“Of course.”
Amelia did not return to her chair but perched upon the edge of the bed as Lady Kemble quietly closed the door.
Hugh was too still. So unlike his usual self, whether it be the droll eyebrow-waggling scoundrel or the dangerous flint-eyed warrior. Only the minimal rise and fall of his chest attested to life. She placed a hand to his cheek – too hot, and so grabbed a cloth, rinsing it in the bowl of cold water.
With a slow hand, she stroked it over his forehead, down his face and over his bare chest.
He murmured and she drew close.
“Hugh?”
“Am…Ame…”
But he fitfully turned, words incoherent, and the moment was gone.
As the room darkened, Amelia resumed her caress of cool water, night falling like a gossamer veil of black as she did so.
A knock on the door and she bade whomever it was to enter.
Frothy pink roses came first, followed by Sally. “Hot enough ter boil an egg in here.”
“The doctor said to keep the windows closed.”
“Maybe when the fog’s drifting, Miss, but ’tis a clear evening and the breeze ain’t from the Thames. Smells o’ spring out there.”
With a smile of accord, Amelia ambled to open the window. Here on the second floor, it was high enough to catch the breeze and with less of the London street odours. Amelia breathed deep.
Spring indeed.
She twisted as Sally removed the faded white roses from the vase by the bed, the buds having wilted to grey without even blooming.
“Thank you, Sally.”
“Not at all, Miss. And…beggin’ yer pardon, but seeing as how…close yer are to the master now, I were wonderin’… Do yer think we ought ter send a message to his folks in Wales?”
Amelia felt her cheeks blush. “A good idea but Lady Kemble said they are all on the Continent. By the time they receive it, he’ll either be better or…or be better.”
“Of course, Miss.” And with a soft smile, she left.
Amelia returned to her chair beside the bed, breathed in the scent of the fresh roses, picked up the slim volume of his favoured poetry, turned to the bookmarked page and began to read to him…
“‘If love is not to be my fate
Oh, why bestow a yearning heart?
A bleak soul wearied at the wait,
An ardent spirit cleaved apart.’”
She closed her eyes tight, blinked, willed the moisture to depart.
For tomorrow Hugh would wake, those eyebrows would waggle, blue eyes merry as he apologised for giving them all such a fright.
Tomorrow.
Surely tomorrow…
Three days later.
