Page 11 of A Suitable Countess (To All the Earls I’ve Loved Before #3)
In which our Hero visits his mother.
George’s carriage turned down the avenue that ran between ancient oaks, planted by the first Earl of Amhurst centuries earlier, and Amhurst Hall rose above the mist like Camelot must once have appeared to King Arthur and his knights.
George’s heart lifted at the sight of home: the imposing grey facade, the crenelations around the roof of the original building, and the twin towers and the turrets added by a later ancestor, which had inspired his childhood explorations.
Steady stewardship and a string of sensible ancestors had kept his inheritance intact and flourishing, and now George was one of the richest noblemen in England.
His position was not to be taken lightly, and while he wanted to bed Viola Winspear into forever, he knew such a decision shouldn’t be taken with the wrong head.
Hence, the visit to his mother for her wise counsel.
As the carriage drew to a halt under the Grecian portico, added in the previous century by George’s grandfather—George knew the history of every part of his home—one of the massive front doors opened, and Protheroe, Amhurst’s butler, appeared on the top step.
Usually imperturbable, Protheroe’s expression indicated something was terribly wrong.
“What is it, Protheroe? Is my mother at home?”
“Yes, my lord, but the doctor is with her.”
“The doctor? Is she ill? Why didn’t you send a message?” George’s gut clenched as he moved towards the staircase.
“She has a fever, and the doctor—” The butler hurried beside him, wringing his hands. “We sent a messenger to you only an hour ago.”
“I must have passed him along the way.” George thrust his hat and cape at Protheroe and bounded up the central staircase two steps at a time, running as he hadn’t run since he was a boy.
At the door to the countess’ apartment, he slid to a halt and reached for the handle, pausing a moment to catch his breath before entering. Despite her passionate French nature, his mother had a very English attitude about maintaining appearances.
He crossed the parquet floor of her salon, not seeing the elegant Louis Quatorze furniture or the delicate Zuber the heavy dark green drapes were closed against the chill of the day, and a fire roared in the fireplace.
Multi-branched candelabra had been set on both sides of her bed.
The combined effect of fire and candlelight lent the room a warm glow, but even that wash of colour wasn’t enough to hide the pallor of Maman’s cheeks.
He strode to her bedside and sat carefully, taking her hand and leaning down to softly kiss her cheek. “ Bonjour, Maman. Comment vas-tu ?”
Not a flicker of recognition or awareness indicated she knew he was there, and George looked to the doctor for news.
“What can you tell me?”
“My lord, I was called early this morning. Her Ladyship has a fever which we have been trying to bring down, with little success so far. We managed to get her to swallow a small amount of tincture, but she slipped into an unconscious state not long after I administered it. I have done all I can for her for now. You must see that her temperature is brought down. I must attend a birth, but I will return later. Keep her as cool as possible and pray.”
The doctor closed his box of medicaments, bowed, and left.
George set a hand on his mother’s forehead. She was burning up.
He took the cloth from the hovering maid and dunked it in the bowl of water. As he wrung it out, he said, “Bring more cold water,” before wiping his mother’s overheated skin. Sweat prickled and stung his eyes and trickled down his spine, and he tugged his cravat off and flung it aside.
Still too warm.
He dropped the cloth into the bowl, unbuttoned his jacket and stripped it off, then folded back the sleeves of his shirt. In the act of turning back the second sleeve, his eye roamed over the many sources of light surrounding his mother’s bed.
Light . . . light equalled heat.
“Open the windows, get rid of all but one of the candelabra, and damp down the fire. You’ll kill her with so much heat.”
Why hadn’t the doctor noticed?
A maid hurried to do his bidding while a footman doused the flames, leaving nothing but embers.
Gradually, the warmth dissipated and the fresh breeze cooled his bare skin.
George continued sponging his mother’s face and arms, and slowly, oh so slowly over the hours that followed, her temperature lowered.
What would have happened if he hadn’t chanced to return to Amhurst this morning? If he’d gone for another ride with Viola? How long would it have taken the messenger to locate him?
“Maman, you must wake up and get well, for I have good news.”
Sponge, sponge, dip, wring.
“I find myself ready to fulfil the promise I made you before I set out for London. I have found a woman I believe will be an excellent countess, although she is a little unconventional – well, maybe a lot unconventional, but she has a good heart and is as strong-minded as you.”
He watched Maman’s face intently, desperate for the merest flicker of an eye to show she had heard his news, but her pallor and stillness did not change.
He kept talking, not knowing if his words were intended for his mother’s ears, or to stop himself from losing it. She lay so still.
If only Irene lived closer, but his sister now resided in Bath.
He set the back of his hand on Maman’s forehead. Was she a little cooler? It was difficult to tell, and George wished Viola was by his side, with her practical view on life and her determination to protect those she loved.
It was strange, given how short a time they had known one another, but he already knew he would be able to rely on her strength and common sense no matter what life threw at them.
“You’ll like Viola, Maman. She is sweet, like her namesake, but beneath that softness is a woman life will not beat down. Like you, she is caring and compassionate, fair in her dealings with others—”
Beneath the slow, rhythmic movements of his hands, his mother turned her head towards him and mumbled words he could not understand.
She did not wake, and she said nothing more, but it made George feel as though hope had not deserted them. He continued plying the cloth and talking to Maman as though her life depended upon it.