Panic seized her throat like a fist.
This isn’t working. Nothing is working. He’s getting worse, and I don’t know what to do and?—
The door opened, though she did not turn her head from her son. “He’s burning up.”
She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud until the words escaped her lips as barely more than a whisper. Her hands shook as she wrung out another cloth, the water in the basin already tepid despite having been fresh minutes ago.
“He won’t stop crying. I can’t?—”
She finally allowed herself to look away from the boy. Tobias stood in the doorway, still in his evening clothes, though his cravat hung loose and his waistcoat was unbuttoned. His hair stood on end as though he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly. Rain darkened his shoulders—he must have only just returned from wherever he’d spent the evening.
Their eyes met across the lamplight, and something in her chest cracked open.
“Tobias.” His name emerged broken, raw with terror she could no longer contain. “I don’t—he won’t—the fever isn’t?—”
She couldn’t finish. Couldn’t force words past the panic closing her throat.
He crossed the room in three strides.
Then his arms were around her—strong and solid and real—pulling her against his chest whilst Henry remained cradled between them. She felt rather than heard the rumble of his voice against her ear.
“Breathe, Amelia. Just breathe.”
“I can’t—I tried everything the physician said but nothing is working and he’s so hot and I don’t know what to do and?—”
“Shh.” One hand came up to cradle the back of her head, fingers tangling gently in her hair. “You’re not alone. Do you hear me? You’re not alone in this.”
The dam broke.
She buried her face against his chest, and tears flowed freely from her eyes. All the fear she felt, all the disappointment she had endured, everything left with great shuddering sobs that tore through her with violence she hadn’t known she contained. Her fingers clutched at his waistcoat, probably ruining the delicate fabric, but she couldn’t make herself care.
All the fear she’d been holding back flooded out in waves. Fear of losing Henry. Fear of failing him. Fear of being left utterly alone in a world that felt increasingly hostile.
And Tobias simply held her. Didn’t tell her to compose herself or remind her that tears were unseemly. Just held her whilst the storm raged outside, and Henry’s weak cries provided heartbreaking percussion.
“He’ll be fine,” Tobias said at last, though his voice had gone rough with emotion. “He’s strong. And stubborn as a mule—he gets that from his mother. This fever won’t take him.”
“You can’t know that.” The words emerged muffled against his chest. “Sometimes… healthy people get sick and they do not get better. My mother. Edward.”
“Look at me.” He pulled back just enough to frame her face with both hands, tilting her chin up until their eyes met. His grey gaze was fierce, burning with intensity that stole what remained of her breath. “Henry is not going anywhere. Do you understand? I won’t allow it. You won’t allow it. And that stubborn little creature—” He glanced down at the feverish boy between them. “—he’s far too busy terrorizing butterflies and building towers to consider anything so dramatic as departing this world.”
Despite everything—the fear, the exhaustion, the bone-deep terror—she felt her lips twitch.
“That’s better.” His thumb brushed across her cheek, wiping away tears with devastating gentleness. “Now. What did Mr. Thornton prescribe?”
She explained through hiccuping breaths—the cool cloths, the herbal draught, the barley water Henry refused to drink. Tobias listened with absolute focus, his hands never leaving her face, as though by maintaining that physical connection he could somehow anchor her to steadiness.
“Right.” He released her slowly, his fingers trailing across her jaw before falling away. “You’re exhausted. When did you last eat?”
“I don’t—this afternoon? I’m not hungry.”
“Irrelevant. Mrs. Boldwood!” His voice carried through the open door. “Bring tea and whatever Cook has on hand. And fresh cool water—a full pitcher.”
The housekeeper appeared with remarkable speed, her expression creased with worry. “At once, my lord. How is the young master?”
“Fighting,” Tobias said firmly. “And winning. He simply hasn’t realized it yet.”
Mrs. Boldwood departed, and Tobias turned his attention to Henry. The boy had quieted somewhat during their exchange, his crying reduced to occasional pitiful whimpers. Tobias lifted him carefully from Amelia’s arms.
