“Now, Uncle Hugh,” Phoebe said fiercely, “enough of this teasing us and get better. And I’m afraid you’ll have none of this romantic poetry twaddle from me. We’ll readTreatise on CiphersbyLeon Battista Alberti and enjoy it.” With which, she plonked herself into the chair and turned to chapter one.
Amelia smiled, touched Hugh’s hand, whispered her thanks to Phoebe and with quiet tread left the bedchamber to the soft pitch of the young girl’s voice.
Once outside, she leaned back against the door and rammed her eyes shut to halt the tears, so sick to the stomach with fear.
Such a heart-wrenching fear.
That she wouldnotallow.
So she blinked, straightened both her skirts and her shoulders, and hastened for the stairs.
Sally had left a cold collation in Amelia’s chamber but she felt little hunger, her stomach in such tumult, so she kicked off her slippers and dragged the chair to the window. She snuffed the lit sconces to leave just one lantern and then settled into the chair with a cushion, tucking her legs beneath her.
Staring out through the glass, Amelia watched day slip into dusk, the pink blossoms of spring dulling to grey, the jasper-green leaves fading to ash.
She must sleep, she knew.
Ready to hold strong through the forthcoming night.
So she shuttered her gaze to the dwindling day and willed herself to dream of blossoming roses and unclouded azure eyes.
Amelia woke with a start,her room pitch, the hall clock chiming its quarter before nine of the eve.
Hugh.
Why had Sally not come for her?
Surely he was…
She sprang to her feet, the cushion falling.
Hugh.
Amelia scurried down the corridor, up the stairs; all was dark and quiet. Thrust open his bedchamber door.
Phoebe still sat there but tears slid down her pale cheeks, breath hitching.
“No!” Amelia cried. “He can’t…”
With eyes awash, Phoebe twisted. “No, Amelia, he’s breathing but… But he is weak. I-I thought he wasn’t… Sally has only just left and I couldn’t see his chest lift…” Phoebe wiped her cheeks with her cuffs. “But then his hand shuddered for a moment.”
Hugh was so motionless, his skin pale as a corpse except for the red flush upon his cheekbones, but his fingers again twitched in whatever thrall imprisoned him.
“He’s still with us, Phoebe.” She hugged the young girl’s shoulders. “You did well. And he will get better. Now, it is your turn to rest.”
A small nod. “Thank you, Amelia.” She dried her tears, rose and clenched Hugh’s hand. “Good night, Uncle. I’ll s-see you in the morning.” And after a tight embrace for Amelia, she left the room with dragging feet.
Taking up watch in the chair, Amelia just gazed at Hugh for a while and listened to the sounds of eve – horses neighed in the mews, a nightwatchman hollered the hour and a nightingale sang his goodnight.
Life continued around them in the Square, hours ticking relentlessly by, unaware of how time had come to a halt within this house – those hours a meaningless number, attributed solely to the light of day or the dark of night.
With a deep breath, she lifted from the chair and re-arranged the roses in the vase, straightened the bed coverlet and the spare blankets, opened the curtains to allow the moon to shine bright and plumped the cushions on the chaise.
Having read him all the Byrne poems, Amelia opened his bedside drawer to see if there were any other books that…
A dried pink rose rested within. The rose she’d worn upon her bodice to the theatre that night.
With trembling fingers, she brought forth the flower to her lips.
