Sir John gritted his teeth, sliding himself farther forward and spacing his feet shoulder-width apart. “Ready.”
“On three. One, two, three...”
Together, she and the physician helped Sir John rise. Hannah felt a tremor pass all the way up his body and through the arm she held. Hannah repositioned her own weight to strengthen her hold, praying,Please, God,help him stand.
“You’ve done it, Sir John!” Dr. Parrish enthused, and he and Hannah shared a private smile. “How is the ankle—does it hurt?”
“Not bad,” he gritted out. Then his legs began to tremble violently.
“There now, sit down. Easy does it.”
“I want to walk.”
“Tomorrow is another day, Sir John. Mustn’t rush things.”
“Must she be here?” He jerked his head toward her.
“Your wife? I would think you would want her here to support you.”
“I ... don’t like her seeing me like this. So cursed weak.”
“Weak? Why, the injuries you suffered would have been the end of many a man half your age. I see nothing weak in you, sir. Do you, my lady?”
“No. Nothing. Sir John has always been a strong man. Physically and otherwise. And will be so again.”
For a moment Sir John’s eyes met hers. She was touched by the vulnerability there as he gauged her sincerity. She squeezed his hand. “I am proud of you.”
His eyes shone with something else then. Something deep and arresting.
Hannah looked away first.
From a deep sleep, James woke abruptly, startled by a rapping on his door. His room was still dead-of-night dark. Alarmed, he threw back the bedclothes and climbed from bed. Before he could retrieve his dressing gown, the door creaked open, and a figure appeared carrying a candle.
“Mr. Lowden?”
Miss Rogers stood in his threshold, clad in a nightdress and shawl, hair in a thick plait over her shoulder. His heart leapt. For one illogical moment desire flared. Then a closer look ather pale, wide-eyed face told him this was no amorous visit—something was wrong.
“I’m sorry to wake you, but it’s Danny. And Becky. They’re both terribly hot and restless. Becky has grasped onto Mrs. Turrill in a panic and won’t let go. I’ve sent Kitty for cool cloths, but I hoped you might—”
“Shall I run for Dr. Parrish?”
“Please. I hate to leave Danny for another moment.”
“I understand. Go back to him. I’ll bring the doctor as soon as may be.”
“Thank you.” In the flickering candlelight, her earnest gaze held his. Then she turned and disappeared from view, the patter of her bare feet quickly treading up the stairs.
He pulled on a pair of trousers and shoes. Wrestling a coat over his nightshirt, he hurried downstairs, out the side door, and ran to the Grange.
Ten minutes later, Hannah sat in the rocking chair, a whining Danny in her arms. She dabbed a damp cloth to his face and neck, trying in vain to cool and comfort him. Across the room, Mrs. Turrill administered the same treatment to Becky, praying over the girl in low tones as she did so. Kitty, having delivered the cloths, stood helplessly by, twisting her apron in her hands.
Hannah hoped Dr. Parrish would hurry. Surely he would know what to do. Her fears rose, jumbling her innards and tormenting her imagination. What if there was nothing he could do? Might Danny succumb like those poor children at Mrs. Beech’s? Was this the same fever—had it somehow lain dormant in Danny and Becky, only to strike now when she had thought them well and truly free of the effects of that place?
She heard footsteps clumping up the passage, and relief filled her. One set of footsteps. Had Mr. Lowden returned to his room once he’d summoned Dr. Parrish?
But it was Mr. Lowden himself who knocked and then let himself into the nursery, hair windblown.
“Where is Dr. Parrish?” Hannah asked, alarmed. “Is he coming?”
