Deborah Hale - My Lord Protector

When she returned to his bedside, she found Sir Edmund distressed anew.

“Please don’t go away again, Alice,” he begged. “My head hurts so. The light makes it hurt.”

Julianna snuffed the candle and returned to sit by the bed. Where was the girl with the water she had ordered?

“There now, is that better?” She reached for his hand in the darkness.

Sir Edmund clung to her fingers. “My head still hurts, and I feel so hot.” His voice sounded petulant.

“Lovely cool water will be coming soon. Is there anything else you would like in the meantime?”

“Sing me a song. I like to hear you sing, Alice. Please?”

“What shall I sing?”

“You know. ‘The Scarborough Fair.’ That is my favorite.” He sounded indignant that she had not remembered.

“Of course. How could I forget? ‘Go you now to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme...’”

Gently, hardly above a whisper, Julianna sang the old tune and every other quiet, soothing melody she could think of—airs and ballads, hymns and nursery rhymes. Between songs, she murmured the kind of endearments she could recall from her own childhood sickbed. When the water came, she bathed his fevered forehead, crooning all the while.

The late winter sun had risen when Julianna noticed Sir Edmund’s breathing becoming slower and more even. His head felt cooler. The fever broken, he slept.

Julianna’s own eyes were beginning to droop when Gwenyth appeared. “Mr. Brock has brought the doctor, ma’am. He would speak with you outside. I can sit with the master, if you like.”

“Very well, Gwenyth. Call me right away if he wakes.”

In the corridor, Julianna found Brock with Jonathan Cail.

“Dear Dr. Cail! Thank you so much for coming.”

The doctor took her hand. “Why, Miss Ramsay, what a lady you have become since last we met. Though you do look like you just stepped out of an old painting.”

“Excuse me? Oh, the dress!” Julianna gave a weary chuckle. “My husband was delirious last night from the fever, and calling for his dead sister. I thought the masquerade might calm his mind, and so it did.”

“A wise idea. It is always best to indulge a delirious patient, if possible. Any agitation only works against the healing process.”

Julianna cast Mordecai Brock a look to say she had told him so. He refused to take notice.

“I am pleased to say we will not require your services after all. My husband’s fever has subsided at last. He is sleeping.”

“Then I will not disturb him for the present. If what your steward tells me is true, your husband is not yet out of danger. Is there someplace private, where we may speak at greater length?”

“Why certainly. You have not yet broken your fast, I think.” Julianna turned to the steward. “Mr. Brock, order breakfast for two. Then get yourself to bed. I know you have lost more than one night’s sleep since Christmas.”

“I believe I will sit with Sir Edmund until you return, ma’am,” he replied.

“No, Mr. Brock.” Julianna almost stamped her foot for emphasis. “If Sir Edmund’s illness continues, I will need you rested and well to assist me. Gwenyth is with him now and he is sleeping. You must do the same. Consider that an order.”

“Aye, ma’am.” He heaved his words in a great sigh. Julianna doubted Mr. Brock would have any trouble obeying her command.

As Julianna and the doctor awaited their breakfast in the dining room, she asked, “What did you mean about my husband not being out of danger? What is this awful fever?”

“Of course I have not yet examined the patient, but your manservant’s account of Sir Edmund’s medical history was very specific and informative. He would make a fine physician.”

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