Chapter Twenty-Three
With the return of daylight came a return of the fever. James tipped off his blankets but couldn’t work out how to get out of his shirt. He’d have to ring for someone—but who would come? Was he at the inn, or somewhere else?
Shafts of bright sunlight sliced through the gaps in the shutters, giving enough light for him to confirm that he wasn’t in his own bed. He lay in an ancient truckle bed, with a wooden bench pushed up against it and a tester thrown across both pieces of furniture, so the sleeping space was broad enough for two.
A lamp burning low illuminated linen-fold paneling wrought in oak and much holed by boring insects. One wall of the room was draped with a faded tapestry showing a hunting scene, and for a moment he wondered if he’d been transported back in time.
By God, but he had a raging thirst. He looked round for the bell pull, realized there wasn’t one, and called out.
A middle-aged woman entered, wearing—to his relief—the clothing of a present-day servant, rather than an Elizabethan one. She lowered her eyes and made him an elaborate curtsy as she inquired, “Shall I call for Miss Emma, sir?”
“Miss Emma?”
“Indeed, your lordship, the young lady as has been looking after you. She’ll have your medicine ready, sir, and I can get you some breakfast now if you want it.”
He ran a hand across his brow. Why couldn’t he remember? Why did it feel as though his whole world had skidded to a halt, like a horse refusing a jump?
Suddenly the vision of a beautiful, compassionate face flooded his mind, and everything steadied as the memories flooded back. “Emma. Ah yes. Miss Hibbert.”
“Miss d’Ibert, if it pleases your lordship,” the servant corrected.
Of course. “Send her in, would you? And I’d like a fresh pitcher of water, if you please.”
The woman curtsied her way out, then spoke to someone just outside the door. “I think his lordship might be feeling a bit better, but he complains of being thirsty. Shall I fetch him more drinking water?”
“Do that, please, Sarah,” said a familiar voice.
Emma’s voice. Thank heaven. At least he wasn’t among strangers.
“I’ll fetch the basin and a clean cloth,” she said. “It sounds like the fever’s coming on again.”
She was right—he was feeling exceedingly hot. Once again, he tried to struggle out of his stifling nightshirt, but felt weak as a kitten. He’d almost given up when he heard the door open again.
Emma set an ewer and basin by his bedside and speared him with an unfriendly eye. Reaching for his nightshirt, she wrenched it off, then pushed him back against his pillows, flung aside the shutters, and opened the window, letting the sunshine flood in.
Returning smartly to the bed, she dabbed his hot face and neck, then moved the cloth down to moisten his chest with the cooling water. He was thus able to get a better look at her and martial his thoughts.
What trouble he must have put her to—the poor girl’s eyes were rimmed with red and deeply shadowed, as if she hadn’t slept a wink. Her face was pale, her delicate pink mouth set in a grim line, accentuating the pertness of her chin. How long had he been ill, he wondered, to have worn out the indefatigable governess to this degree?
No wonder she seemed angry. A sick viscount on her hands was probably the last thing she needed.
“Oh dear.”
Damnation! Those were not the words he’d intended. He’d meant to apologize, to promise to make it up to her in whatever way he could, and express his undying gratitude.
But the fever was taking hold, and words no longer held any meaning. He shifted restlessly on the makeshift bed and tried again to communicate with his taciturn nurse, but his mouth was completely dry. He plucked at her sleeve, and when she finally looked up, licked his lips, and sent her a mute appeal with his eyes.
After a very penetrating look and considerable hesitation, she took his meaning and filled a cup for him, then helped him hold it to his lips as he drank.
When the cup was empty, he took her hand to kiss it, hoping the gesture would convey what his voice could not. But she snatched her hand away as if his lips had burned her, shooting him a look of white-hot fury.
Startled, he collapsed back against his pillows and stared in confusion at the ceiling while she continued to swab vigorously at his chest.
Had he, in his febrile state, imagined the anger? Surely she wouldn’t be so kind if she were angry? It must be part of the illness, seeing, remembering things that weren’t real.
How very fortunate that he’d fallen ill at this house, with this woman to care for him! He must forgive her unconditionally for spoiling his chances with Belinda. And as soon as he was well enough to have control over his speech, he would tell her so.
Ah! She was gone.
Perhaps it was for the best. He didn’t want Emma to see him like this, his body slick with sweat, his damp hair plastered to his forehead, his breath foul from the illness.
As soon as he recovered, he’d show her what he was like at his very best. A true gentleman and aristocrat.
Only, he’d need to catch up on his sleep first.
Closing his eyes, he spread his limbs atop the bedclothes, trying to capture the cooling breeze from the open window, and schooled his mind to sleep.
But it was not to come.
“Where is the viscount?” came a voice from someone outside. “I wish to see him immediately.”
He started up in bed. The voice came again, and it sounded like someone he knew, but he shouldn’t be hearing those crystal tones here, surely?
A vigorous discussion took place just outside his door, then the familiar voice said in tones of acid politeness, “I appreciate that, but I must see him. Is this the room?”
The door opened, and his papa strode in, followed by Mama, their stern expressions vanishing when they saw him. Mortified, he sat upright, pulling the sheet to his chin. His mother hadn’t seen him shirtless since he was in leading strings, and was never permitted to watch him boxing. But here he was, half naked, helpless and humiliated.
Papa waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t be discomfited, James. We understand you’re too ill to greet us properly. But why are you so shocked? Did you think us too toplofty to come and visit your sickbed?”
James’s tongue felt rough as unworked leather, cleaving to the roof of his mouth when he tried to speak. “No,” he croaked.
Mama immediately went to the open door and called, “You there! The viscount needs a drink.”
Emma came in, her demeanor stony. He knew immediately she must have tried to forbid his parents entry—and lost the battle. Nobody forbade the Earl and Countess of Rossbury anything.
Emma filled his cup—something Mama could have done perfectly well herself—and helped him drink it. Her lowered eyes hid her thoughts, but the enmity emanating from her was palpable. She was in high dudgeon with the entire Markham clan today, and the fact distressed him. He meekly accepted her help, then watched her retreating back with regret.
“You didn’t expect us to come, I can see,” his father said stiffly.
“No. Didn’t want you to worry.”
“So you thought you’d keep your illness a secret? How can you possibly think they’ll look after you well in such an uncharted backwater as this? They’re more likely to drug you and hold you for ransom,” his mama exclaimed.
James rolled his eyes. “It’s no secret. Not imprisoned here. Good care. Not a backwater.”
“That’s nothing to the point. I won’t have you cared for by amateurs. We’ll take you back to Birney, where Dr. Abrahams can attend to you.”
Despite his physical lassitude, James’s temper rose. Scowling at his mother, he said, “Perfectly good nursing. Should be grateful. All of us!”
“Oh dear,” said his mother, turning to Papa. “He doesn’t seem at all the thing. I think we’ve come not a moment too soon.”
“Mama. Please, wait outside a moment. You’re getting upset. Send in Mr. d’Ibert. Papa and I will speak with him.”
“If that’s the way you want it,” his mother replied in her most outraged voice. “I shan’t stay where I’m not required.”
He groaned and flopped back against his pillows, but he needed her gone. She cluttered his thoughts, and he wanted to think clearly. He knew he hadn’t really offended her—the Countess of Rossbury was impervious to slight. She noticed it, yes, but it never affected her behavior. At least, not publicly.
Mama swept out of the room, and he hoped—for the sake of Emma and the rest of the family—that she would take her lofty disapproval with her and go wait in the carriage.
Thomas d’Ibert entered the room, casting nervous glances at the earl, and James steeled himself for the effort of mediating between the two families.