Viscount Can Wait, The EPB

by Tremayne, Marie

  “Help me turn him,” she instructed, “so we can check on his wound.”

  The viscount was a large man, and her lack of sleep and the direness of the situation rendered her hands clumsier than usual. It took all of Eliza’s strength and most of Burton’s to sufficiently move him so the bandages could be navigated, and the poultice peeled back. Evanston cried out at the rough handling, and briefly she reached over to stroke his head. Eliza could not bear to see him suffering.

  At last, the wound was revealed. She stared at it in disbelief, her eyes raising to meet Burton’s, his gaze no less haunted than her own.

  The laceration had festered.

  “But . . . how?” she asked in shock. “We changed it every three hours. We took such care . . .”

  The quiet thunk of Dr. Brown’s satchel in the doorway diverted her desperate musings.

  “I am sorry, my lady, but caring for the ill can be a paradox,” said the physician, adjusting his spectacles upon the bridge of his nose to view her with empathy. “Even when everything is right, it can still all go terribly wrong.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Eliza sat, a surreal sense of dread overtaking her, viewing the doctor’s examination from a chair in the corner of the room. It was ridiculous, but part of her almost believed she had brought this on or earned it somehow. She had allowed herself to hope after those first days had passed. His wound had been healing well, and he’d been handling the effects of the laudanum as best as could be expected.

  Now, however, Thomas writhed restlessly among the bedclothes, muttering incoherencies, lost in the grip of the fever that was consuming him. While it was true that infections could, and often were, overcome during the course of the healing process, she found herself fearing the worst: that she had raced to London to stand helplessly by, while the man she loved died in his own darkened bedchamber.

  Since a few days had passed, she had finally thought to write to Clara and William, advising them of the situation and providing an explanation for her sudden lack of communication. Likewise, she had sent a missive to Lady Evanston, Thomas’s mother, although she was unsure whether to expect any reply from that woman at all.

  Since she had not truly slept in days, her only reprieve was found in stolen moments of drowsing in her cushioned armchair, or slumped over the edge of the bed near Thomas. Burton had cared for her as best he was able, pulling her out of the room periodically for a sip of tea or a bite of toast. She submitted to the butler’s pleas because she knew she must. While she was not hungry in the slightest, it would do no good for her to fall ill at Evanston’s bedside.

  Eliza was, oddly, too exhausted to cry, although her spirit grieved unflaggingly at the sight of his agony. It was a feeling she had not experienced since the massive loss of life her family had been dealt just two years before. Back then, it had been too late for most of them. There had been no prayers for help or mercy for the dead; those entreaties had already been denied. But she had kept vigil at William’s bedside until he had awoken from his injuries, much as she was doing now for Thomas. Eliza had nearly sworn off her God in those dark times. But now, here in this room, she found her prayers again.

  Please . . . just give me a chance to love this man.

  Her heart sank at the thought that she had already shunned her chances many times over.

  The doctor finished his inspection, then tugged the sheets back up to Evanston’s chest. Proceeding to Eliza’s location in the corner to address her, the old man sighed wearily.

  “I’d like to check back on him in a day’s time. If he worsens considerably, I think leeches, or even bloodletting, are viable options for treatment.” At Eliza’s despondent expression, he added in a low voice, “The viscount is a strong man. There is every reason to believe that he will overcome this infection. That said, I can make no guarantee.”

  She nodded numbly. “I understand.”

  Eliza would never allow him to bleed Thomas. It was how her mother had died, with an overly copious bloodletting following an afterbirth infection. The physician had insisted it was the infection that ended up taking her, though her family knew better. That practice would never be repeated. Not while she had anything to do with it.

  Dr. Brown withdrew four jars and one glass bottle from his leather satchel, then turned to hand them to Burton, who stood nearby.

  “Here is a renewed supply of laudanum, herbs for the poultice and fever-mixture. You are to administer two tablespoonfuls of the mixture, three times a day as the fever persists. If you have not been applying laudanum to the poultice as well, I suggest you start. This will help alleviate some of his pain.”

  Her eyes flicked over to catch Burton’s gaze. Privately, she believed they both worried about the overuse of such a potent drug.

  “He has been out of his wits on laudanum thus far. Is there not an increased risk in using both the oral and the topical administration?” she asked, unable to help herself.

  The doctor appeared mildly offended. “Certainly, there can be increased risk,” he answered gruffly. “There is also an increased risk once a patient is infected. We treat them as we must.”

  “I understand,” she said, hoping her annoyance was sufficiently disguised. She rose from her seat. “We will send word if anything changes. Thank you for your assistance.”

  Dr. Brown closed his satchel with a snap and bowed. “My lady.”

  Once the door had closed on the physician, she released the sigh she had been holding. She crossed over to Evanston’s bed to sit beside him, sliding her fingers across his hand, now clenched in his discomfort.

  “My lady,” murmured the butler. “You should get some rest yourself. I’d venture to say you have not slept in days. I will watch over his lordship until your return.”

  Eliza shook her head, gripping Thomas’s hand tighter. “No, Burton, I’m not leaving him. But if you could help with his medicine before you leave, I would appreciate it.”

  Between the two of them, they managed to coerce the semiconscious viscount into taking his medicines, even forcing a bit of water down his throat for good measure. A fresh poultice was applied to his wound, then secured with Burton holding Evanston upright while Eliza wrapped the cloth bandage around his ribs. He did not struggle against them, as he had done previously, but hung limp against his butler, pale and waxen with flags of red upon his cheeks.

  The hours passed, and evening came. Eliza snapped awake with a jerk, realizing her exhaustion had overtaken her at some point. She lifted her head off the bed to survey Evanston’s face, noting that his breathing had become rapid and shallow. He squirmed and groaned in misery on the mattress. Gingerly, afraid of what she would find, Eliza laid her palm against his forehead. The skin there scorched her . . . he was so much hotter than he had been before. He was burning up.

  “No—”

  She lunged for the bellpull, and Burton appeared within moments. Likely noting her expression of panic, he stood silently with large eyes.

  “We need cool water in a bowl. A-and a sponge.”

  The butler nodded tersely and left the room while she returned to Thomas. Until this point, she had been almost afraid to speak overmuch in his presence. She’d worried that, rather than finding her voice soothing, it would only serve to upset him further given the awful nature of their last meeting. His angry reaction to her on the first day had only reinforced this notion. Now though, she worried that he would succumb to his injuries, never having heard her near him. Never knowing how much she truly cared.

  “Thomas,” she said forcefully, running her hand along the curve of his cheek, roughened with dark stubble. “This is Eliza. Can you hear me?”

  Her words prompted a reaction although his eyes remained tightly shut, his breath hitching for a moment before he squinted, as if in pain. Remorse flooded through her at the distressed response, but she persevered anyway.

  “You are in London, and you are ill. You were hurt.”

  His face twisted into a grimace, his da
rk brow pulling down. “. . . Sends her regards . . .” he muttered through chapped lips.

  Eliza wasn’t certain what to make of his words. The butler appeared with the requested items, setting them down on the table next to the bed. With a word of thanks, she retrieved the sponge and squeezed it partially out over the ceramic bowl. The rest she squeezed over Evanston’s dark hair, eliciting a sigh and a shiver from him.

  “I am here, my love,” she said, her throat constricting in despair. She hitched her hip upward to seat herself next to him on the mattress. “I will stay as long as you need.” Eliza moved the sponge in a cool swipe against his forehead, then leaned over to rest her head against his. “Forever, if you’ll let me,” she whispered.

  Raising her head, she stifled her sadness. She would not cave in now, not when he needed her so badly. She dipped a fingertip into the bowl and brought a hovering drop of water to his lips to quench the skin. He did not respond, having fallen unconscious once more.

  Burton approached with the viscount’s next dose of medication, which they both worked to administer.

  “Would you like to air out the room now, my lady?”

  Eliza shook her head. “No, I prefer to do it in the early morning hours, after the air has had a chance to settle.” She leaned back in her chair. “Let us change the bedclothes, though. I think a set of clean linens would do him some good.”

  Calling upon the other servants to assist, the group managed to maneuver Thomas’s large frame while stripping the mattress to replace the sheets. Evanston shivered and groaned but looked relatively peaceful once the operation had been completed.

  They passed through the dark of night much as they had entered it, with her caring for him while his fever persisted. He suffered mightily, but he did not sweat, and she knew he would not until his fever finally broke. If it ever did.

  She continuously sponged cool water over him, allowing her hands to comfort him, letting them roam across his head, his shoulders, his chest. Had circumstances been otherwise, she would have thrilled with the act, but now she only sought to make a connection with him. To make sure he felt her presence and knew she would be waiting for him when he awoke.

  Eliza told him stories, she sang to him, she even regaled him with tales of his own audacity. She confided that, although his antics during the London season had enraged her at the time, they had also secretly pleased her. His shows of attention—each stolen glance, every verbal sparring match—had meant the world to her, and she had cherished every moment they had been able to share together despite her best attempts at pretending otherwise.

  Retrieving the letter from her reticule to place it nearby on the bedside table, she told Thomas that when he was feeling better, he could read the contents. She told him of her meeting with William, and how her brother had seen the error of his judgments. Eliza spoke of how the earl had urged her swiftly away from Lawton Park to seek out the viscount in the hopes of winning him back.

  Finally, Eliza declared that he had been chosen by Rosa herself. She relayed how, in no uncertain terms, her daughter had made it clear that Thomas had been the only real candidate. With a quivering voice, she told him that both she and her little girl would be honored to build a family with him.

  And should he not desire such an arrangement after all she’d put him through? That was understandable. She just wanted him to come back.

  The first gray light of dawn broke weakly through the curtains. Evanston mumbled beneath his breath, nothing she could reasonably discern, then reached out to wrap a mound of sheets around his fist. Eliza eyed him worriedly, then crossed to the curtains and drew them aside to fling open the casements. A reviving breeze, cool and brisk, flowed through the opening. She wanted to refresh the room before settling in for the day’s sickroom routine.

  Energy-drained and filled with melancholy, she leaned against the window to view Evanston’s immaculate garden. Gardens in town were generally small due to their space limitations, and this one was no different. Yet its layout gave the illusion of something more. Larger than what could be perceived with the eye. Distantly, in some alternate version of this reality, she could envision Rosa dancing amidst the carefully potted ferns and azaleas. Eliza and Thomas would be following behind her, with hands entwined—

  “Reginald . . . she’s screaming.”

  The blood turned to ice water in her veins. The low voice had been so faint, the statement so weakly delivered, she was uncertain whether it had even happened at all. Her eyes flicked over to find the viscount, lying prone upon the bed. Motionless. It was unusual given the agitation he’d exhibited throughout the night.

  She searched the shadowed corners of the room in a frantic bid to ascertain whether someone had crept in while she’d been distracted at the window. Finding nothing, she came closer to the bed, spooked. Evanston’s lips were indeed moving, with small whispers slipping out. Afraid of what she might hear, she leaned towards him anyway. His eyes moved incessantly beneath their lids, and he grimaced and clenched his teeth.

  “Help her, she’s screaming.”

  This could be an effect of the fever, some delirious scene his mind had conjured, simply because the conditions allowed it. Something told her, though, that there was an element of truth to this hallucination. A truth she dreaded to hear, but needed to know.

  “Thomas,” she said, reaching out to stroke his pale cheek. “No one is screaming. All is well—”

  He wrenched violently away from her touch. His features drew down into a scowl.

  “She can’t be left in there with just a midwife.”

  Eliza froze. Then she jerked suddenly backwards, eyes round at the realization of what he was saying. Thomas’s voice was feeble as he continued, but still somehow full of angry determination.

  “You go in with her, or I will.”

  Men were absolutely not allowed in the birthing room. It simply wasn’t done, not even with husbands. Yet, Reginald had joined her at some point during her difficult and lengthy labor. His presence had been a comfort she hadn’t known she could request.

  A remembrance of something William had told her long ago surfaced in her mind. How Lord Evanston had been found on the staircase the morning following Rosa’s birth, passed out with drink. Mrs. Malone had thought badly of him for it. But now, Eliza struggled to comprehend the truth.

  What if the sounds of her suffering had driven him past his capacity to bear?

  Could he have loved her, even then . . . perhaps before he knew it himself?

  My God . . .

  She launched herself onto the bed, gripping his colorless face tightly between shaking hands.

  “Thomas, I’m here!” she said, her words dissolving into barely intelligible sobs. “I am here! You’re not alone!”

  Wrapping her arms around his chest, she buried her face against the fever-warmth of his neck. She kissed him. Then she kissed him again, up the length of his jaw, along the hot scrape of his cheek, across the dry surface of his lips, which were still silently moving in his pleas to her dead husband, locked in the retelling of a tale now four years past.

  “Not alone,” he repeated thinly, his breathing swift and furious.

  Eliza kissed the bruised skin around his eye and he sighed. She soothed him with gentle caresses. Gradually, he became calmer until at last he fell silent. Reaching backwards to the table, she found the sponge in its bowl, squeezed it, then brought it across to dampen his warm brow.

  “I love you, Thomas,” she whispered, pausing to wipe her sleeve across her streaming eyes. “Do you hear me? I love you. You will wake up soon.” She nodded, more to herself, she supposed, than anyone else. “You will wake up.”

  For his sake, she took care to sound surer than she felt.

  A gentle hand on her shoulder roused Eliza from an onslaught of fitful dreams. As she always did now upon discovering she had fallen asleep, she bolted upright to find Burton standing above her. Her mortification at being discovered lying in bed alongside Thomas was ec
lipsed by the excited expression on the butler’s face. His finger was pressed against his lips, which he then turned to point at Lord Evanston.

  Eagerly, she turned to see that his normal color had revived. His cheeks were flooded with healthy color, and his breathing had returned to normal, with none of the feverish panting that had served to tire him earlier. He was also drenched with sweat. For that matter, so was she, having been sleeping so closely to him.

  Eliza yelped with delight, and nearly fell out of the bed in her haste to pull Burton in for an unconventional but much needed celebratory embrace. Quickly returning to the task at hand, the pair rang for more assistance, then set to work changing Thomas’s poultice, administering his medicine and stripping the bed in exchange for fresh linens. A large bowl full of soapy hot water was brought in. Burton treated his still as yet unconscious master to a refreshing sponge bath. She excused herself at this point, suddenly feeling like an intruder. As pleased as she was about Evanston’s recovery, the likelihood of his waking at any moment had increased her anxiety in other ways.

  So she busied herself, filling the next few days ensuring the viscount’s household would be in proper working order and ready for him when he was again able to conduct his own affairs. She and Burton delegated tasks to available servants, Eliza ran errands of her own and Burton fell into a routine of caring for his master, now without her assistance. There were times when their paths crossed in the hallway or the foyer, when she could detect a curious sideways glance from the butler. But she was sure to keep her own gaze straight ahead, pretending that her abrupt shift in behavior was simply a normal adjustment to the change in circumstances and not her avoiding Thomas out of fear.