CHAPTER THIRTY
“Look not sad. Why should you fear?”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
“When d-do you believe he’ll wake from this delirium, Amelia? It has been two days now.”
Biting her lip to stop a tremble, Amelia patted Lady Kemble’s arm, the candlelight casting her movement in shadow upon the wall. “I’m sure it will be soon, my lady. Sleep is best, and the doctor has tended the wound most judiciously.” Yet she twisted in her chair so that Lady Kemble would not witness the terror that surely haunted her eyes.
A candle gutted and smoke curled in the sombreness of dusk, Amelia returning her gaze to Hugh as he lay supine upon his elegant bed, cheeks so flushed, hair dark with sweat and yet conversely shivers wracking his body.
When first brought home, the household had all remained buoyant. After all, this was the Scandalous Mr Hugh Cadwalader who’d survived knife slashes, pike wounds and apparently acrossbow bolt to his nether regions, yet… Amelia had discerned the fraught creases to Mrs Dawkins’ brow as she’d undone the upper arm bandages and seen the state of the inflamed wound, she’d heard the hitch of breath from Sally as cold cloths upon his forehead had heated within a moment, and she’d despaired when Cruikshank’s long face had leached to grey as the doctor had departed, mumbling to him and shaking his head.
“H-he is all I have,” Lady Kemble whispered, her fingers quivering as she reached out to hold Hugh’s limp hand. “His parents were too busy squabbling to care for him so he always found his way to my home. He was so mischievous and yet…so deuced charming, even as a boy, that you forgave him for playing cricket in the long gallery or drawing on your Caravaggio.”
A soft splutter left Amelia. “I can imagine that all too well, my lady. But he will get better.” She swallowed and breathed deep. “He has the best care there is, what with the doctor, Mrs Dawkins and all of us.”
“Between you and me, Amelia, I have never entirely trusted those…tinctures of the housekeeper.”
“But Hugh does, and if Mrs Dawkins had looked after the wound to start with, he may not be… I wish…” Amelia blinked away moisture. Wishes were for fools, as Hugh always said. “I should have informed her. Sent him to her straight away.”
A return pat on her arm. “Hugh’s nature has always been carefree, my dear. He considered it naught and so it was naught.”
“But any wound should be seen to, for the bullet may have left shreds of cloth or… I washed it as best I could and…”
“Do nor fret, Amelia. We all know you did.” Her eyes roamed Hugh’s pale face. “My nephew has never been the best of patients and would have insisted it a scratch.”
Amelia smiled softly. “Yes, my lady. He did.” Yet how she’d castigated herself: she should have ignored Hugh’s protests,demanded Mrs Dawkins attend to it. For that so-called scratch had festered beneath the binding till it’d become swollen and raw, noxious fluid seeping.
The doctor had cut into his arm until crimson blood had run and then tied it with the same binding, which Mrs Dawkins had then untied and disposed of. She’d dabbed a green ointment upon the fresh raw cut and then wrapped it with clean boiled cloths.
For the first day and night, Amelia had refused to leave his side but Lady Kemble had ushered her to the hall for, as she’d termed it, ‘a good talking to’. How an exhausted Amelia would be no use to anyone, how they could all take turns.
Now, by day, Lady Kemble, Mrs Dawkins or Phoebe sat with him while the valet and Cruikshank brought much-appreciated trays of strong tea, bowls of cool cloths and stoic encouragement. On occasion, they’d been able to get some broth down him, but his azure eyes had dulled to clouded sapphires, scarce mumbles unintelligible.
Then there were the nights when Amelia cared for him. When the fever raged and she alternated between covering him with cool sheets and piling on woollen blankets, bathing his forehead with cold well water and biting her lip till it bled to stop herself from…
She would not cry.
For Hugh was alive and hewouldrecover.
A soft rumble came from the chair beside her and Amelia turned.
Lady Kemble’s head had lolled to one side, turban askew and face shadowed in the dim light. She seemed to have aged ten years in the last two days. All of them had.
Amelia patted her arm and–
“Hugh!” Her eyes flared wide, skin ashen.
“He’s the same, my lady, but you should go home and rest. Or I will be forced to give you a good talking to.”
The lady pressed her lips together. “You are right, Amelia, dear. Forgive me, I slept not a wink last night.” She rose, her purple skirts creased from sitting all day. “I will ask Sally to bring up some fresh roses. Those have wilted in the heat of this room. You will let me know if…”
Amelia got to her feet also. “As soon as he wakes.”
Lady Kemble leaned forward to embrace her and Amelia felt tears sting her eyes. “Until tomorrow.”
