Phillip stepped in. “I want my wife,” he said again. “Now.”
“Let me get your coat,” Graves said.
“I don’t give a damn about my coat,” Phillip snapped. “I want my wife.”
Graves froze, his hands still poised to take Phillip’s coat. “Did you not receive Lady Crane’s note?”
“No, I did not receive a note.”
“I thought you’d arrived rather quickly,” Graves murmured. “You must have crossed with the messenger. You’d better come in.”
“I am in,” Phillip reminded him testily.
Graves let out a long breath, almost a sigh, which was remarkable for a butler bred not to show even a hint of emotion. “I think you will be here for some time,” he said softly. “Take off your coat. Get dry. You will want to be comfortable.”
Phillip’s anger suddenly slid into bone-deep terror. Had something happened to Eloise? Good God, if anything— “What is going on?” he whispered.
He’d just found his children. He wasn’t ready to lose his wife.
The butler just turned to the stairs with sad eyes. “Come with me,” he said softly.
Phillip followed, each step filling him with dread.
Eloise had, of course, attended church nearly every Sunday of her life. It was what was expected of her, and it was what good, honest people did, but in truth she’d never been a particularly God-fearing or religious sort. Her mind tended to wander during the sermons, and she sang along with the hymns not out of any great sense of spiritual uplifting but rather because she very much liked the music, and church was the only acceptable place for a tin ear like herself to raise her voice in song.
But now, tonight, as she looked down upon her small nephew, she prayed.
Charles hadn’t worsened, but he hadn’t improved, and the doctor, who had come and gone for the second time that day, had pronounced it “in God’s hands.”
Eloise hated that phrase, hated how doctors resorted to it when faced with illness beyond their skills, but if the physician was correct, and it was indeed in God’s hands, then by the heavens above, that was to whom she would appeal.
When she wasn’t placing a cooling cloth on Charles’s forehead or spooning lukewarm broth down his throat, that was. But there was only so much to be done, and most of her time in the sickroom was spent rather helplessly in vigil.
And so she just sat there, her hands folded tightly in her lap, whispering, “Please.Please.”
And then, as if the wrong prayer had been answered, she heard a noise in the doorway, and somehow it was Phillip, even though she’d only sent the messenger an hour earlier. He was soaked from the rain, his hair plastered inelegantly against his forehead, but he was the dearest sight she’d ever seen, and before she had a clue what she was doing, she’d run across the room and thrown herself into his arms.
“Oh, Phillip,” she sobbed, finally allowing herself to cry. She’d been so strong all day, forcing herself to be the rock that her brother and sister-in-law needed. But now Phillip was here, and as his arms came around her, he felt so solid and good, and for once she could allow someone else to be strong for her.
“I thought it was you,” Phillip whispered.
“What?” she asked, confused.
“The butler—he didn’t explain until we were up the stairs. I thought it was—” He shook his head. “Never mind.”
Eloise said nothing, just looked up at him, a tiny, sad smile on her face.
“How is he?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not good.”
He looked over at Benedict and Sophie, who had risen to greet him. They looked rather “not good” as well.
“How long has he been this way?” Phillip asked.
“Two days,” Benedict replied.
“Two and a half,” Sophie corrected. “Since Saturday morning.”
