Page 54 of His Duchess to Remember

“I didn’t want to stay longer than necessary,” he replied, his tone strange. Detached.

Unsatisfied with his response, she might have pressed him further if it had not been for a shrill, pained cry, shivering all the way through the manor. A scream of such desperation that Octavia was on her feet in an instant, running for the door.

“Simon!” she shouted, for she would have known her son’s wails anywhere. “Simon, Mama is coming!”

It took her a moment to realize that Malcolm was behind her, his footsteps matching the echo of her own as he followed her up the stairs to the nursery. He could have easily passed her, but he allowed her to stay ahead of him, as if he knew that she would want to be the one to reach their son first.

She burst through the door to find Simon writhing on his bed, his face a startling shade of red, bleating out pained cries. The nursemaid was nowhere to be seen, but Octavia had no time to be angry about that.

Rushing to her son’s bedside, Octavia scooped him into her arms and pressed her palm to his forehead. She doubted she had ever felt skin so hot, beads of sweat trickling down the sides of his face.

“He has a fever,” she rasped, her throat tight. “Malcolm, he has a fever! What do I do? Oh… Oh, my sweet boy, what do I do?”

Simon had suffered a few fevers and colds before, but never like this, never so terrifyingly hot.

“My darling?” she whispered, rocking her son. “My darling, wake up. Can you hear me? Simon?”

The little boy whimpered, his face creasing into pained lines, his hands curled into tight fists. But his eyes would not open.

“Malcolm?” Octavia urged, staring at her husband in desperation. “He is so warm, Malcolm.”

Malcolm stood, observant, a short distance away. Rather than answer her, he walked to the basin in the room and poured out fresh water. Taking the clean cloth and draping it over his shoulder, he carried the basin back to the bed.

There, he knelt beside his son and soaked the cloth, wringing it out a little before placing it on Simon’s head.

“He needs blankets,” Malcolm said. “Sweat the fever out. The cloth will keep his forehead cool, and he’ll need to drink water. Ye wring it into his mouth from the cloth.”

He showed her the trickling droplets falling into the boy’s mouth. Some instinct made their son swallow the water, though Octavia knew that water would not be enough. Simon needed medicine; he needed a doctor.

“Why did Doctor Stanforth have to go to London?” she hissed. “Why did he not come back with you? You should have made him come back with you!”

None of this was Malcolm’s fault, she knew that, but she needed someone to turn her worries on.

“He’ll return today,” he replied with surety. “In the meantime, grant me a moment.”

He rose and departed the room, Octavia’s heart racing in fear as she held her son tightly and rocked him back and forth, whispering soothing things. She could not bear to see Simon in pain, knowing she could not take it away for him. It was a feeling of helplessness she was not used to; a feeling she despised.

“I cannot lose you,” she murmured, kissing her son’s soft hair. “I cannot. I will not survive it, my darling. I will not.”

“Ye won’t lose him,” Malcolm’s voice reassured, as he reappeared at her side and sank down onto the edge of the bed.

His strong arms encircled her and their son, his solid chest giving her something to lean against to strengthen herself, the warmth of his presence taking the edge off her helplessness, the confidence in his voice encouraging her to believe that he was telling the truth. That Simon would be all right.

“I’ve asked Mr. Lincoln to fetch the doctor from the village,” Malcolm explained softly. “Simon will be tended to until Doctor Stanforth comes back. It’s just a fever, lass. A sickness that’ll soon pass. Ye’ll see.”

She nodded her head. “Just a sickness. Just a fever.”

“Aye. All will be well,” he murmured, holding them both, making her feel so safe, so reassured, so protected that, for the first time, she began to believe that they might be a family after all.

With one arm still around his wife, Malcolm drenched the cloth afresh and placed it back on Simon’s perspiring brow. The boy murmured in his delirium, his face scrunching, but he at least seemed calmer now that he was in his mother’s embrace. His parents’ embrace, really, for though Octavia was holding Simon, Malcolm was holding Octavia.

Before his accident, nothing could have compelled him to be this close to his wife. It was not safe for him to be so near to her.

Yet, he could not pull away.

When he went to ask the butler to fetch the physician, he could have used it as an excuse to put himself at a polite distance upon his return, but the moment he had seen his wife’s anguish, her worry, all he had wanted to do was bear as much of the burden of her struggle as possible.

“Do you really think he will be all right?” Octavia asked, her voice thick.