“Tell me she is alive,” Nash demanded, his voice as shaky as his heart.
“She is, but barely. Now go.”
Nash would have awakened the whole ship if he had to, but he found people who would help. Captain Bushwell even offered his services, and soon the room was filled with buckets of water.
The physician moved off the bed and soaked a towel. “Nash, please help me. We should lay as many wet rags over her body as we can.”
Between Nash and the physician, they covered every inch of her with cool cloths. On her forehead and around her face, they laid a few more.
The doctor cursed. “Well, this is better than nothing, but it doesn’t seem to be working.” He swiped the moisture off his temples with his forearm.
“I am wondering if that is not the proper procedure,” Nash said.
The doctor gave him a quizzical look. “Explain yourself.”
“I remember when I was young and had a high fever, my governess placed rags filled with ice in my armpits and between my legs. These are the hottest spots on your body, and so with the ice packed there, it cools the body quicker.”
The doctor scratched his head, his focus jumping between Nash, the captain, and Maxey. He heaved a sigh and nodded. “Although we don’t have ice, I think we should try it with the cold rags.”
Putting aside his own panic, Nash forged ahead with his work until the wet cloths were placed against certain parts of her body, and a whole sheet was soaked in cold water and placed over her. She shook violently. Her lips faded to that terrifying blue color again, as her breathing became shallow and her chest rattled.
Nash swallowed the lump of fear lodged in his throat and wiped at the tears that had crept upon him. He had to stay strong for her.
After a few minutes had passed with no change, Nash shook his head. “What else can we do?”
“We will keep her covered until her temperature drops.”
“But she is unconscious. That cannot be good.”
“No. I think it’s better that she is unaware of her condition right now.”
“Will she…die?”
“Not if we are lucky.”
Nash groaned and bunched his hands into fists. “And what if we are not?”
The doctor hung his head without answering.
Nash paced the small room, wanting to release his frustration in some way, but not knowing how. Maxey looked white as death. Her uneven breathing frightened him, and he wished he could take on the fever for her. She was too frail to suffer this way. And to think, it was all because of him.
Beside her bed, he touched her burning cheek.
Within time, the cloths dried and needed to be replaced. Tears Nash refused to spill stung his eyes. He fought to keep the turmoil building inside him in check, looking for another way to express his frustrations.
Taking a deep breath, he turned his thoughts to performing at the opera—songs that Maxey loved. He cleared his throat and began humming, creating a theatrical stage in his mind. Not bothered by what those in the room thought, he burst into song. Each lyrical stanza released pent-up emotions, until at the end, he felt totally drained.
He slumped next to Maxey’s bed and took her hand in his. Her skin didn’t feel like fire to the touch. Her chest didn’t rise and fall as rapidly as before. When he touched her again, coolness met his skin.
The doctor rushed to her side, inspected her eyes, and listened to her chest. “I don’t know what you have done, my good man, but keep it up. It’s making her better.”
Driven by the doctor’s prognosis, Nash garnered strength for another song. He sang until his voice turned hoarse while the doctor and Captain Bushwell continued replacing dry cloths with ones soaked in cool water from the buckets. It wasn’t long before the doctor announced Maxey’s fever had broken.
Cheers echoed from the hallway. Nash turned to see it filled with spectators. Unfazed, he brought his attention back to the patient, wanting to be alone with her.
The captain quickly ushered the crowd away, urging them to return to their rooms—all except for Mrs. Summers.
The captain shook his head. “You shall need a different bed. This one is soaked.”
