It was nearly another hour before Dr. Dreyfus walked into Rory’s small bedroom, the longest hour of Tysen’s life. Meggie hadn’t moved from the other side of Rory’s bed, holding the little boy’s hand, speaking quietly to him. As for Tysen, he’d sent Alec with Leo to Northcliffe Hall. Why hadn’t he sent both of them? No, he as the vicar, couldn’t very well send his own children out of harm’s way when no one else had that luxury. Because of his idiotic sense of what was proper, he might lose his son. He was a fool.
Dr. Dreyfus’s large hand was on Rory’s forehead, then he was sitting beside him, his ear to his chest.
When he looked up, he saw the corrosive fear on the vicar’s face, and slowly nodded. “I have some laudanum for him. It will keep him comfortable. But the fever, Vicar, it will climb and climb, so we must keep it down as best we can.” He rose and took both Mary Rose’s and Tysen’s hands. “Listen to me. We can pull him through. The Dixon girl survived it, so can Rory. Now, first things first. Let’s give him the laudanum, then begin wiping him down.”
It was near dawn; Meggie was sitting beside Rory, having taken over from her father an hour earlier. Mary Rose was asleep on a small cot that Tysen had brought into Rory’s room. She looked frightened even in sleep, all stiff, her hands clenching and unclenching.
There had been other illnesses in Rory’s young life, but none so frightening as this one.
Meggie felt Rory’s cheeks. He was not quite so hot to the touch, she was sure of it. Then he was trembling, jerking about, shoving his covers off. “No, no, baby, don’t do that.” His teeth were chattering. “Oh goodness, you’re freezing now, aren’t you? Don’t worry, baby, I’m here and I’ll take care of you.”
Meggie shrugged out of her soft warm velvet dressing gown and wrapped Rory in it. Then she got into his small bed and pulled him close. She whispered to him even as she stroked her hands up and down his small back. Suddenly he stiffened, moaned, and became perfectly still.
Oh God.
Meggie very nearly yelled, then, suddenly, she felt him jerk, heave in on himself, and he was breathing once again, shallow spiking breaths. She was crying now, holding him so close to her heart, so afraid, so very afraid. She was rubbing his back as she said over and over, “No, Rory, hang on, I know you can do it. Breathe, baby, breathe.”
He was fighting for every breath now, wheezing. Oh, God, no. No.
“Meggie, what is it?”
Meggie didn’t know how she managed it, but she said very quietly, “Mary Rose, get Papa. It’s bad, really bad. Go, hurry. Send someone for Dr. Dreyfus.”
Mary Rose stuffed her fist in her mouth and ran from the small room. When they returned, Tysen eased down and gently pulled Rory into his arms.
“He just stops breathing, Papa. Then when you think it’s over, he manages to draw in a bit more air. He can’t go on like this.”
Tysen didn’t look up. He just held his precious boy against him and willed him to breathe. Then he rose and carried him to the rocking chair that he himself had made for Mary Rose when Alec was born. Meggie and Mary Rose sat on the bed, watching the father and the vicar hold his child. Tysen rubbed the palm of his hand over his son’s chest, pressing in, then out, trying to help him breathe. He knew he should send for Dr. Dreyfus. He also knew that he couldn’t do anything for Rory that hadn’t already been done. Rory would either survive this or he wouldn’t. Tysen pressed and massaged his son’s chest, over and over, and spoke to him, encouraging him, and he prayed; he, the vicar, was making agreements with God. If he could have, he would have freely offered his soul if the Devil had but come to bargain.
Mary Rose took Meggie’s hand. “He can’t die, Meggie, he just can’t.”
Meggie nodded, words beyond her. She didn’t want to cry, it would gain naught. They sat together until the sun came up, until shafts of soft pink slipped beneath the pale cream draperies to bathe the room in dim light.
Samuel Pritchert came to tell them that Dr. Dreyfus’s carriage had been thrown on its side and the doctor was in bed, his back wrenched. He couldn’t move. He said there was nothing more he could do in any case. He was praying for them, Samuel assured them.
Some minutes later Meggie heard Mrs. Priddle moving about downstairs. Then, quite suddenly, she head a knock on the vicarage door.
Mrs. Priddle was breathless when she stuck her head in Rory’s room. “Forgive me, Miss Meggie, it’s Lord Lancaster. He says it’s very important.”
Thomas Malcombe? What could that man possibly want at dawn, for God’s sake? She didn’t want to hear him again ask her to go riding.
She simply nodded to her father and to Mary Rose and quietly left the room. She stopped by her own bedchamber, pulled on another dressing gown, this one so old the elbows were nearly worn through. She hurried down the stairs. No candle was needed, there was nearly full light now.
He was there, standing in the entrance hall, wearing riding clothes, boots.
Meggie felt no Christian kindness in her heart. “What do you want?”
He merely nodded to her, then walked swiftly to where she stood on the bottom stair. She saw then that he was carrying a small package. He pressed it into her hand. “I have spoken to Dr. Dreyfus. He said to bring this over and give it to Rory, that it couldn’t hurt. It’s a medicine, one of many that my shipping partner sent me from Genoa, Italy. It’s for the fever. Is Rory better?”
“No,” Meggie said flatly, and she knew, knew to her heart, “No, I don’t think he will get better. What is this?”
She was ripping away the paper. There was a long thin bottle filled to the corked top with a dark brown liquid.
“It’s a medicinal root called the maringo. It grows near a river on a lava plateau on the western slopes of Mt. Etna in Sicily. Perhaps it will help Rory. The letter from my man says that this particular root is effective for virulent fevers. Here, Meggie, give it to the boy, quickly, a small drink, that’s all that’s needed. Then another drink every hour, until—well, until he’s better.”
Tysen and Mary Rose believed the medicine was from Dr. Dreyfus. Meggie didn’t correct them. She managed to get Rory’s little mouth open and poured a bit of the brown liquid down his throat, then lightly rubbed his neck with her fingers. He wheezed and coughed even as his teeth chattered and his small body clenched with the violent spasms that were killing him. But he was breathing, little gasps of breath.
They said nothing at all, just watched the little boy continue to labor for each breath. Suddenly, without warning, he went into convulsions.
Tysen held him firmly while Meggie tried to keep him from swallowing or biting his tongue. Mary Rose rubbed his arms, his legs, to keep him still and warm. After an eternity, the convulsions passed. Rory became utterly still.
Mary Rose fell back on her heels. “Oh God, no! Tysen, no, he can’t be dead, he can’t!”
“No, just wait, just wait.”
Meggie was praying harder than she’d ever prayed in her life. She couldn’t hear him breathe, couldn’t hear him do anything. He was dying. Oh, please God, no, not this wonderful little boy. She watched her father squeeze Rory’s chest, then massage it, again and again as he whispered, “Breathe, Rory, breathe.”
Meggie looked up then to see Lord Lancaster standing in the doorway, saying nothing, just standing there quietly, watching the tableau in front of him, his face pale, his dark eyes hooded.
“Thank God,” Tysen said then, unutterable relief mixed with tears in his voice, “he’s breathing.” He grabbed Mary Rose to him and held both Rory and her close. “Thank the good Lord, our boy is breathing again.”
He lifted Mary Rose onto his lap and on her lap she held Rory, her white hands shaking even as she stroked them up and down his small back, steady circular motions while Tysen still massaged his small chest. Finally, Mary Rose laid her head against his neck. He kissed her hair even as his arms tightened around the two of them. Meggie knew she would never forget that moment her whole life. Rory was breathing, not just the stingy little gasps,
but full breaths that sounded more and more normal. His cheeks were flushed, but now it wasn’t with fever. She took a blanket off the bed and wrapped it over all three of them.
“Another one, Meggie. He isn’t shivering now, but I want to make all of us sweat.”
“He’s all limp now, no more shudders or convulsions,” Mary Rose whispered, hope brimming in her voice. “Oh, Tysen, do you think he—”
“I don’t know, love, let’s just keep holding him and holding each other. Let’s keep rubbing him and massaging him. It can’t hurt. That medicine, Meggie—when you see Dr. Dreyfus, tell him it worked. Tell him I knew he would think of something more.”
“It isn’t from Dr. Dreyfus, Papa, it’s from Lord Lancaster.”
Tysen was silent a moment, confused, really, then he said, “Thank him for us and tell him it seems to have had something of an immediate effect. Tell him we are very grateful.”
“Yes, I will tell him,” she said, not mentioning that Thomas Malcombe was standing in the doorway watching them. She loaded them all down with all the blankets in the room. She lightly laid her palm against Rory’s cheek. He was cooler, she would swear that he was cooler.
“Papa, I think he’s truly asleep now, and his breathing is easy, regular.”
Her father smiled up at her. She smiled back at him, then leaned down quickly to kiss his cheek. “I will bring you some tea. Ah, good, Mary Rose is finally asleep, too.”
In truth, her stepmother looked like an exhausted Madonna holding her sick child close, her brilliant curly red hair all over her head, tickling her husband’s chin, framing her pale face.
Tysen whispered, “I had prayed until I was out of words, until there wasn’t another plea in my mind, Meggie. I think perhaps God heard me and sent Lord Lancaster here with that medicine.”
“Perhaps,” Meggie said, “I do think that Lord Lancaster felt some urgency to come here. Was it God nudging him? It is a comforting thought.”
“Now, I want you to take the medicine to Dr. Dreyfus, tell him that it appears to have worked with Rory. If another child falls ill, then we can see that—”
“Yes, Papa, I will. I will ask if Lord Lancaster has more of it. We are to give Rory another swallow in about twenty minutes or so. Then, if he remains like this, no more is necessary.” Meggie smiled, straightened, turned, and walked to where Thomas Malcombe stood, watching her come toward him, her old dressing gown flapping around her bare ankles, her lovely hair braided down her back, much of it come loose and now tangled around her face.
She nodded to him and he quietly backed away from the open doorway. He waited at the head of the stairs, his face in shadows now because the sun had slipped momentarily behind some clouds. She stopped right in front of him. She lifted his left hand in both of hers and clasped it strongly. “I thank you, my lord. Was it God who made you feel the urgency to come to us?”
“Perhaps it was,” Thomas said slowly, looking down at his large brown hand held between her two smaller ones, not fine soft white hands. Meggie Sherbrooke’s hands helped raise her brothers, trained racing cats, did countless tasks as the vicar’s daughter. And he found himself wondering: Why had he come so quickly? He didn’t know. He just knew that he’d had to. Was it God nudging him?
He said matter-of-factly, “The package of medicines arrived just a few moments before dawn along with other supplies. The fellow bringing it said he had this feeling that I would be needing it and thus pushed on from Eastbourne to my home. I heard that little Rory was ill and so I came here immediately. I think the messenger was the one whom God nudged.”
“Is there more of the medicine?”
“Oh yes. My man will take it to Dr. Dreyfus now, and he can hold it for any children who become ill.”
“Oh goodness. Look at me, I’m not dressed. Ah, Mrs. Priddle, please take His Lordship to the drawing room, then give him some breakfast. I will be down very soon.”
Twenty minutes later Meggie walked into the drawing room. Lord Lancaster was standing beside the fireplace, now lit and warm, drinking some tea.
She said without hesitation, her hands outstretched to him, “My family is in your debt, my lord.”
He raised a dark eyebrow. He wanted to assure her that she wasn’t in his debt, that any decent human being would have brought that medicine to the vicarage without delay, but he wanted her in his debt, if that was what it would take. Just her.
He let her hold his hands yet again as he said, his voice deep, “You are exhausted, Meggie. I want you to rest today. If it doesn’t rain on the morrow, why then, will you go riding with me?”
“Yes,” she said, “I will go riding with you, my lord.”
7
THEY WEREN’T ABLE to ride for two more days. It rained so hard everyone said that the skies wept. And wept. On the morning of the third day, it was cool and overcast. However, Mr. Hengis has claimed it wouldn’t rain anymore, so no one was particularly concerned. The sun would burst from behind those rather gray clouds, and all would be well.
To Meggie, it was a fine day. She loved to ride, to feel the wind, strong off the Channel, tugging at her very eyebrows, flinging many a riding hat to the ground and under her mare’s hooves, and the man riding next to her had saved her little brother’s life. He’d even come every morning and afternoon to the vicarage to check on Rory’s progress since he’d brought the medicine, even in all that dreadful rain.
Meggie was riding Survivor, a lovely bay mare whose name, she told Thomas Malcombe, had been changed early on from Petunia.
“Why was the name changed?” he asked.
Meggie laughed, couldn’t help it. “Well, you see, Petunia just happened to be the first mount for all three of my brothers and me. That’s four children she’s survived. When Rory is just a bit older, then he will learn to ride on her as well. She’s still happy and running, so we all thought Survivor fit her much better.”
“A noble horse,” he said, one of those black eyebrows of his arched, “with a great deal of stamina. Rory will mount her as well? Surely she has earned retirement by now. That is asking a lot of any of God’s creatures, don’t you think?”
“Survivor is a natural with children, so don’t waste your pity on her,” Meggie said, and laughing again, leaned forward to pat the glossy neck. Survivor slewed her great head around and whinnied softly. Meggie reached into her pocket and pulled out a carrot for her. The mare snagged the carrot and ate it without ever breaking stride.
“She is nearly twelve years old. I believe my cousin Jeremy wanted more than anything to breed her, but she is too old now.”
He heard the slight change in her voice. Something sad or perhaps it was more wistful, he couldn’t be certain. He didn’t like it. “Jeremy?” he said carefully. “Which cousin is he?”
Meggie shrugged, stretched, looked all indifferent as she stared at a maple tree to her left, and said, voice all thin and watery, and that just made him all the more on edge, “Oh, Jeremy isn’t really one of my dratted cousins. He’s an almost dratted cousin. There is no blood tie. He’s the brother-in-law of my uncle Ryder Sherbrooke.”
She was obviously discomfited. He would let it go for the moment. He said, “I have heard many tales about your uncle. Is it true that he has sired more bastards than the sheiks in Arabia?”
Meggie reached out and smacked his shoulder. “That is your punishment for listening to gossip, my lord. Although, you know, there are certainly many wicked stories put out about him, my other uncle as well. However, the bastard story—that’s nonsense. My uncle Ryder is one of the most moral men in the entire world.”
“Forgive me,” Thomas said, “he is your uncle. I shouldn’t have said that so starkly. It is as you said—there are many wicked stories told about him. You’re saying that he doesn’t have a house for his bastards?”
Meggie realized the mistake. She patted Survivor’s neck, fed her another carrot as she said, “I haven’t heard that in a long time now. You really don’t know about my uncle
Ryder, my lord?”
“My name is Thomas, and I thought I did.”
“Obviously you don’t. My uncle, from a very young age, began saving children he found in back allies, in servitude to cruel masters, beaten and starved by parents, even sold by gin-sodden mothers or fathers, it didn’t matter. They are called his Beloved Ones. At my last visit there were at least fifteen children living at Brandon House in the Cotswalds, very close to Chadwyck House where my uncle, my aunt Sophie, and Grayson, one of my dratted cousins, live, although Grayson is now at Oxford. The bastard business—that was all started by one of my uncle’s political foes. Because people are people, they wanted to believe it until they realized how silly such a thing would be. Just imagine, installing your bastards in a grand house next to the one where your own family lives. That would require a great deal of gall, don’t you think?”
“Yes, a great deal. Beloved Ones?”
“Yes, that is the name my aunt Sinjun gave them when she discovered his secret many years ago. I believe she was around fifteen years old at the time.”
“If this is all true, then why isn’t it well known?”
Meggie smiled. “Because my uncle Ryder is extraordinarily reticent about what he does. He considers it his private business. He gets irritated if anyone tries to praise him for his good deeds. He claims that he takes in the children because they give him great pleasure, and ‘it is no one else’s bloody damned business.’ That was a quote.”
“Who was this political foe? The one who claimed he had his bastards right there under his wife’s nose?”
“A Mr. Redfern, the incumbent, spread that ridiculous rumor because he knew he would lose if he didn’t. His was not a moral character, and next to my uncle Ryder, he was very paltry indeed. It was quite a brouhaha at the time.” Meggie paused a moment, felt a drop of rain hit the tip of her nose, and said, “Oh dear. Mr. Hengis must have had a falling out with the weather gods. His fingers must have been tapping incorrectly. It’s raining. Again. We will all begin to grow mold if this keeps up.”