Page 22 of Prescription for Sin

Your concerned friend, Helen

P.S. If you truly end this arrangement, I shall never forgive you.

Emma jolted awake, her heart racing as Everett’s agonised moans pierced the stillness of the night. Throwing off her coverlet, she hastily donned her dressing gown and rushed to his bedchamber, her bare feet padding softly against the cold wooden floor.

“Mr Hughes?” she called quietly as she approached his bed. The flickering light from the dying embers in the hearth cast eerie shadows across the room.

Everett writhed, his skin glistening with perspiration. His brow was furrowed, and his lips moved in silent distress. Emma placed her palm on his forehead and gasped at the heat radiating from his skin.

“Oh, dear Lord,” she muttered, her mind racing through possible treatments. She hurried to light a candle, illuminating the room with a warm glow.

Gently, she peeled back the bedclothes to examine his wound. The skin around the gash on his thigh was angry and inflamed, hot to the touch. Emma’s heart sank. Infection had set in despite her best efforts.

With practised efficiency, she gathered her supplies: clean linen, a bowl of cool water, and her medicinal chest. She soaked a cloth in the water and began to bathe his forehead, neck, and chest, hoping to bring down his temperature.

“Cold,” Everett mumbled, his eyes fluttering open briefly before closing again.

“I know, Mr Hughes, but we must lower your fever,” Emma said, continuing her ministrations.

She then turned her attention to the wound. With delicate hands, she removed the old poultice and cleansed the area thoroughly. From her chest, she retrieved a small jar of honey and spread a thick layer over the wound. Honey’s antiseptic properties had proven effective in her experience, though many of her male colleagues scoffed at such “old wives’ tales.”

Next, she prepared a tincture of willow bark, known for its fever-reducing properties. Gently lifting Everett’s head, she coaxed him to drink the bitter concoction.

“There now. That should help ease your discomfort,” she murmured, more to herself than to her patient.

For three days and nights, Emma tended to Everett with unwavering dedication. The fever raged on, refusing to break despite her most earnest efforts. She barely left his side, snatching moments of fitful sleep in the chair beside his bed.

Every few hours, she changed the cool compresses on his forehead and chest, her fingers lingering perhaps a moment too long on his fevered skin. She bathed him with gentle strokes while maintaining his modesty as much as possible, her cheeks flushing as she navigated his muscular form. The honey poultice was reapplied twice daily, and she diligently administered willow bark tincture and yarrow tea to combat the fever.

On the second day, when Everett’s fever peaked alarmingly, Emma could do nothing but hold his hand and whisper a prayer, something she hadn’t done since her mother died.

“Please, Mr Hughes,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “You must fight this and come back to me.”

Throughout his delirium, Everett would stir fitfully, his eyes opening but unseeing. “Mary-Anne,” he called out repeatedly, his voice hoarse with desperation. “Mary-Anne, don’t leave me.”

Each time he uttered that name, Emma felt a sharp pang in her chest, followed by waves of confusion. Here she was, a respected medical professional, feeling jealous over the fevered ravings of a man who sold himself for coin. Yet the raw anguish in his voice struck something deep within her, making her wonder about the story behind that name and the wounds it had clearly left.

“I’m here,” she would whisper, hating how her voice trembled, hating even more how she longed to be the one he truly called for. She told herself it was merely professional compassion that made her heart ache at his obvious pain. But in the darkest hours of the night, holding his burning hand between her own, she could no longer deny the truth. She was falling for a man she barely knew; a man whose profession should have repelled her.

When he reached for her hand and pulled her closer in his delirium, she found herself cradling his head to her bosom, her fingers stroking his sweat-dampened hair. “Shh,” she soothed, even as she berated herself for such inappropriate tenderness. What would her colleagues think if they could see her now, the stern Miss Brown reduced to such sentiment over a patient? And not just any patient, but one who made his living in the most scandalous way possible.

Throughout his delirium, between calling for Mary-Anne, other fragments escaped Everett's lips. "...More..." he muttered, the word barely audible. "...chol...must..."

Emma leaned closer, her physician's curiosity piqued. "What are you trying to say, Mr Hughes?" she asked softly.

"…not Hughes..." The word was slurred, nearly lost as his head turned restlessly on the pillow. "...More..."

Her mind latched onto these fragments, trying to piece them together. She tried again, keeping her voice gentle. "Is Hughes not your real name?"

But he slipped back into calling for Mary-Anne, leaving Emma more unsettled than before. The more time she spent in his company, his claimed identity seemed to become more dubious.

She stroked his burning forehead, adding these fevered mumblings to her growing list of irregularities about her mysterious patient.

Yet as he quieted under her touch, his fevered mumblings finally subsiding into peaceful sleep, Emma faced the uncomfortable reality that her heart paid no heed to propriety or good sense. She had spent years building walls around herself, keeping everyone at a safe distance. How had this man managed to slip past her defences so easily?

On the third night, as Emma was adjusting his pillows, Everett’s eyes fluttered open once more. He mumbled something incoherent, a smile ghosting across his lips. Before Emma could react, he reached up, cupped her face in his burning hands, and pressed his lips to hers.

The kiss was brief, fevered, and entirely chaste. Emma froze, her mind reeling. His lips were chapped and hot against hers, but something stirred within her, a warmth that had nothing to do with the sickroom’s stuffiness.