Oxford society had given another explanation for his departure: Viscount Tate had left because he could not bear to watch his sister succumb to the same malady which had killed their mother—and the father, by contact with her.
Nicholas sat. “What does your brother believe?”
Amelia paused a moment before replying, a sad smile ghosting her lips. “He believes there must be some medical explanation for my fits. At the university here in Oxford, he became friends with a student of surgery, and he claimed that there was a word for what plagued me—seizures.”
Having never heard the term before, Nicholas begged her to continue, leaning forward.
“My beloved Freddy…” She smiled harder at the name of her brother. “The moment he was told of these seizures, he began writing doctors and professors all over England and the Continent, bidding them to write him back if they knew anything about conditions which could cause these fits.”
She continued, “A professor of medicine at a university in Paris, who was conducting research into theseseizures—who renounced the term hysteria—replied to his letter and asked him to visit him in France. That was two years ago. Freddy has travelled between England and the Continent ever since, returning periodically to Paris to be apprised of the doctor’s research.”
The whole matter made Nicholas’s head spin. Professors of medicine, seizures, research…
Amelia presented a far different story than the tale of madness and devilry that he had first heard.
“Your mother, then,” he pondered aloud. “She also suffered from these fits?”
Amelia nodded. “Yes. But they were much worse than mine. And she and I… We are quite different. My memory is poor and grows worse each year. But there are many things I can do that my mother could not do. I loved her, but she was cruel. I do not think I am cruel.”
“No.” Nicholas watched her hand relax at her side, her delicate fingers unfurling, her wedding band shimmering in the light of the fire. “I think you are far from cruel.”
“When she suffered the worst of her melancholia, my father ordered me to play Haydn to calm her.” She looked at him, her grey-blue eyes shimmering with tears. “That is why I refused Haydn at the wedding breakfast. I should have told you when you asked. But I despise speaking about my parents. It is… much too painful.”
“Then you need not say another word on the matter.”
“No.” She sniffed. “Perhaps not.”
He frowned, recalling her collapse at the Bodleian ball, remembering what Samuel had said the following morning, what Amelia herself had claimed.
“If your brother has rejected this diagnosis of hysteria for you and your mother both, why do you play along, Amelia? Why have you claimed you were mad to me all this time?”
Her eyes widened, perhaps with surprise, perhaps with guilt.
“It seemed easier than explaining the truth,” she replied at last, then pressed her lips together until they turned white. “And, frankly… I do not know whether I believe Freddy. It might be these seizures, or it might be madness. It makes little difference to me, in the end.”
He was not sure he agreed, but chose not to press her.
She had suffered enough already.
As night enrobed Riverside Court in darkness, Nicholas lingered a moment in the open doorway of Amelia’s rooms. He watched her sleeping form at a distance, transfixed by the rhythmic rise and fall of her shoulders as she rested. The banked fire in the hearth cast a warm, faint glow over her body, and the dark pink wallpaper glimmered all around.
This is not right,he thought, breathing hard.I should not be watching her rest. I should not want to. I should not care. And yet, I find myself compelled beyond reason to ensure her safety tonight. The prospect of another fit has driven me mad with worry.
Her lady’s maid sat sleeping in an armchair at her bedside. Amelia would be safe for the evening. In the morning, they would need to prepare for Baron Spencer’s hunting party.
Descending for dinner, he paused on the grand staircase at the sounds of voices. Samuel stood in the entrance hall with the butler, removing his greatcoat. He looked unusually anxious as he noticed Nicholas approaching. The butler, taking Samuel’s coat, left the brothers while he went to finalise the dining hall for their meal.
“You arrived after all,” Nicholas murmured, inspecting his brother. “And yet you look apprehensive. What has happened?”
A flicker of surprise crossed Samuel’s face. “Apprehensive? Never.” He glanced up the stairs. “You have descended alone. Is the duchess awaiting us elsewhere?”
“No,” he replied, moving toward the dining hall. Their boots clapped against the marble floor underfoot. “Unfortunately, Amelia has taken unwell and will not be joining us this evening.”
“Oh, dear.” Samuel slowed his pace. “I hope it is nothing serious.”
He did not reply, not wanting to lie to his brother if he could help it.
“But this means you and I will be dining alone?” Samuel breathed what sounded like a sigh of relief. “I will miss Her Grace’s company, and yet…”
