Page 14 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

Before he could react, Juliana had raised her hand, knocked once and pushed open the sturdy wooden panel.

Tristan stood frozen by surprise, before scurrying after her into the large, high-ceilinged room.

At once, three things assaulted his senses.

One was the thick, nauseating scent of illness.

Then came the unsettling darkness, such a contrast to the bright morning outside.

The shutters, he saw, were so tightly closed that not a chink of light came through.

Only half a dozen candles cast a feeble glow into the room.

Then came the worst of all: the sight of his father.

Tristan let out a sound that was half a sob and half a growl of anguish.

Angus de Neville had always been a large-framed, powerful man, and his personal strength and unrelenting vitality gave his height an extra dimension.

Whenever he walked into a room, heads turned towards him.

Whenever he spoke, people listened. But the man on the bed was not a giant amongst men.

He seemed small, diminished, only just recognisable as the mighty Earl of Wolvesley.

His father’s eyes were closed. His hair, still more golden than silver, spread lankly over the pillows. His breathing was faint. Too faint.

Tristan put a hand over his heart, needing a moment to recover. His mother, who had been kneeling by the bed seemingly in prayer, turned tired eyes towards them.

At once, her gaze narrowed and Tristan sought the right words to defend his decision. But Juliana was unfazed. She swept into a low, graceful curtsy and remained there until his mother spoke.

“You may rise.”

Juliana kept her gaze turned to the rushes on the wooden floor. “I will not presume to come closer, my lady, without your permission.”

Morwenna waved a hand. “Come. Sit. You can do no harm now, I suppose.”

Tristan went to embrace her, once again humbled by how small and fragile she felt in his arms. “I’m sorry, Mother,” he whispered against her blonde hair.

He saw now that she was right. The night that had passed would have been better spent in here, with his father, than in some wild chase through the woods.

My father is dying. It was impossible and yet it was true.

As the fight went out of him, he fought an urge to lean against her, like he had as a boy. But he was the future earl and the one who should offer comfort and strength to those that needed it.

“There is naught to forgive.” Her face was wet with tears. “I do not hold your efforts to save him against you.” She smiled weakly. “Even if I disapprove of your methods.”

They both turned to the man on the bed, who they loved and revered above all others. Juliana was leaning over his prone form, her dark eyes scanning his face.

“I must examine him,” she declared.

Morwenna gave a strangled sound and turned away. “I cannot watch.”

Tristan nodded to give Juliana his permission, then led his mother to a tapestried chair pulled near the bed. The heat of the room was oppressive, muddling his thoughts. He dropped to his knees and clasped Morwenna’s hands in his own. “What can I do?”

“Just be here,” she whispered. “Do not leave me again.”

Salty tears stung his eyes and he blinked them away. “I will not go anywhere.”

“I thought of sending for Jonah and your sisters.” His mother’s hands trembled. “But Frida should not travel in her condition and the news is bound to distress her. I worry it will harm the babe.”

Tristan processed this. There was no method by which they could bring Jonah and Esme home without alerting Frida as to the reason.

“And Isabella cannot leave Westchester with her own husband so unwell.” Morwenna’s voice cracked and Tristan thought this added burden of responsibility was about to break her.

“Let us wait just a little while longer,” he urged. He wanted to add that such alarm may yet be unnecessary, but he could not form the words.

Rustlings from the bed indicated that Juliana was pulling away the covers. Like his mother, Tristan felt he could not watch. To see his father so incapacitated caused him actual physical pain. He fixed his gaze on a flickering candle and tried to steady his breathing.

Time slowed down so he knew not whether minutes or hours had passed before Juliana came to stand before them.

“I believe I can save him,” she said, simply.

Her words fell into silence. After finally accepting the awful inevitability of his father’s death, Tristan found that he could not easily abandon it.

Morwenna straightened her back. “The physician was quite clear. He told us there was no hope.” Her voice wavered but remained strong.

“There is always hope, my lady.” Juliana bowed her head respectfully. “But I will not act without your say so.”

Still holding his mother’s hands, Tristan felt a tremor pass through her. He stayed where he was, but tilted back his head so look up at Juliana. He had not had a chance to warn her away from mentioning anything that could be construed as witchcraft.

“What will you do?”

“I brought a salve with me that I thought would help. And a tincture that was mixed at dawn just yesterday.”

“How did you know what was needed?” Morwenna’s question was sharp.

Juliana did not flinch. “Word has spread about his lordship’s condition,” she said, carefully.

Tristan rubbed at his forehead. “And what is in the salve?”

“’Tis merely herbs. The tincture is an old recipe.” Juliana paused. “An effective remedy.”

Morwenna stood up abruptly. “Do what you will.”

Tristan reached for her. “Mother—” he began.

But Morwenna motioned him away. “I will wait for news in my solar.” With her head held high, the countess swept from the room.

For a moment, Juliana’s gaze met with Tristan’s. “I require some assistance,” she said.

“I will send for Mirrie,” he replied without thinking. “She is an excellent nurse.”

But Juliana pursed her lips, her hands resting on her hips. “I do not believe I am a favourite of Miss Mirabel.”

“Mirrie likes everyone,” he stated, frowning.

Juliana paused. “As you wish, of course. But I prefer to work in a chamber free of tension.”

She walked over to the bed and Tristan found himself following her. When she raised her eyebrows pointedly, he reached into the leather satchel and withdrew a glass jar filled with a dark green ointment. Juliana nodded and held out her hand for it.

“The tincture is in there as well. Pour two drops into some wine and try to make him drink.”

Like a well-trained servant, Tristan did as he was bid. A flask of wine stood on his father’s nightstand. He poured some into a goblet and added two drops of the clear tincture.

It occurred to him then that he had placed his whole trust in Juliana. At her word, he could be about to administer poison to one of England’s most powerful men.

Midway to his father’s lips, his hand faltered.

“This will help him?”

He meant it as a warning, so that he might look into her eyes as she answered and discern the truth of her intentions. But it came out as a plea.

She nodded once, meeting his gaze without hesitation.

Tristan falteringly slid a hand beneath his father’s heavy head and urged him a little off the pillows.

“Drink this,” he spoke encouragingly. Not hoping to stir him into consciousness, but to appeal to the part of his brain that might respond to such common instruction.

The earl did not answer, but his dried lips parted enough for Tristan to tip some of the liquid into his mouth. He held his breath until his father swallowed, then repeated the action. At last, the goblet was empty.

Juliana gave him a half smile of approval. She had rubbed the green salve into his father’s muscular chest. It smelled faintly of mint and Tristan felt reassured that this was something akin to his sister Frida’s curative potions.

“What now?” he asked.

Juliana put her hands on her narrow hips and fixed him with a stare. “What happens now is up to you, my lord.”

His father made a sound, somewhere between a gasp and a groan. Tristan leaned over anxiously, but he seemed to settle again.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “I already said you should do whatever it takes to save him.”

“Are those your orders, that I do everything in my power? Or should I restrict myself to the tincture and the salve?”

He looked at her, confusion clouding his brow. “What else is there?”

A draught must have entered the stuffy chamber, for the slender candle on the nightstand began to dance and splutter.

“‘Whatever it takes’?” she echoed.

At last, understanding dawned. Tristan gripped the carved wooden headboard for support. “Magic?” he whispered.

Juliana tightened her lips. “You could call it magic. You could call it prayer.”

Strength left his legs at such heresy. “My mother would never—” he began.

“Your mother was on her knees praying to your God when we first came in. The Gods of the old religion can be called on in different ways. Are you strong enough in your faith, Tristan de Neville, that you confidently assert the dominion of the new?”

In his state of exhaustion and grief, Tristan did not even fully understand the question. His mind whirred with contradictions. He should order Juliana to restrict her healing to the use of herbs found in the natural world.

But what if Father then dies?

Would he ever forgive himself?

Tristan took a deep breath, his knuckles growing white as he gripped the headboard. He wanted Mirrie by his side; her calm, practical mind would assess the situation and deliver a sensible verdict. But she had walked away from him as soon as Juliana entered the keep.

He was on his own.

He looked down into the beloved, familiar face of his father. The earl was tanned golden-bronze by the summer sun. Faint laughter lines creased the corners of his closed eyes, but he was not an old man. He deserved every chance at life.

Whatever it takes.

Without lifting his gaze, Tristan nodded his head. “Do what you must,” he said. “But I cannot be a part of it.”

“I would not ask that of you.” Juliana’s voice was smooth. “Will you wait with your mother?”

Tristan’s stomach churned as if he might be sick.

Did I make the right decision? He shook his head, one hand going to his mouth as if to keep his emotions locked inside.

“Nay, she would ask questions that I cannot answer.” He staggered over to the shuttered window, feeling like he was on board a ship in a storm.

“You may open the shutters,” Juliana said. “I do not require darkness.”

He turned to question her, but she had already positioned herself at his father’s head, her palms outstretched and hovering inches over his face. Tristan whipped himself back to the window and slowly, quietly, began to draw back the shutters.

The change in the room was instantaneous.

Bright sunlight flooded in along with fresh air and the melody of birdsong.

He rested his hands on the window ledge and breathed it all in.

Down below in the castle gardens, the big, blowsy heads of pink roses reached towards him.

He fancied he could catch a trace of their scent, carrying its promise of vibrancy and renewal.

Faint shouts came from the stable yard, together with the wicker of ponies in the paddocks.

Life went on at Wolvesley, despite the gloom and sorrow of his father’s chamber.

He tipped his face towards the sun, closing his eyes and allowing his busy mind to slow.

The rigidity in his face and shoulders began to ease.

He felt almost as if someone, his mother mayhap, was standing behind him, running calming hands over the tense muscles in his back, encouraging him to relax, reassuring him that all would be well.

All will be well.

It was an idea potent enough to make him weep.

His knees sagged with the sharpness of his grief. Suddenly, he no longer cared what ancient healing arts Juliana was practising on his father, he wanted to see. He couldn’t waste another moment of his father’s life, looking in the wrong direction.

He turned around to see the druid healer standing away from the bed. Her head was bowed and her hands were folded neatly before her. As if conscious of his gaze, she lifted her face to his.

“All will be well,” she said. “Your father will live.”