Page 20 of The Rules of Courtship (Hearts of Harewood #3)

Chapter Twenty

Rule #20: Never trust a man who cannot properly tie a cravat

Oliver stood at the door to his father’s room, unable to turn the knob and let himself in. He knew a difficult sight awaited him; his butler Harrison had made that perfectly clear. Maybe it was exhaustion from traveling, but weariness gripped his body, dragging him down and making it impossible to lift his hand and step inside.

“Shall I open the door for you, sir?” Harrison asked.

Oliver shook his head. He faced his butler again, wishing he did not have an audience. “I did not ask earlier, but was everything well managed in my absence?”

“The planting was completed on schedule. I’ve seen to the list of repairs needed on the tenant houses beyond the east field. We can discuss the additional economies recommended by Cook at another time, but I do think we’ve found a way to spend even less on meals than before.”

Footsteps indicated another person coming their way, and Oliver shook his head slightly. He could not allow any of his family members to know the state in which Grandmother had left her finances, or they would blame him.

Harrison withdrew as Uncle Charles approached. He had not brought his wife nor Eliza, which was just as well.

“Oliver,” Uncle Charles said, peering at Oliver’s hand resting on the doorknob through concerned eyes. “Do you need more time?”

This was ridiculous. He was a grown man. He could face his dying father.

Oliver cleared his throat. “No, I thank you.”

“Shall I come with you?”

“If you’d like.” Oliver reached for the door, the brass cool under his palm as he twisted and pushed it open. The room was dark but for a small fire and a candlestick beside his father’s bed. The drapes were pulled tightly over the window to keep the warm air in, making it stuffy and smell of dust.

He crossed the room, stopping at the foot of the bed. He had not seen his father in some years, but even with the portraits Grandmother kept in the drawing room, this man was nearly unrecognizable. His face was gaunt, his skin dark. Purple circles pooled beneath his eyes. The once large man had shrunk to half his size.

Oliver’s chest seized, but he did his best to keep his face neutral. Uncle Charles was watching him with concern, and he did not want to look weak.

His father shifted on the bed, his face scrunching in pain.

“We’ve sent for Dr. Burnside,” Uncle Charles said. “He should be with us shortly.”

Oliver swallowed, his throat dry. His father had always been a large man, tall and looming, his voice as big as the width of his shoulders. Now he was so small, so frail, it shook Oliver more than he had expected.

“And the doctor in Thistledale? What did he have to say? ”

“There is not much time left,” Uncle Charles said. “We thought it best for him to come to Boone Park and spend his final days here with you in his home.”

This was not his home, though, was it? He had not lived here in decades, had not done much more than visit occasionally, then spent the entirety of his leave eager to be gone again. His relationship had been strained with his mother, but his son was in this house. It was not until Oliver was standing in this room, observing his ill father, that he realized the man had never truly been comfortable in Boone Park.

His eyes fluttered open, and Oliver felt frozen in place.

“Go to him,” Uncle Charles prodded.

Oliver did as he was told. He skirted the bed, coming to stop near the head. “You are home, Father.”

Father’s eyes were distant, but they looked up to Oliver, something like weariness passing over him.

“Your son is here, William,” Uncle Charles pressed.

“Son?” Father said, his voice hoarse and eyes closed. “I have no son.”

Uncle Charles coughed, but Oliver lifted his hand to put off further speaking. Grandmother had been similar toward the end, losing a sense of who was around her, believing, at one point, she was quite young and her husband was nearby. It was hard to hear that his father had forgotten him, but Oliver recognized the mind was difficult to understand at this stage in a person’s life. The illness, he had read in Uncle Harding’s original letter, had made him lose his wits in large segments of time.

A knock rattled the door behind them, and Oliver moved to let Dr. Burnside in.

“William has endured an arduous journey,” Uncle Charles said. “We opted not to stop for great lengths of time, as removing him from the carriage took a good deal of effort. I fear it has not been good for his health.”

Dr. Burnside listened to Uncle Charles’s explanation and took the letter written by the doctor who had been seeing to him in Thistledale. “I will examine him thoroughly. You may remain if you’d like.”

Oliver moved toward the door. “I’ve been traveling and need to change. I will leave you to it.”

He left the men behind, feeling the weight of his uncle’s gaze on his back the entirety of his exit. Something was not quite right. Uncle Charles had had a week now to accept the situation, but he seemed to be taking it harder than Oliver was.

Shaking the tiredness from his mind, Oliver went to find his bedchamber and rid himself of his travel-dusted clothing.

“The doctor would like to speak with you, sir,” Harrison said, looking in on Oliver’s bedroom.

Oliver was seated in his chair near the window, his head in his hands. He sat up and continued tying his cravat. “In my father’s room?”

“I’ve seen the doctor to the parlor, sir.”

“I will be right there.” Oliver finished dressing and brushed his hair from his face with his fingers before going in search of the parlor. He had intended to return home and prepare what he meant to say to Wycliffe. The man deserved an explanation for why Oliver was engaged to his daughter without first asking for his blessing, and Oliver hadn’t the faintest idea what to say. He respected Wycliffe far too much to lie to him, but it was not exactly comfortable to explain that he had been overcome, his attraction mounting, until Ruth had kissed him senseless and he lost all reasonable thought. His lack of self-control had put them into this position, and Oliver was doing what he ought to protect her reputation.

Even in the throes of dealing with an ill father, the thought of Ruth’s lips on his, her hands in his hair, made his body flush with warmth. He wanted to ride directly to Willowbrook House and find her so she could help him forget everything he currently faced.

By the time he made it to the parlor, Uncle Harding, Samuel, and Uncle Charles were all speaking to Dr. Burnside. It was a veritable convention of Rose men.

Samuel moved toward him at once. Gone was the ornate peach colored waistcoat, yellow cravat, and blue coat he had worn earlier, all replaced with somber colors and reasonable raiment. His watch still boasted far too many fobs, clinking against the chain as he crossed the room. “How are you?”

His concern was touching. Oliver smiled softly in reply before turning his attention to Dr. Burnside.

The doctor wasted no time. “I’m afraid I do not have good news. My examination did not yield different results from the doctor’s in Thistledale. It would seem your father has very little time left. I can leave you with more laudanum to keep him comfortable if you wish, but I recommend having any conversations now that you feel necessary before giving him medicine.”

“Surely he cannot converse reasonably when he does not know to whom he speaks,” Oliver said.

Uncle Charles looked at him sharply.

“His wits were perfectly in shape,” Dr. Burnside said. “I did not receive the impression he was unaware of his identity or surroundings.”

“But he said…” Oliver shook his head. It must have been a fleeting moment of murky thought. His uncles shared a worried look, but Oliver ignored them.

“Perhaps no more than two visitors at a time,” Dr. Burnside continued. “So as not to overwhelm Captain Rose.”

“Of course.” Oliver found himself watching the doctor speak to Uncle Harding, thinking back to that day weeks ago when he had found Ruth hiding from this doctor in a tree. He did not seem an atrocious suitor, but Ruth knew her own mind. She did not easily alter her opinions, and in the garden, she had been the one to lean into Oliver. She had initiated the kiss, had pulled him close. She had chased his demons and clouded his mind, filling him with nothing but her.

He craved Ruth, but he needed to see his father.

“Shall we return to William?” Uncle Charles asked. “I will come with you.”

Oliver followed him back to his father’s room, his feet dragging. He felt Samuel’s gaze on his back as they left.

“William,” Uncle Charles said, holding the door for Oliver. “We’ve returned. Can we fetch anything for you?”

“Whisky,” Father said hoarsely. “The doctor mentioned laudanum.” Each word was a struggle, leaving his mouth slowly and with great effort.

“I can fetch a drink,” Oliver said.

“No, you stay.” Uncle Charles moved toward the door. “I will see to it.”

Alone with his father, Oliver felt the quiet in the room grow thick. He crossed the room, doing his best to imagine the strong, healthy father he had known his entire life. “We were worried when we could not find you. I trust they have spoken to you about Grandmother.”

“Yes,” Father said, his voice quiet. “Shame.”

“It was, indeed. But she passed peacefully.”

Father opened his eyes, looking into Oliver’s with such clearness, he understood Dr. Burnside’s observation now. Father was indeed very lucid. “You have not been properly thanked for your work.”

“I need no thanks, Father.”

He closed his eyes, looking pained. “You mustn’t call me that.”

Oliver lowered himself onto the chair beside the bed, making him more level with his father. “I do not know what you mean.”

“I’m not…your…father. ”

Cold, icy dread flushed through him. “What do you mean?” Oliver repeated.

Father looked at him, struggling to swallow against his dry throat. “It was a ruse—designed to protect Diana.”

Aunt Diana? She had died in childbirth long ago. Oliver had never met her. Pieces of the puzzle began to click into place against his understanding. He fought the thoughts as they bounced around in his mind. Shaking his head, he let out a huff. “You are not lucid. This is typical behavior for one so ill.”

“I am perfectly sane.” Father drew in a labored breath. “To protect you. We did it…for you, and for Diana’s memory.”

Oliver couldn’t breathe. His chest was moving, but air was not reaching his lungs. His head grew light, and he stood up quickly, backing away from the bed and the words that felt too sensible to be anything but true.

“What has he said?” Uncle Charles asked, returning with a glass and a decanter of amber liquid.

Oliver shook his head, unable to form the words.

“The truth,” Father rasped. Or, not Father , not anymore.

Oliver took another step away, then another.

“You weren’t meant to find out like this,” Uncle Charles said grimly. “But I suppose it is time.”

The room began to spin. Uncle Charles’s confirmation buzzed through his mind, making him dizzy. Oliver took one step away, then another, his speed increasing until he was veritably running from the house. He threw the front door open, the afternoon sunlight blinding him after spending such a length of time in the dim bedroom. Blinking against the brightness, he ran for the stables. Oliver needed to be away from here.

He needed to escape.