“He lives, dear sisters, he lives. But, our father is gravely ill. Mr. Baker just left a few hours ago and will return tonight.” He gestured to servants to collect the luggage, then guided his sisters indoors. “Come, let me take you to him at once. But, I must warn you he may not know you. He has been in and out of awareness these past four days.”
“Did you send for Gilbert?” Charlotte asked.
“No. He is busy with his studies. And it is so contagious. Enough that we are risking our health here without putting him in danger, as well.”
“Miles, what precisely is troubling Papa?” Dorothea asked as the three climbed the stairs.
“Scarlatina,” he said grimly.
Both Charlotte and Dorothea gasped at the words. Such a dangerous illness and, far too often, fatal. Dorothea could not control her weeping.
“Does our physician have hope?” asked Charlotte. “What is his course of treatment?”
“He is doing everything he can, of course, but as you know, with this illness, much of the recovery depends on the strength of the patient.” They reached their father’s room. On a small table in the hall next to the door sat a basket with scarves in it. Miles took one and tied it around his face. “We must wear these at all times while in the room with Papa,” he said, choosing two and handing them to his sisters. “Use this to cover your mouth and nose. It is all some newfangled idea of Mr. Baker’s in order to prevent infection. While I am not in full understanding of it, I suppose it cannot do any harm.” When he saw they were ready, he opened the door, and they stepped in.
Charlotte and Dorothea could not help crying out in alarm at the sight of their father, lying helpless in the large, mahogany, four-poster bed. His face and neck were covered with the bumpy, red rash common to the illness, and his wheezing was audible from the doorway.
Charlotte scanned the room; it was empty of other occupants, save a girl, slumped and dozing in a chair by the fireplace. “Where is Lavinia? Why is she not nursing our father?”
She saw an expression of disbelief on Miles’s face.
“Are you mad? I sent her to her parents’ home as soon as Father fell ill. Have you forgotten she is carrying our child?”
“Oh. Of course. We cannot risk Lavinia coming down with this. But, whoiscaring for Papa then, Miles?” asked Dorothea as she moved to the side of the bed and bent over to study their father. His breathing was labored and there was a sheen of moisture on his face. She turned away and went to the window, weeping afresh.
“Mrs. Wilson has hired two girls from Doddington to assist her. And, as I said, Mr. Baker comes twice a day, at least, to check on him.”
Charlotte went to her father’s bedside. “He looks so very unwell,” she said to no one in particular. She placed a hand on her father’s forehead. “He still has a fever, too.” She saw a basin of dirty water with a cloth in it, sitting on a table next to the bed. “This will not do.”She picked up the basin and walked over to shake the servant girl awake, saying, “Take this downstairs and replace it with fresh, cool water and a clean cloth. And send Mrs. Wilson up with some beef broth, too. Perhaps we can get him to take some nourishment.” The girl took the basin, bobbed a curtsy, and departed. Charlotte removed her Spencer jacket and pulled a chair next to the bed.
“Why do you not go lie down, Dorothea? I shall stay with Papa for now. We must get some broth in him, and I shall bathe him with cool water to help reduce the fever.”
“I should help you…” Dorothea said faintly.
“No, you should rest. We must take turns sitting with him until…until we see improvement. Go now.”
Dorothea and Miles left the room, and Charlotte settled in for a long night.
*
As she gentlywiped her father’s face, chest, and arms with the cool cloth, Charlotte kept up a cheerful stream of chatter as much to distract herself as him. Mr. Baker had come and gone and could offer little hope, but Charlotte was determined her father would survive. She had dismissed the girl, telling her to go rest in the kitchen, unless called for.
“Papa, you were right to send me to Haverstone,” she said in a soft voice as she worked. “It is all as you and Dorothea hoped—I have met a gentleman, who appears to care greatly for me. His name is Mr. Robert Morton, and he owns a fine and prosperous estate, Brentwood, just a few miles from Dorothea and Reginald’s home. He is kind, very handsome and, much to my own astonishment, he appears to love me. Can you believe it? He has all but proposed. In fact, I should not tell you this, but—he even tried to persuade me to elope with him this week so that he might bring me to you as a married woman. I turnedhim down, of course, but I know his intentions were honorable. I think you will quite like him, Papa. So, youmustget well, that you may meet him and give him your blessing.”
Charlotte watched as her father moaned and his eyelids fluttered a bit. He opened them slowly and stared at her, but Charlotte wondered, did he recognize his own daughter? She leaned closer and pulled the cloth around her nose and mouth down. She smiled, then replaced the scarf.
“Char…Char…” he murmured before gasping and giving up the attempt to speak.
“Yes, it is I, dear Papa, your dear Charlotte. I’ve come to nurse you back to health. And you must get well. For how can I be wed without you there?” She took the cup of broth off the warmer and, holding his head up, held it to his lips, gratified to see him take a couple of sips, although he grimaced from the pain of swallowing. “Very good. There, you see? You will be your old self in no time.” She helped him lean back against the pillows. He sighed from exertion, then closed his eyes.
The door opened and Dorothea tiptoed in. “My turn to sit with Papa,” she whispered. “You go and rest.”
“He just had a sip of broth, Dorothea. And, he recognized me. I think—no—Iknowhe will recover.” Charlotte rose and hugged her sister. “I shall sleep a while, then return to help you.”
Dorothea nodded and took the seat where Charlotte had sat for the past six hours.
*
Although quite exhaustedfrom the long journey and sitting at her father’s bedside, when she reached her room, Charlotte did not feel as though she could sleep. Instead, she went to her desk, pulled out a sheet of paper and her pen, checked that her inkwell was filled, thencomposed her letter:
