Michelle Styles - Impoverished Miss, Convenient Wife

Tiredness made Phoebe’s mind clumsy, but she fought against it. All she knew was that tying the boy down was wrong. He was a frightened little boy in need of understanding. He had had scarlet fever, not brain fever. ‘Did she say why he had bitten her? Did anyone see it happen? She went against your wishes about the window.’

Mr Clare’s face took on an even more ruthless demeanour, became even more piratical. She suspected that he longed for a plank so that she could be ordered to walk it. ‘She attempted to give him his laudanum. And I saw the bite.’

‘Perhaps the nurse tried to force it down his throat— against his will. He reacted in the only way he had left.’

‘He must do as he is told, Miss Benedict.’ Mr Clare regarded her with disdain. ‘All of us must do things in this life that we dislike, but we do them. It has been explained to Robert, several times.’

‘Have you ever had medicine forced down your throat, Mr Clare?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘It matters a great deal.’

The air crackled between them, replete with some raw elemental emotion. His hard look intensified. Phoebe resolutely refused to turn her gaze away as the heat between them threatened to sear her. Suddenly he turned his face. The breath exited her lungs with a whoosh.

‘My stepbrothers never had to be tied down when they had scarlet fever, not even the youngest, and he contracted rheumatic fever,’ she said quietly. ‘I think the nurse has frightened Robert badly.’

‘Your stepbrothers were not Robert. If he will not take his medicine, measures must be taken.’ Mr Clare’s mouth became a thin white line. ‘Is that all you wished to speak me about? Your time is nearly up.’

‘Have these fits been happening long? Did he ever have episodes like this before she started to care for him?’ Phoebe asked quickly, seeking to regain the upper hand. ‘Your sister never said that he suffered from any affliction. Did the fever cause this?’

‘They started within the last few weeks. Just before Mrs Smith started or just after.’ Mr Clare ran his hand through his hair. ‘Then this started happening—these fits of madness. I knew Diana was my last chance. Robert’s cries were unbearable.’

Phoebe pressed her lips together. Thank goodness Lord Coltonby had seen the sense of it and had prevented his wife from travelling. This sickroom was the last place where Lady Coltonby should be.

‘Have you had the doctor in? What does he say?’ Tiredness made her head fuzzy, blocking her thoughts.

‘Doctor MacFarlane says that only time will cure him. It is out of our hands.’ Simon Clare crossed his arms and gave her a dark brooding look. ‘Robert must be nursed here.’

Robert was not mad. It was his illness. He had contracted rheumatic fever. It had to be. It bore all the hallmarks of what Edmund had had. St Vitus’s dance. Phoebe paused, unclear how best to proceed. Then she decided that she would simply have to say it, tell Mr Clare the worst. But hopefully, once he knew, then he would stop using the ropes. It had to work.

‘My youngest stepbrother, Edmund, contracted rheumatic fever after his bout of scarlet fever. His limbs and face would shake and move. Our doctor called the condition StVitus’s Dance. It affected his heart, not his mind.’

‘And how does he fare now?’ Simon Clare’s hoarse whisper echoed down the corridor.

‘He can run as well as any man, better than most. He has finished his last term at Oxford.’ Phoebe could not resist a note of pride creeping into her voice. Of all of her stepbrothers, Edmund was the one she felt closest to. He made her feel as if she was not an outsider, as if he truly cared about what happened to her. ‘He hopes to join one of the Inns of Court soon and train to be a lawyer. Hardly the actions of an imbecile.’

She forced her gaze to meet Mr Clare’s green one, felt it bore down into her soul as if he were searching for something. Every inclination in her body told her that he would yell and storm, but she kept regarding him, refusing to flinch. He looked away.

‘Is it not an affliction?’ Mr Clare’s voice was a husky rasp. ‘Will Robert recover? Will he return to his old self? Do you promise me?’

‘I have every reason to hope Robert will recover as well. He looks so much like Edmund,’ she whispered. ‘It may take a long time, but there is hope. You do not need to use ropes. He must be kept calm. Please let me try. Your sister believed I could help.’

‘You have seen him at his worst and have not run. It is more than several of the maids were able to stand. Perhaps Diana’s judgment was not misplaced.’ The colour drained from Simon Clare’s face, but his shoulders straightened. ‘What do you propose?’

‘Keep him quiet. Speak to him gently. Reasonably. He looks to be an intelligent boy.’ Phoebe forced her voice to be calm and matter of fact. Excitement surged through her. She had this one chance to prove her worth. ‘He is not to be put under any undue stress.’

‘But he needs to take his medicine. I refuse to allow him to become a little savage. I refuse…’ His voice tailed off in exhaustion.

‘Allow me to handle this. I will get him to take the laudanum.’ Phoebe said the words with far more confidence than she felt. ‘Allow me to prove that I can nurse Robert. If I can’t, I will leave in the morning and you can hire another nurse with references.’

‘You have ten minutes.’ He held out his hand. ‘And, Miss Benedict, he must take his medicine.’

Phoebe swallowed hard and touched her fingers to his. They curled around hers for an instant, warm and strong. A pulse went up her arm and she rapidly withdrew her hand. ‘It will be enough time.’

Silently she prayed that her words were true.

Chapter Three

Ten minutes to get Robert to trust her enough to take his medicine quietly. She had made a bargain with the devil. But it did give her a slim chance. Phoebe pushed open the bedroom door as the wails started again. Her legs threatened to give way and her stomach knotted. Her easy words to Mr Clare echoed in her head. She could get this frightened child to take his medicine. She ` gave a half-smile and wondered why it was so easy to say things, but so difficult to actually achieve them.

She placed the wicker basket down at the entrance and willed the kitten to stay there. She would not need the ropes. All she had to do was to believe. A calm firm voice and slow movements—the same way she had captured the kitten earlier in the day. The same way she had nursed her stepbrothers.

At her approach, Robert stopped crying and regarded her with eyes that were too large for his face. His entire body went still. Behind her, she was aware of Mr Clare’s looming presence, watching her every move, doubting her ability. It irritated her that she was intensely aware of every little movement he made—the fierceness in his eyes, the way his fingers curled into a fist, the warning hunch of his shoulders. She stopped, turned back and shut the door with a decisive click.

‘Who are you?’ Robert shouted. ‘Go away! I want my aunt!’

‘Robert, your Aunt Diana sent me in her place. I have a message for you.’

‘A message?’ Robert tilted his head to one side. ‘What sort of message?’

A breath escaped Phoebe’s lips. She had his attention. Everything would turn out fine. She made her voice sound sing-song, unhurried, easy and light as if it did not matter that time was sliding through her fingers. ‘Your aunt is very sorry. She wanted to be at your side, but she can’t come.’