Page 39 of Love Thy Enemy (The Vaughns #4)

T he candlelight flickered across the edge of the coverlet, throwing long shadows over the curve of Clark’s cheek.

He lay motionless, his features far too still, his breath shallow and uneven.

Tessa reached out, brushing her fingers along his forehead in the faint hope that her touch might comfort him. But he gave no sign.

Her voice was barely more than a whisper as she sang, the tune uneven with fatigue. It was an old song, one she used to hum while rocking him as an infant, and though the words caught in her throat, she pressed on.

Pausing between verses, Tessa babbled to him. As she’d done this for days now, the words came without thought, repeating the same pleas again and again—hoping that he knew how loved he was, how proud she was of him, and how strong he was.

And that she was here. That she would stay. His mother was nearby.

Body aching, Tessa didn’t bother shifting positions.

The chair was as comfortable as it could be whilst allowing her a proper angle to bathe his fevered face.

Her spine throbbed and her eyes stung, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.

Not when every part of her screamed that her place was here, watching over her boy.

The door opened, and she looked over her shoulder to see Daphne there.

“Is it morning already?” Tessa asked, stretching her back.

Not answering, the young lady strode to the windows and pulled back the curtains, and Tessa winced against the light streaming through.

That was answer enough, she supposed. As was Daphne’s continued silence.

Four days. Four mornings. And still, she had yet to speak a word after their last conversation.

A yawn filled Tessa’s chest and twisted her face, but something tickled her lungs, and she let out a cough instead. Pausing, Daphne finally looked at her mother, but Tessa waved it away. It was nothing.

“He woke for a few minutes,” said Tessa, drawing Daphne’s attention to her brother, and the young lady perked as she hurried to his bedside.

“He wasn’t lucid, but he spoke a touch. I think the fever is finally breaking,” said Tessa, reaching forward to test Clark’s forehead once more.

Daphne may refuse to speak to her, but as his nurse needed to know the present state of things, Tessa relayed all the medicines she’d administered, the various changes wrought in the patient, and anything else Daphne ought to know.

With a silent prayer of gratitude, Tessa leaned down to press a kiss to his clammy forehead. Rising to her feet, she surrendered her seat to her daughter but perched on the edge of his bed.

“Do you mind if I remain a little longer, Daphne?” That drew her daughter’s gaze, and Tessa rose to her feet once more. Motioning toward the door, she added, “I do not need to, if you do not wish.”

“You ought to rest.”

The words were quiet. Hardly audible. But Daphne had spoken. Tessa paused and tried not to stare at the girl, who had done her level best to pretend her mother did not exist.

“I will in a bit,” said Tessa, settling back into her seat.

“But I do not know if I could sleep. With the sun up, my body is determined to keep me awake. Besides, Mrs. Ferrell requires assistance with the laundry, as we were only able to finish half of what needed doing yesterday, and Clark has gone through so many linens.”

Turning toward her son, she hummed a few more bars of her song and straightened the bedclothes.

In truth, she couldn’t bear to be away from his side.

Not simply because of the illness, but because this was the most she had been near him since he was a little boy, and Tessa couldn’t bring herself to waste a single minute of it.

Who knew what was to come when he awoke.

“I know that song,” said Daphne, though there was a hint of a question in her tone.

“I sang it to you children just as my mother sang it to me,” she said, settling her hand over Clark’s.

“I remember.”

Daphne straightened, her brow furrowing as though she was uncertain what to do with that revelation—though she still did not look at her mother. As Tessa refused to infer meaning in that quiet tone, she chose instead to revel in the joy of having her daughter speak to her in any fashion.

Rising to her feet, Tessa turned to the door. “I will go fetch the breakfast tray.”

“Mrs. Ferrell hasn’t prepared it yet,” said Daphne.

“Then I shall simply have to prepare one. Poor Mrs. Ferrell has enough to do with the staff gone.” Yet Tessa lingered at the threshold, looking back at her children. Returning to the bed, she leaned over her son and pressed another kiss to his forehead before whispering, “I will be but a moment.”

Straightening, Tessa looked at her daughter, but Daphne wasn’t meeting her gaze, and she abandoned the instinct that prodded her to kiss her daughter’s forehead as well.

Then, turning on her heel, Tessa went in search of breakfast. Clark needed to keep up his strength, and to do so, the weak broths and teas that Mr. Vaughn allowed the lad needed to be administered far more often.

Tessa slipped down the stairs and swept into the kitchen. Mrs. Ferrell was there, readying the tea and buns and filling the tray until it was laden with food for the patient and caregivers.

“I was just about to bring it up,” said Mrs. Ferrell, but Tessa took it in hand.

“I have it,” she said, stepping backward through the door to push it open before retracing her steps.

Clark was on the mend. Thank the heavens. Scarlet fever was such a frightening thing, for there were so many wretched outcomes possible. But with the disease running its course without any surprises, it seemed that Clark would likely be spared the lifelong damage it could wreak.

Thoughts of that blessing brightened Tessa’s mood, and she felt like flying up the stairs—though her feet refused to do so.

Her muscles shook as she passed the halfway mark to the first landing, and the tray rattled as she fought to keep it upright.

It felt as though the stairs were coated in tar, her shoes sticking to each one, and her lungs began to burn as she strained against the load she carried.

“Mother?” Daphne appeared at the top of the stairs, and Tessa felt like sagging in relief as the young lady hurried down, relieving her of the tray.

But even without the burden, the rest of the trek felt like a mighty summit, and her lungs struggled for air. Sitting down on the top step, Tessa struggled to catch her breath. When a cough shook through her, Tessa tried to brush it aside, but her lungs refused to clear, and she fought for air.

“Mr. Gregory!” Daphne’s voice rang through the silent house, and she abandoned the tray on the top step and disappeared as Tessa fought through the coughing fit.

Her eyelids felt so heavy, and when she forced them open again, Mr. Vaughn was suddenly there in his trousers, his shirt billowing around him, and despite the strength sapping from her limbs, Tessa couldn’t help but notice the way the collar gaped open, displaying his bare neck and a flash of his chest.

Smiling to herself, she slipped into oblivion.

***

The sunlight had softened with the passing afternoon, pooling like amber on the floor and in the folds of the curtains.

Gregory sat motionless beside the bed, a book balanced on his knee, but the words swam before his eyes, their meaning slipping away each time he tried to focus.

Despite being one of his favorites, Gregory’s attention stumbled at every creak of the floorboards in the corridor; he’d read the same sentence three times and still couldn’t recall how it began.

Yet a smile graced his lips as he shut the cover and glimpsed the authoress’s name, recalling the conversation he’d had with Mrs. Stuart about the great Helen Gardiner.

The arm of the chair dug into his elbow, but he made no move to readjust. Outside, the muffled sound of birdsong drifted through the glass, and somewhere downstairs, the faint clatter of crockery reminded him that the world still turned, but in this room, time slowed.

Each minute stretched long and thin, and Gregory sat with the book in his lap, his posture stiff, as though any movement might break the fragile peace holding everything together.

Gaze falling to the bed, he straightened when he spied Clark’s eyes open.

Reaching for a cup of tea on the bedside, Gregory gave the lad something to drink, and Clark accepted it without comment, his eyes focusing with far more clarity than they’d seen in the past few days.

“How are you feeling?” asked Gregory.

Clark stared at him, as though studying every feature in his guardian’s face.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

The lad gave a faint nod, and Gregory relaxed, breathing deeply once more.

“I thought someone else was here,” croaked Clark.

Just hearing the lad’s voice was enough to lighten Gregory’s spirits, though there was a rasp to it that testified that the boy needed more to drink. He reached over to help Clark, and the lad lifted a hand as though to take the cup himself.

“Allow me. You’ll be pretty weak for a few days at least, but you’ve made it through the worst of it,” said Gregory. “Who were you expecting to see?”

Clark turned his gaze away, glancing at the far wall. “I thought I heard her .”

“If by ‘her’ you mean your mother, she was here,” said Gregory, trying (and failing) to keep the strain from his tone. “She’s hardly left your side since you arrived home.”

The only answer he received was a sharp huff as though Clark was dismissing that claim altogether, and for all that he wanted to be patient with the lad’s struggle, the sight of Mrs. Stuart collapsed on the stairs still burned bright in his mind.

“Your mother was here,” repeated Gregory with more emphasis.

“She spent more time watching over you than anyone else in this house. The only reason she is absent now is that she worked herself into such a state of exhaustion that she fell ill herself. It isn’t scarlet fever—thank the heavens, as the effects on adults are far more brutal and long-lasting—but she hasn’t been lucid in a day or two. ”

For all that Clark’s gaze jerked back to his guardian, Gregory spied sleep tugging at his lids.

“Is it serious?” he asked, his voice growing foggy as his body slipped back into unconsciousness.

Such a little question. And with his tone such a mumble, Gregory couldn’t say what inflection the lad meant to use, but he hoped it was a good sign.

“I do not believe she is in danger,” replied Gregory, though he didn’t know if Clark heard him or if it was the whole truth.