And so am I, he added silently. He’d spent years avoiding his children, fearing that he’d make a mistake, terrified that he’d lose his temper. He’d thought he was doing the best thing for them, keeping them at arm’s length, but he’d been wrong. So very wrong.
“I love you,” he said to them, hoarsely, with great emotion. “You know that, don’t you?”
They nodded, their eyes bright.
“I will always love you,” he whispered, crouching down until they were all of a level. He drew them close, savoring their warmth. “I will always love you.”
Chapter 17
. . . regardless, Daphne, I do not think you should have run off.
—from Eloise Bridgerton to her
sister the Duchess of Hastings,
during Daphne’s brief separation
from her husband,
mere weeks into their marriage
The ride to Benedict’s was rutted and bumpy, and by the time Eloise stepped down at her brother’s front steps, her mood had gone from bad to foul. To make matters worse, when the butler opened the door he looked at her as if she were a madwoman.
“Graves?” Eloise finally asked, when it became clear that he was beyond speech.
“Are they expecting you?” he asked, still gaping.
“Well, no,” Eloise said, looking quite pointedly beyond him into the house, since that, after all, was where she wanted to be.
It had started to drizzle, and she was not dressed for the rain.
“But I hardly think . . .” she began.
Graves stepped aside, belatedly remembering himself and allowing her entrance. “It’s Master Charles,” he said, referring to Benedict and Sophie’s eldest son, just five and a half years old. “He’s quite ill. He—”
Eloise felt something awful and acidic rise in her throat. “What is wrong?” she asked, not even bothering to temper her urgency. “Is he . . .” Good heavens, how did one ask if a young child was dying?
“I’ll get Mrs. Bridgerton,” Graves said, swallowing convulsively. He turned and scurried up the stairs.
“Wait!” Eloise called out, wanting to ask him more, but he was already gone.
She slumped into a chair, feeling sick with worry, and then, as if that weren’t enough, rather disgusted with herself for having been even the least bit dissatisfied with her own lot in life. Her troubles with Phillip, which in truth weren’t even troubles at all but nothing more than small irritants—well, they seemed very small and insignificant next to this.
“Eloise!”
It was Benedict, not Sophie, who came down the stairs. He looked haggard, his eyes red-rimmed, his skin pale and pasty. Eloise knew better than to ask him how long it had been since he’d slept; the question would be beyond annoying, and besides, the answer was right there on his face—he hadn’t closed his eyes for days.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I came for a visit,” she said. “Just to say hello. I had no idea. What is wrong? How is Charles? I saw him just last week. He looked fine. He— What is wrong?”
Benedict required several seconds to muster the energy to speak. “He has a fever. I don’t know why. On Saturday, he woke up fine, but by luncheon he was—” He sagged against the wall, closing his eyes in agony. “He was burning up,” he whispered. “I don’t know what to do.”
“What did the doctor say?” Eloise asked.
“Nothing,” Benedict said in a hollow voice. “Nothing of use, anyway.”
“May I see him?”
Benedict nodded, his eyes still closed.
“You need to rest,” Eloise said.
“I can’t,” he said.
“You must. You’re no good to anyone like this, and I’d wager Sophie is no better.”
“I made her sleep an hour ago,” he said. “She looked like death.”
“Well, you don’t look any better,” Eloise told him, keeping her tone purposefully brisk and businesslike. Sometimes that was what people needed at times like this—to be ordered about, told what to do. Compassion would only make her brother cry, and neither of them wanted to be witness to that.
“You must go to bed,” Eloise ordered. “Now. I’ll care for Charles. Even if you sleep only an hour, you’ll feel so much better.”
He didn’t reply; he’d fallen asleep standing up.
Eloise quickly took charge. She directed Graves to put Benedict to bed, and she took over the sickroom, trying not to gasp when she first stepped in and saw her small nephew.
He looked tiny and frail in the large bed; Benedict and Sophie had had him moved to their bedchamber, where there was more room for people to tend to him. His skin was flushed, but his eyes, when he opened them, were glassy and unfocused, and when he wasn’t lying unnaturally still, he was thrashing about, mumbling incoherently about ponies and treehouses and marzipan candy.
It made Eloise wonder what she would mumble incoherently about, were she ever to be gripped by a fever.
She mopped his brow, and she turned him and helped the maids change his sheets, and she didn’t notice as the sun slipped below the horizon. She just thanked the heavens that Charles did not worsen under her care, because according to the servants, Benedict and Sophie had been at his side for two days straight, and Eloise did not want to have to wake either of them up with bad news.
She sat in the chair by the bed, and she read to him from his favorite book of children’s tales, and she told him stories of when his father was young. And she doubted that he heard a word, but it all made her feel better, because she couldn’t just sit there and do nothing.