Fear hadan acrid taste and it slid down Amelia’s throat in knots as she watched Hugh flail and thrash, sweat beading on his chest, arm so swollen that the merest touch pained him.
It was nigh six of the eve but today Amelia had not departed his side.
For the second day, they’d not been able to coax him into swallowing Mrs Dawkins’ tincture.
Or the broth.
He was weaker.
Earlier, with Cruikshank supporting his arm, she and the housekeeper had changed the bandages but a vivid crimson now flared from the malevolent wound, encircling skin slick and pulled taut. Mrs Dawkins had muttered beneath her breath, cleaned it and applied her latest dark-brown poultice.
Hugh had shaken and mumbled incoherent words of death and blades and blood.
Amelia had sent a sobbing Phoebe away for rest, fought to keep her own tears at bay.
She had to stay strong. For Hugh.
Lightly, she lowered to the bed and stroked back his damp hair.
With a low moan, he flung himself onto his back, lids parting to reveal slashes of briny blue.
At first, such signs had brought them all joy that he was recovering, and Amelia had talked to him, told him how the roses were blooming in the garden and that Lucy the maid was being courted by the footman. How Phoebe longed to hear one of his waggish tales and…how much she herself missed him.
Occasionally his lips would move and she’d been sure he’d heard, wanted to answer, but too soon the fever would possess him and he was lost once more.
“I-I never told you my code name,” she whispered as his dipping eyes appeared to seek her. “I was rather vexed with Lord Rainham…when he named you Stoat as I’m…I’m Hare, you see, and everyone knows hares are a stoat’s prey.” She swallowed. “But now I find it somewhat…almost as if Lord Rainham knew. They say stoats mesmerise their prey with some sort of dance…” His lids sank. “And…and you did likewise to me, Hugh.” A tear trailed and she scrubbed at it. “Mesmerised me with your jollity and bravery till all of a sudden, I was yours and–”
A knock on the door and she swiped away the stupid tear, sat straight, patted her skirts.
All would be well. Hugh would be well.
“Yes?” she called rather too brightly.
Phoebe’s head poked around the door. “I thought I might sit with him while you rest, Amelia.”
“No, ’tis fine, I…”
But Phoebe was marching in with purpose, a book beneath her arm. “You need all your rest for the night. I fell asleep for a half-hour so am wide awake now.”
Amelia gave a watery chuckle. “You are right.” For a weariness seemed to have settled into her every nook, limbs heavy and mind sluggish.
“I know I am.” Phoebe sat on the chair by the bed but then stood again, tutting as she removed a book from under the seat cushion. “Byrne? The poet?”
“Hugh enjoys his work, doesn’t he, so…”
They were silent awhile, solely listening to his shallow breath like sandpaper on rock.
“He managed no broth today,” whispered Phoebe.
“No.” Amelia grasped her hand, had to stay strong. “But tomorrow is another day and then…then he will surely sup two bowlfuls.”
The young girl smiled, although her lips quivered. “He has to…has to get better, Amelia. He must. Because I need to thank him. For all he has done for my father. Now I can tell the whole world that Papa did not…” She wiped at an eye. “Not do any of those things. So, Uncle Hugh has to get better, you see, to know how grateful I am to him.”
“And he will,” said Amelia fervently, rising from the bed to seize Phoebe in a hug. “You know Hugh, he’s probably enjoying all the fuss being made over him, so…” She forced a smile as Phoebe quietly giggled. “Sally is coming up soon, so she will be with you while I rest and then… Ask Sally to come get me in an hour, yes?”
“Of course.”
They embraced again and stared to Hugh for a while, their hands entwined.
