CHAPTER NINE
“You received all of this from tutoring?” Ophelia’s father said with awe, looking down at the money.
Guilt shivered through Ophelia’s chest. She was starting to hate lying to her father.
“You know how some parents can be,” she offered with a casual shrug, “Especially the aristocratic ones. They will pay anything to ensure that their children do not shame them.”
Though still fuming from the way she was removed from Tristan’s office the night before, she’d tucked that anger away when she met her father in the parlor the next morning. Something was amiss with him. He was paler than usual. Beads of sweat marked his brow. His breathing seemed shallow and uneven. She also noticed that he had a tremble when she reached forward to hug him.
“Right,” he murmured, looking down at the stack of money in a daze.
“Now this is not going to take care of everything,” Ophelia went on, wanting to move on from the subject of how she had gotten the money, “But it will settle our debts from this month and partly what we still owe from the month before. I already sent for the accountant. He should be here within the hour.”
She reached down and picked up a stack of papers.
“These are the bills that the money will take care of. Be sure to give them to him along with the money, as well as take five percent for himself to cover his fee,” she gently urged.
“Right. Right,” John murmured again, then reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow.
“Papa?” Ophelia asked, feeling her worry deepen, “Are you well?”
John began to tremble harder before her. He opened his mouth as if he wanted to speak, but a gasping breath was all that came out. Ophelia rushed to the front of him, barely getting there before he began to fall.
“Papa!” She yelled, folding under his weight. She brought him to the floor as gently as she could as his body began to convulse. “Mr. Potter! Come quick!”
Ophelia heard the running footsteps of their butler drawing close in an instant, and he, a footman, and a maid came barreling into the room.
“Oh, good heavens!” Mr. Potter rasped, hurrying to help Ophelia.
“One of you fetch Mr. Grimes immediately! Go!” Mr. Potter commanded to the other two.
“What is happening to him?” Ophelia demanded, watching as Mr. Potter rolled her convulsing father onto his side.
“I am afraid I have seen this before, Miss Wexley,” Mr. Potter replied, his voice trembling with worry. “One of our stable boys from years ago were prone to them. I believe your father is having a fit.”
Theo and Amelia flanked either side of Ophelia as they waited in the hall; her body trembling with nerves.
“You should sit, darling,” Theo gently insisted.
Her jaw clenched tightly, Ophelia shook her head as her eyes remained fastened to the closed door of the parlor.
“No, I could not bear it,” she stiffly replied. “Not until I see that he is going to be all right.”
She had been surprised at first, when her friends arrived at her home a little after the physician, but then she discovered that Mr. Potter had called for them on her behalf, worried for her. The sweet man had predicted her need for her friends. She was grateful that they had come, but none of their gentle insisting had been able to remove her from the hallway.
“What is taking so long?” she sighed, drawing her arms around her chest. She pushed away from the wall and began to pace. “It feels like it has been hours!”
“Darling,” Amelia said softly, “I promise it has barely been a half hour. Mr. Grimes is very good. He was our family physician when I lived with my father and he helped deliver my Ava. He will sort your father out.”
As she said so, the door to the parlor finally opened and Mr. Grimes stepped out. Ophelia stopped pacing and rushed toward him, eager for an answer.
“He is alive, Miss Wexley” Mr. Grimes reported calmly, “But he is very weak. Allow me to arrange for him to be moved to his bedchamber, then I will give you a full report.”
Though Ophelia wanted answers at the very moment, she gave the physician a stiff nod. She watched as two footmen came forward with a stretcher and followed Mr. Grimes back into the parlor. A moment later they brought her father out.
“Papa,” she whispered, rushing to his side.
He was pasty white and looked exhausted, but he gave her a smile as he weakly squeezed her hand.
