I’ve known you longer than anyone else here, other than your sister.”
“I suppose that’s true for me as well.”
“Good.” He closed his eyes and relaxed into the pillows. “Now we are old friends.”
Definitely the illness talking. “Your fever should come down soon.”
Actually, the fever was beginning to drop off by this stage with most of the children she’d seen. Perhaps the inoculation worked differently. Though her cousins’ fevers had broken.
Or perhaps Lord David had a second illness.
Then she had twice the reason to distract him. “What about your parents? The marquess and the marchioness?”
He didn’t open his eyes. “What about them?”
“Surely you saw them when you were growing up?” she teased.
“No.” His answer was clipped.
“Oh.” This sounded like a subject she shouldn’t pursue further.
After a long silence, Lord David spoke again. “What about your parents? The gentleman and the lady.”
“Papa could be firm, but he loved us. Made sure we got a good education. Mama taught me everything I know about caring for the sick. She was very charitable and kind.”
“Was?”
“They’re dead.” She paused. This was hardly the topic one discussed when an “old friend” was on his sickbed, but she needed to distract him somehow. “Mama was taken when I was thirteen. Infection. She was Uncle Josiah’s younger sister.”
“And your father?”
“Cancer. A year ago now.”
“I’m sorry.”
Cassandra nodded her thanks, although Lord David had yet to look at her again.
“And you and your sister could not inherit?”
“Papa was a life tenant.” Due to the way his great-grandfather had established the estate, Papa had only had the right to live at Heartcomb during his lifetime. No matter what he’d wished, nothing was passed to his daughters. Not even an annuity from Cousin Lowell, the miserable . . . miser.
Cassandra checked the rags on Lord David’s forehead and neck. They’d again warmed with the fever, so she switched them out with fresh ones. As she mopped his forehead, his eyes flew open. She’d never realized they were such a remarkable shade of sapphire blue.
“I’ll grant you this: you’re a better nurse than my valet,” he said. “Your mother taught you well.”
Was he giving her a compliment? “Thank you.”
“Did you say you brought food?”
“Are you feeling well enough to eat?”
“No, but I may not get the chance if you leave. After you leave,” he corrected himself.
Cassandra handed him a slice of bread. He tore off the corner and ate it.
Something in her didn’t want the conversation to end, though she wasn’t certain why. Probably because she was still duty-bound to distract him. Perhaps she could try to cheer him. Didn’t the Bible say, “A merry heart doeth good like a medicine”? She steeled herself. “Can I ask you something . . . impertinent?”
“I shall make a hasty exit to avoid it.”
Cassandra checked the room, trying to gauge whether he could actually walk that far, but she realized he was joking. She took that as permission. “How many of your trunks were filled with clothing?”
“What?” He did laugh, once and then again. “Has that been on your mind all this time?”
“Every moment since we left England.”
He laughed once more, with more energy, and her heart swelled. Yes, laughter did do good.
“Two and a half,” he finally answered. “The other half of that one was shoes and buckles and cufflinks. And four for books.”
“Oh.” She failed to conceal her surprise.
“Did you really think me that vain? Or that stupid?”
Cassandra opened her mouth to speak but found no words. She settled on closing it again.
“I see.” He gave her one final laugh, and for that moment, he seemed to be in the best health he’d been in all day.
“Shall I read to you then?”
“Because I’m so stupid?”
“Of course not. Obviously you didn’t bring the books because you thought they’d look nice in your study.”
A grin fought past his distemper and defenses.
Cassandra shook her head. “To think how bored I was after reading the only books we had all those weeks.”
“Oh, wasn’t it awful?”
“It was awful — and you were awful!”
Lord David made a little noise of indignation. “Was I? I seem to remember you being very rude to me.”
She lowered her gaze a moment.
“And that food?” he added.
“You call that food?” Her stomach turned at the thought of ever seeing a hard tack biscuit again.
He pressed a hand to his middle. “Never again.”
“Fortunately, Polly’s bread is much better.” She nodded at the bread, forgotten in his other hand. “Shall I read then? While you eat?”
“Perhaps later. Tell me about your estate.”
“Heartcomb?”
“Heartcomb,” Lord David repeated. He tore off another bite of bread and motioned for her to continue.
Lord David shifted on the pillows Cassandra insisted on stacking behind him at every visit. Was it so wrong to want to lie down?
The fever wasn’t even the worst of it. The rash had developed into large, hideous blisters. On top of that, his body still ached. And then there was the fever.
On second thought, the fever was the worst of it. He groaned, more in frustration than discomfort.
Cassandra looked up from the book she was reading aloud. Truth be told, he wasn’t paying much attention, but he liked to hear her voice. She always managed to maintain kindness in her tone and her eyes, no matter how intractable the illness made him.
Or perhaps he was always intractable.
Cassandra set aside the book. “Why don’t we talk a while?”
He had no strength to argue. “If you insist.”
“I do. Tell me about Dorset.”
“It isn’t interesting.”
Cassandra settled back in her chair as if he’d proposed a contest to keep her entertained. He swallowed a sigh. Very well. “In the days of the Romans —”
“Feel free to begin at the present. I am not your governess.”
“I daresay you are not.” His governess had been a very cruel woman, and he was finally beginning to see that Cassandra was not. Despite the way she’d treated him initially.
That same lady couldn’t have treated with him such kindness every day for four days. Or was it five?
She was still waiting for him to speak. For a moment, he f
orgot himself, pondering the remarkable amber color of her eyes.
“Are you well?” she asked.
“Yes — well, no, obviously not.” He gestured at his present circumstances.
“Shall I go?”
“No, no — Dorset. Ah, we have a number of villages, farms, estates, weavers — I promise, this is as interesting as it gets.”
“Obviously storytelling is not your gift.” Cassandra gave him a sarcastic smile.
“Shall I read to you then?” Lord David reached for the book.
She did not offer it to him. “Dorset.”
This time he let the sigh escape. “You are impossible.” He couldn’t entertain her with the three-month-old talk of the ton, what little he remembered. He’d be hard pressed to find some heartwarming memory of his family like the ones she’d shared. What else of more recent history? Dorset had been home to plenty of royalists in the Civil War, although it had also fomented the Monmouth Rebellion and the Glorious Revolution, but all that was a hundred years ago or more. What else had ever happened of consequence there? “There were smugglers.”
Cassandra leaned forward, the kindness in her eyes turning to captivation. “Smugglers?”
“Yes. I was a boy when they hanged the last of them.”
She didn’t seem disappointed. Rather, she was hanging on his words. “Were they dangerous?”
“Yes, very.” This wasn’t some romantic privateer’s tale; those men had murdered and extorted dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people. And there was nothing romantic about their executions or the gibbet field where the bodies had hung for months afterwards.
He suppressed a shudder and refocused on Cassandra. He wanted to change the topic, but to see her so fascinated — by him?
He didn’t dare do anything that might jeopardize that.
“Well,” he began. “They were called the Hawkhurst Gang.”
Cassandra rushed into the Hayes house. She knew she was too late for dinner, but she hoped Helen hadn’t left for Germantown yet.
“Here she is!” Constance called from the couch in a whisper. “Finally.”
“How do you do to you, too, cousin? Are the little girls not well?” At twelve and fourteen, Mercy and Verity were not all that little, but Cassandra had fallen into the family’s pattern of referring to them that way.
“Merely sleeping. I think they’re past the worst.”
Cassandra frowned. Lord David was not. He’d seemed extra uncomfortable this morning, until she’d distracted him with talking about an awful gang of smugglers. It would not have been the topic she would have picked — who talked of pirates, murderers and thieves in polite company? — but once he started, she had to own she was enthralled.
Temperance came down the stairs to her right. “Oh, there you are.” She acquired a wicked tone. “How is Lord David?”
“Not well.”
That did not deter Temperance. “How perfectly scandalous for you to be visiting him in such a state.”
A state where he found sitting up taxing? Cassandra didn’t dignify her cousin with a reply, at least not to her implication. “He’s unwell, and I’m nursing him.”
“Perhaps he’ll have to marry you once he’s well again.” Constance looked up from her writing again, a dreamy look on her face. “My cousin, a marchioness.”
“His mother is the marchioness. And once his father is gone, his sister-in-law will be.”
“Oh, close enough.” Constance returned to her scribbling.
“Please,” Cassandra said, looking at both of her cousins. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone?”
“Upon my word,” Temperance exclaimed. “Of course not! Why would we do that to our own cousin? I’d never be able to marry Winthrop Morley if you were ruined.”
Ah. Although their discretion was apparently not out of concern for Cassandra herself, she appreciated it.
Helen finally rushed down the stairs, her basket of supplies already on her arm. Patience arrived from the dining room with bread and cheese for Cassandra. She didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d taken dinner with Lord David, opting instead to thank her cousin. The poor families they were visiting could surely use the food.
Cassandra refilled her own supply basket, and they hurried out to the coach.
“How was Lord David today?” Helen asked once they were underway. Her voice carried a note of disdain, and Cassandra felt herself bristle a bit.
“His fever hasn’t broken yet.”
Helen expressed the same concern she had, then she sighed. “I don’t know how you put up with that odious man. I couldn’t do it.”
“He isn’t that bad.”
Helen snorted. “He wouldn’t even deign to speak with us after we spent nine weeks with him in such narrow quarters. He must have heard your snoring.”
She scoffed. “You mean your snoring.”
“I thought I was patient to put up with that din you make.” Helen shook her head. “Clearly you are the saint to stand being around him. Don’t let him bully you. We know his type. They take a firm hand.”
“He really isn’t that bad,” Cassandra insisted.
Her sister turned to her, ready to argue her point again, as always, but stopped short. “Dearest, are you well?”
“Why?”
“Your cheeks are flushed.” Helen felt Cassandra’s cheek and forehead. “Wait — you’re not blushing, are you?”
“No, of course not.”
Helen watched her for a long moment. “What do you think of Lord David?” she asked, obviously testing her.
“He’s perfectly fine.”
“Is he?” Helen arched an eyebrow. “Laying aside the fact that you just said he’s unwell, you used to hate him more than I did. What on earth changed your mind?”
“I haven’t — but I know him better now.”
“Hm.” Helen studied her for a long minute before Cassandra angled her face away. To look out the window.
Or to hide another blush she could feel stealing over her face.
“It’s all right,” Helen said gently. “I haven’t sworn an oath to hate him as a villain until the end of my days. I mean, not one I couldn’t undo.”
Cassandra laughed. “I — he’s just — he’s my friend.” She suddenly remembered how he’d taken her hand the first time she’d gone to care for him, gently, and said she was his oldest friend in the colonies. The oldest friend he had now.
Her cheeks burned even hotter.
She must have been embarrassed because she’d treated him so poorly. Or because she’d changed her mind about him. Or because he’d proven her wrong.
She snuck a peek at her sister. Helen said nothing, her eyes on the window.
But the secretive mirth on her sister’s face seemed to say she already knew everything.
Even the parts Cassandra refused to think.
The fever was not supposed to persist this long. Lord David had suspected as much, but when Josiah brought Dr. Rush to see him again, he confirmed the suspicion. “You may have a second illness,” the doctor informed him.
How lucky.
“Hopefully not yellow fever.”
Or perhaps not.
“I want you up and walking as soon as possible,” Dr. Rush said. “I know it sounds singular, but in my experience, it consistently leads to an easy progress of the disease. For now, we had better bleed you.”
Hadn’t he been bled yesterday?
“Fine.” It was all he could do to focus on the man, but he recognized his look. It was the look of someone losing a battle. If Lord David had any strength left, he should have been frightened that he was the one about to be lost.
He barely flinched when the doctor sliced his arm. Was this the second or third time he’d been let with this fever? Or more? He couldn’t be certain anymore. Even the days and the nights blended together.
The only thing he had to mark time were visits from Cassandra Crofton. Westing had recovered, but she still came to check on him and make sure he
was receiving proper care.
She’d just been there that morning. Afternoon. Yesterday? He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think he had anything to look forward to.
The next time he opened his eyes, his elbow was bandaged, and Cassandra was sitting in the chair beside his bed. He needed her kindness today more than ever.
A gentleman’s daughter ought to have something to keep her hands busy, needlework or some such, because Cassandra’s were wringing one another in her lap.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Excellent. Clearly the Philadelphia climate agrees with me.”
She offered a weak smile, then gestured at his hand. “The sores are progressing.”
The sores were even more revolting than they’d seemed on other people, but at least there were fewer of them then there would have been otherwise.
“Would you care for a damp rag? Cool water? Cider?”
Lord David turned his head away, the most he could move.
Cassandra took his hand, which she rarely did. “Come along, Uncle Josiah tells me Dr. Rush wants you walking.”
He swatted her hand away.
“Lord David, don’t be a child.”
“I’m not being a child.”
“Oh? Because it certainly looks as though you’re behaving like a spoiled child. Or perhaps that’s because you were one?”
Her tone held teasing, but her words held a toxin. He’d never wanted for anything materially, true, but he had been far from coddled.
“I’ve already had two children die in my arms this week.” Now her voice was solid metal. “I’ll not lose another.”
He was not a child. He turned back to her.
“Get up,” she commanded him.
There was no kindness in her eyes today. No respect either.
He knew that expression. More than sympathy, more than pain, somehow sadder than the one he’d seen from Dr. Rush and Westing and Josiah, but she’d never looked at him this way. In the hours she’d spent here, she’d talked with him and laughed with him and read to him, but she’d never looked at him this way. In the weeks — no, months — he’d known her, she had been rude and haughty and snide — and kind — but she’d never looked at him this way.