“At present, no,” Mr. Fitzroy said. “However, I must caution you that it will likely get worse before it gets better. The fever may rise over the next day or two, and the cough will probably worsen. But with proper care, he should recover in short order.”
He opened his bag. “I am prescribing a tonic to help reduce the fever. You must give him two spoonfuls three times daily—morning, midday, and evening. Keep him warm but not overheated, and ensure he drinks plenty of fluids. Weak tea with honey, beef broth, barley water—all of these will help.” He produced several small bottles and packets. “This powder can be mixed with warm water to ease the cough. And these are willow bark preparations for the fever and pain.”
“Keep the room well-ventilated but avoid drafts,” Mr. Fitzroy continued. “If the fever rises significantly or if his breathing becomes labored, send for me at once.”
“We will,” Lucien said.
“He is a strong boy,” Mr. Fitzroy said. “I have no doubt he will come through this well.”
Once the door closed behind him, Lucien let out a long breath and sank back into his chair. “A severe cold,” he said. “I know I should feel relieved, and I do, but?—”
“But it is still difficult to see him suffer,” Marianne finished for him.
“Yes,” he said.
Marianne glanced toward the window. The sun was setting. She had been here all day, she realized, and had no intention of leaving now.
“I think I shall settle in for the night,” she said. “I do not wish to leave him alone, and you look as though you could use some rest yourself.”
Lucien opened his mouth as if to protest, then seemed to think better of it. “Thank you,” he said. “I confess I am exhausted, though I hesitate to leave him.”
“Then do not leave entirely,” she said. “Rest in your chamber, and I shall send for you if anything changes. You will be of no use to Henry if you collapse from exhaustion.”
“You are quite right, of course.” He stood and moved to Henry’s bedside, placing a gentle kiss on his son’s forehead. “Sleep well, my boy,” he murmured.
Then he turned to Marianne. “Thank you,” he said again, his voice thick with emotion. “Truly.”
She nodded. “Of course.”
After Lucien departed, Marianne settled into the chair beside Henry’s bed, prepared for a long night of watching over the little boy who had, somehow, without her even realizing it, worked his way into her heart.
CHAPTER 23
LUCIEN
Lucien tapped his quill on the oak table as his steward went on and on about estate business. He did not usually mind listening to Stuart give his report. It was important for him, after all, to know what was happening on his estate.
But today he did not want to be bothered with it. Henry lay upstairs still in the grip of his illness. Marianne was with him, but he knew that he needed to be there with him too. The fever had spiked as the doctor had said, and while they had given him the medication, it hadn’t gotten better. Mrs. Greaves and Juliet had come in and applied poultices to his legs in hopes that it might lower the fever.
It had temporarily relieved Henry’s discomfort, but it wouldn’t cure him, not yet. He had to get through the illness first.
Lucien should’ve canceled his appointment with Stuart, but he knew that wouldn’t have been right either. He couldn’t neglect his duties altogether. And yet he yearned to be upstairs with Marianne and Henry.
“My lord? The Hendersons’ farm roof?”
“Yes, yes, we will pay for it. They can make it up by paying a higher tithe for the next year or two, however much they can afford. You will sort it.”
“Of course I will, my lord,” the steward said and stood up. “Now I shall let you get back to your son.”
“I appreciate it,” Lucien replied. He was out of the study even before the steward. He rushed up the stairs to where Marianne was sitting by Henry’s side. The look of concern on her face immediately made his heart drop.
“Is he worse?” he asked as he approached his son.
“He is. He is terribly unwell. The fever is back. We have changed the poultices, and I am cooling his head with a cloth, but nothing is helping. And he’s shivering.”
Lucien placed a hand on Henry’s side. His forehead was sweaty, as was the rest of his face. He panted in his sleep. Instantly, Lucien got into bed with his boy and pulled him close. Henry’s head rested on Lucien’s shoulder. He stroked his face with his thumb as Marianne sat close by, bringing out the cloth once more. She placed it over his head, her hand brushing against Lucien’s arm.
“What if something happens to him? What if he doesn’t get through this?—”
