Page 31 of The Austen Affair

I’m an only child. No cousins. No babysitting experience.

I have no idea how to take care of a sick kid.

I know how to play with kids, even to entertain kids who aren’t feeling their best. (Once or twice I’ve visited children’s hospitals in costume as my character from Chuck Brown as part of the Make-A-Wish program.) But there was never any question of me dispensing medical care!

I tuck the layer of blankets more tightly around George’s shivering body. Every nerve in my body is screaming, Call Mom! She’ll know what to do!

But there’s no Mom to call.

“What do we do?” I ask Hugh, gripped with panic. “Should we get Dr. Goddard?”

Hugh straightens up with a jerk. “I should hope not! He’ll likely ply George with laudanum, or else get out the leeches for bleeding.”

I let out an involuntary shriek. “Rest and fluids,” I mutter. “Keep the doctor away, give him rest and fluids.”

Hugh leaps off the bed and makes for the door. “I’ll fetch some tea.”

In the minutes, and it cannot be more than a few, in which Hugh is gone, I feel lost. Unmoored.

I shiver as though I’m the one coming down with a fever.

My limbs feel weak with fear. I regret the exchange of morbid humor between me and George very much now.

I’m no scholar (I pursued my acting career instead of going to college), but I’m well aware that child-mortality rates were a great deal higher in this time period than our own.

Perhaps this is just a normal cold; but what if it isn’t?

When Hugh returns, I can hear the porcelain tea set rattling on the silver.

His hands are trembling as he pours a cup of Earl Grey tea for George.

I help George into a sitting position and hold the tea beneath his nose, wafting the steam toward his face, in the hopes this might do something to clear his sinuses.

This was something my mother did for me sometimes, although by putting me in our bathroom with the shower running to practically boiling.

In lieu of motherly advice, I’ll just have to follow her example as best I can under the circumstances.

When the steam has dissipated and the cup I’m holding for George is now of a temperature that won’t burn his tongue, I carefully lift the brim up to his lips and urge him to sip.

Hugh draws closer to us, his brow contracted with worry.

He perches on the edge of the mattress and asks me in a hushed tone, “What if this is our fault?”

“Because I didn’t notice the fever spiking sooner—I should have checked more often, I should have—”

“No,” Hugh says. The Adam’s apple of his throat bobs as he swallows heavily.

“I mean, the historical record says that George lives to a ripe old age. He has four children. But what if our being here has skewed history? If we did not go out to Beacon Hill, if we were not late coming home, if he were not waiting for us in the rain…”

A cold fist seems to tighten around my heart. “No, don’t say it. It’s too awful.”

But Hugh can’t help it. He has to speak his mind, intent on exorcising his thoughts. “Butterfly wings cause hurricanes.”

By now, George has taken in a quarter of the cup of tea and is protesting against any more by turning his head away from me.

I set the cup aside, seizing Hugh’s hand.

He has the pale, bloodless face of a Los Angeles transplant in the aftermath of their first earthquake.

I wish I could wrap an orange shock blanket around his shoulders.

I raise his hands into the air before us, uncurling each finger against my own until our palms rest flat against each other. His hands dwarf mine, but mine are warmer than his.

“Do you feel that?” I ask him.

Hugh blinks furiously, completely at sea.

“You’re here. I’m here. You’re as solid as I am,” I assure him.

“If anything serious happened to George, where would that leave you?” I’m not sure I knew where I was going with this when I started, but now I am starting to believe my own hype.

I’m improvising wildly to comfort him, and in doing so, I find myself growing calmer.

The tension in Hugh’s shoulders is starting to slacken.

His eyes are closed to me now. At first he seemed not to be breathing, but now I can see him inhaling and exhaling, like a sacred meditation.

I continue, on a roll. “Without him, there is no you. And yet here you are. Steady, healthy, whole. And that must mean that whatever happens, George ends up okay. I believe that. I believe we can be the instruments of his recovery. Perhaps that’s why we’re here. To protect him.”

Hugh’s eyes snap open. “You give him more tea. I’ll find extra blankets. Perhaps we can sweat the fever out.”

Hugh and I persevere in caring for George alone for a little over another hour without interference from the rest of the house.

But eventually, Aunt Fanny and his nanny do come in to check on him, and there’s little that can be done to disguise the turn the fever has taken.

I feel my joints lock with anxiety. I don’t think George has worsened since I first noticed the spike, but he hasn’t gotten any better either.

Not only is George feverish, but he’s coughing into his pillow.

It’s a scary sound, for sure—much deeper than you could imagine coming from the lungs of someone so young.

There’s very little we can do to argue with Aunt Fanny. She won’t be convinced otherwise. Dr. Goddard is called.

Hugh’s gaze connects with mine from across the room. His eyes have narrowed into a stony resolve. I can tell what he’s thinking without even asking. If Dr. Goddard tries any remedy on George that we know is dangerous, he’ll have to go through us both first.

Dr. Goddard is dedicated to his profession, I’ll say that much for him. He answers the summons promptly. It’s no ambulance, but he comes as fast as could reasonably be expected in this time period. I see Hugh’s face fall when he hears the sound of Mr. Finch opening the door downstairs.

Dr. Goddard hustles into George’s bedroom carrying a large, ominous-looking leather bag. He rifles through its contents, muttering to himself about what remedies would be most efficacious.

My eyes flicker between Hugh and George, and like I’m a football coach (an American football coach, that is) calling a play, I can tell he knows what I want him to do.

He shifts himself closer to George, putting the large mass of his body in the path Dr. Goddard would take to get close to the child.

Meanwhile, I saunter casually over to the doctor and hover at his side.

Dr. Goddard is so slightly built that I’m easily able to read over his shoulder and comment on the names of his various medicines.

“Surely there is something natural you can give George?” I suggest. “An herb? Some willow bark brewed into a tea, perhaps? Nothing too extreme…”

Dr. Goddard’s smile ripens with condescension.

“My dear woman. This is the nineteenth century. We do not have to fiddle with natural remedies anymore. We have science on our side.” At this, he selects a glass vial from his bag and raises it to the light, adjusting his glasses as he checks the handwritten label.

“Yes, this will do very nicely for George. We’ll have that pesky cold wiped out in no time, just you see.

And then the fever will abate with rest.”

I can’t stand this fucking patronizing attitude.

It makes me think of all my mother’s doctor appointments ahead of her diagnosis, when we knew something was wrong, but we didn’t know what.

I had to fight and claw for her medical team to listen to her, to take her pain levels seriously, to give her the attention she deserved and not rush through answering her questions.

I am so not going to let this doctor, who doesn’t even know germ theory yet, dictate George’s care. I tilt my head to the side, squinting at the vial. My lips move slightly as I read the handwritten label, almost not believing what I’m seeing. “ Chloroform? ”

Hugh lets out a spluttering cough from the other side of the room and moves protectively over George.

“You can’t give a child chloroform!” I protest, immediately grasping for the vial. Still, Dr. Goddard manages to hold me off with a dismissive arm. I seriously consider leaping onto his back and bringing him to the carpeted floor, like a lion about to devour an antelope.

Dr. Goddard, unaware of the mounting danger to his person, wears a sickly smile. “I hardly think a young woman is qualified to tell me what medicines I am to administer to the patients in my care.”

“Chloroform is not a medicine,” I snap, spittle flying from my mouth as I shout him down. “It’s an accessory to kidnapping.”

The doctor waves a lazy hand in Hugh’s direction. “Mr. Balfour, please calm your betrothed. She doesn’t know what she’s thinking of, and becoming hysterical.”

“I certainly will not,” Hugh says, indignant. His dark eyes burn with an intensity I haven’t seen before, even when we’ve argued. “I’m not terribly calm at the moment myself, Doctor.”

Aunt Fanny tries to loop her arm in with Hugh’s now, murmuring soft, comforting words I can’t quite make out. But I’m still hollering, making another play for the vial. If I have to be carried out of this room, so be it. “That stuff’s positively toxic! You could kill him!”

Dr. Goddard turns his back very decidedly to me and starts pacing toward George. To my tremendous relief, Hugh’s there in a second; he seizes the vial from Goddard’s hand and hurls it against the nearest wall. The glass smashes, and black liquid goes trickling down the oyster-patterned wallpaper.

Hugh’s next words come out in a growl. “You will not be giving my brother anything dangerous without our consent.”

Sidenote: I want to make out with this man again at the soonest available opportunity.