Page 3 of Love Thy Enemy (The Vaughns #4)

A t forty years of age, Gregory Vaughn had spent a lifetime learning.

When raised in a family of physicians, surgeons, and apothecaries, the search for knowledge and understanding was highly prized—whether it was the years of studying at his parents’ side as they plied their trade or the countless hours of rigorously searching through tomes and treatises on his own.

Though he had chosen to forgo a formal education in London, Gregory didn’t feel his skill was lacking because he was a mere “Mr.” and not a “Dr.” The Vaughns had plenty of the latter.

Gregory knew how to mix and brew every common remedy by memory.

He could identify and use every medicinal plant in England and many far beyond their borders, and if pressed, he thought himself quite the equal of any apothecary in the country.

Perhaps not the best of his profession (for how did one measure such a thing?), but he had built his mother’s small cottage shop into a thriving business through his talent and efforts.

Yet standing in the darkened corner of Rodney’s bedchamber, Gregory wondered what good there was to be had in vast amounts of learning and experience when one could do nothing with it.

His life’s work granted him the knowledge of what was to come with no ability to forestall it, only illuminating the forthcoming horrors and ripping hope free of his grasp.

So much they could do—so many strides had been made in recent decades—yet all it had given them was the certainty that Rodney Stuart would not see the next dawn, and his doctor and apothecary could only watch as his strength ebbed.

Standing beside him, Edward watched his patient with a mask of calm concern, though Gregory sensed the sorrow simmering beneath the surface.

A physician knew much about death and dying, yet Gregory didn’t think his younger brother and father ever grew accustomed to the loss.

The fellow looked upon his patient with a grave expression, and it wasn’t difficult to guess that this young father’s mind was on his own children, the heartache awaiting the little ones Rodney left behind, and the fickleness of life.

Rodney stared at the ceiling, his eyes fixing on the canopy draped overhead as night drew Gregory deeper into its embrace.

“This wasn’t your doing,” whispered Edward.

“I should’ve fetched him home immediately—”

“My fate was sealed the minute the horse tossed me,” interrupted Rodney in a monotone as he turned his bleak gaze to the pair. When Gregory’s brows rose, he added with a wan smile, “The room is small, and you two weren’t whispering quietly enough.”

Rodney’s lips trembled, and he drew in a deep breath. “I am grateful we didn’t return home. I was afforded a lovely afternoon with my daughters, rather than lying abed as I await the inevitable.”

There was a hint of a question in his tone as though hoping one of them would rush forward with promises that something might be done, but there was nothing.

Internal bleeding was a death sentence, and the poultices and medicines prescribed were effective in only the most minor of cases, and even those required a heaping dose of the miraculous.

A ruptured spleen was anything but minor.

A knock at the door brought with it a flood of children, and though instinct pushed Gregory to calm the chaos they brought in their wake, good sense kept him silent. They couldn’t do any more damage, and the smile that they brought to their father’s face was well worth the intrusion.

Stepping forward, Edward helped his patient shift as the doctor placed another pillow beneath his head; Rodney’s belly was too distended for him to sit up properly, but the fellow tucked one arm behind his head as though he were lounging by choice rather than necessity.

Eva squeezed close to her father on one side, and with his free hand, he tugged at Eva’s curls whilst Wesley occupied the other side of the bed.

The younger pair snuggled close, drawing winces from their father, but Rodney hid the pain away, welcoming the affection.

The older four took up places around their father with Daphne clinging to the bedpost at the foot of the bed, her posture and expression strained as she fought to keep her composure.

Clark stood beside her, his hands tucked behind his back like the young man he was becoming, whilst Faith and Jackson stood sentinel on either side.

“Faith.” Though his breaths were shallow, Rodney kept his tone light and hid the pain that strained his expression as he eyed her with mock suspicion and examined the crumbs on her front. “Did you sneak one of the ginger biscuits from the kitchen?”

She blinked, eyes wide. “No, Papa.”

“Then someone else has, and they placed the evidence of it upon your person,” he said with a wry smile. “It must be that rascally groom. I have always suspected him of malintent, and I shall have to question him in the dungeon.”

Eva giggled. “We do not have a dungeon.”

“I beg your pardon,” Rodney said, drawing himself up an inch before wincing and sinking back down again. “We most certainly have a dungeon. It is where we keep the vilest of villains. And if he doesn’t confess, I shall place him in the stocks at dawn.”

Wrinkling his nose, Wesley shook his head. “You hate waking early. You aren’t going to rise at dawn.”

Rodney gaped as though that were the greatest affront to his dignity. “I am known for my ferocity in the early morning. A goose once blackened my honor, and I had no choice but to call him out. Pistols at dawn, it was.”

Eva’s laughter doubled. “That didn’t happen!”

“It did,” he said gravely. “The feathered villain was a vicious creature. Never trusted geese since.”

Wesley chuckled from his place beside his father, though when the lad shifted the pillows, Rodney’s breath caught.

Gregory made as though to move, but his friend lifted his fingers covertly, halting him.

His arm trembled, but Rodney managed to shift it around his son’s shoulders, holding him close despite the clear pain it sent pulsing through his abdomen.

“It is serious, isn’t it?” whispered Clark, his head held high.

Though Gregory couldn’t say when the lad had come over, he stood there with a stony expression, his eyes fixed on the bed and his younger siblings.

Though Clark attempted to keep the emotion from his voice, there was a catch that belied the act.

“Father wouldn’t have fetched us home from school if it weren’t. ”

Gregory couldn’t speak and settled a hand around the lad’s shoulder as Rodney teased and twitted the others, brightening the somber feel of the sickroom.

But the gentleman’s arms trembled, his strength failing him as he struggled to maintain the facade, and Edward stepped forward, reaching for Rodney’s hand to test his pulse, likely searching for something to do.

Rodney’s chest rose and fell in panting breaths, his smile never faltering as he looked at his children. “I think it is time for bed, my little imps.”

Eva and Wesley made their feelings known, though Daphne moved from her place at the foot of the bed to herd them and the others away.

Rodney stopped each, giving them kisses on their cheeks and those tender affections that accompanied brief partings, but when Daphne moved to lead them away, he snatched her hand, drawing her attention back to him.

“Be brave,” he mouthed with eyes so full of his heart that Gregory’s vision began to blur.

And with more strength than a child with only seventeen years to her credit ought to possess, she nodded and bent down to place a kiss on her father’s cheek with only a slight tremble of her chin to betray the sorrow weighing her down.

“Off to bed,” called Daphne with a forced smile as she followed after the others, sending them scurrying down the corridor.

With the younger children gone, Clark stepped forward, and with all the dignity his fifteen-year-old heart could muster, he bowed to his father—but Rodney seized the lad and pulled him down.

Though Rodney hardly had the strength to make a leaf flutter, Clark allowed the tug to force him into his father’s arms.

“I am proud of you, my boy,” he whispered, and Gregory shifted in place, wishing he weren’t intruding upon that private moment as the lad struggled to control his grief. Straightening, Clark nodded as he wiped covertly at his cheeks before striding out after his siblings.

When the door was shut once more, Rodney turned his gaze to Edward. “Dr. Vaughn, may I have a moment alone with your brother?”

Giving the gentleman a bow, Edward turned to the door, but stopped when his patient added, “And would you instruct the servants to keep the children from returning? I do not wish for them to see me as I decline. They do not need that memory haunting them.”

Edward nodded and left, leaving the two alone.

His arm shook as he tried to move, so Rodney abandoned the attempt and glanced from his friend to the chair beside the bed.

But Gregory didn’t move. Every instinct urged him to retreat and join the children in the nursery, where the laughter still lingered and the air was lighter.

Where the shadows were less cruel. But the thought of leaving Rodney—of walking away from the drawn face and trembling hand—was worse.

The ache of it settled deep in his chest, sharp and heavy.

To stay was agony. But to go? He could not bear it.

Gregory settled into the seat beside the bed, his shoulders sagging as he studied his friend.

Rodney was the personification of light and laughter, and though his eyes still sparkled even in this terrible moment, his skin was clammy.

The strain tugged at the corners of his mouth, but when Gregory reached for the bottle of laudanum, Rodney waved him away.

“Not yet. I feel myself drifting, but I need to speak to you while I am still lucid,” he murmured, his brows pinching together.

His eyes drifted to the canopy above him.

“I don’t know whether to be grateful or horrified that my end is so inevitable.

Definitive. To have the time for final farewells is a blessing, but knowing what awaits is terrifying. ”

Rodney paused, halting as he slowly spoke the words that no one had been willing to say. “I am dying.”