Rules for a Proper Governess
Page 51
When morning light came, so did Andrew’s fever. Sinclair came wide awake, never feeling his restless night. He commanded cool water to be brought and a tonic called Warburg’s tincture. The tincture was meant for malarial diseases, but Sinclair knew by experience it would work to bring down fever. The powders the doctor had handed to Bertie were useless—he knew that too. Good for dyspepsia and not much else.
Andrew, restless, didn’t want to swallow the medicine, but Sinclair got it into him. He bathed Andrew’s face and hands, changing the bedding himself when Andrew soiled it.
All day Sinclair nursed his son, not knowing what time it was or caring. Somewhere during the day, he let Macaulay talk him into donning a shirt and trousers, but Sinclair saw no reason to dress completely. He napped off and on, felt the deepening of whiskers on his face. He knew others came and went, but Sinclair couldn’t pull his concentration from Andrew.
Sinclair always sensed Bertie’s presence though, even when he didn’t turn his head to look at her, even when she said nothing to him. Cool calm stole over the room whenever she was in it, as though she brought peace and reassurance with her.
When the sun went down, Peter restocked the coal fire, and Macaulay brought Sinclair a cup of beef tea and forced him to drink it. Bertie came in as Macaulay departed.
She didn’t speak, only closed the door quietly, made her way to the bedside, and laid the back of her hand against Andrew’s cheek. His fever had come down a little, or so Sinclair thought, but he was still far from well.
“Cat is finally asleep,” Bertie said. “I gave her some tea with sugar and lots of milk—seemed to do the trick. The poor mite is all in.” She touched the bandages on Andrew’s shoulder then looked at Sinclair. “So are you, I’m thinking.”
“I’ll sleep when it’s over,” Sinclair said sharply.
“I can stay with him. I’ll watch him every second, believe me.”
“No.” Sinclair didn’t move from where he sat on the bed. “I don’t want to leave, in case . . .”
“I’d wake you. I promise. The minute there’s any change.”
“No!” The word rang, Sinclair’s voice raspy. He shook his head as Bertie’s eyes widened. “When Maggie . . . Daisy . . . when she was ill, a nurse stayed with her. The nurse promised to wake me, and she didn’t. She thought it would be easier for me. But I didn’t . . . I didn’t even get to say good-bye.”
Sinclair’s voice broke and his eyes stung. He dragged in a shuddering breath, dismayed that it shook with sobs.
Bertie moved to him with a quiet rustle of fabric. Her arms came around him, and Sinclair found himself cradled against her, her cheek on his hair, her hands warm on his back.
She was so strong, this woman who’d come to him out of nowhere. Sinclair had been standing in the cold, all alone. When you’re ready for me to move on, I know you’ll tell me, he’d said in his thoughts to Daisy, and then Bertie had bumped into him.
He hadn’t been able to cease thinking of Bertie since. Only his son struggling to live had pulled him away from her.
“I’m sorry,” Bertie was saying. “I’ll never be able to say, in the whole of my life, how sorry I truly am.”
Sinclair gently parted her arms and wiped his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“This is my fault.” Her blue eyes were sad, full of remorse. “If I’d not followed you, I never would have led Jeffrey here, and Andrew wouldn’t be hurt. But no, I had to find out where you lived, decided to stay here in your house . . .”
“Why did you?”
Bertie stopped in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Why did you come here? You’d given me back the watch, I’d paid you to lead me back to familiar streets. I’d thought our contract at an end.”
A flush stole over her cheeks, one that rivaled the feverish stain on Andrew’s. “I wanted to see you, didn’t I? To make sure you were all right.”
Sinclair let some amusement trickle through his gut-wrenching worry. “Not to look over what pickings you might get from me? You don’t have to pretend.”
Her brows drew down. “You still think I came to steal from you?”
“No. Not anymore.” Sinclair squeezed her hand. “But when you first found out where I lived, you must have thought me a good mark. Not paying much attention to the world, my nose stuck in my papers. Ripe for the plucking.”
Bertie tried to pull from his grasp. “I told you. I wanted to see you again. If you don’t believe that, then you don’t.”
Sinclair lost his smile. “I don’t know what I believe anymore.”
They watched each other in silence a moment, Sinclair holding her hand as though he couldn’t let go. Her stiff fingers relaxed, and she didn’t try to pull away again.
“Believe me now,” Bertie said. “You need to rest, or you’ll get sick yourself. Cat and Andrew don’t need to lose you too.” She smoothed her free hand along the sheets. “You lie right here beside him, and I’ll sit by the bed and watch him like a hawk. The minute he moves, I’ll wake you. Can’t say fairer than that.”
Sinclair met her gaze, her eyes full of sincerity. Ironic that a backstreet London pickpocket could speak more truth than the men of law he worked with every day.
“Your name should be Verity,” he heard himself say. “Truth.” She was right, he needed sleep.
Andrew, restless, didn’t want to swallow the medicine, but Sinclair got it into him. He bathed Andrew’s face and hands, changing the bedding himself when Andrew soiled it.
All day Sinclair nursed his son, not knowing what time it was or caring. Somewhere during the day, he let Macaulay talk him into donning a shirt and trousers, but Sinclair saw no reason to dress completely. He napped off and on, felt the deepening of whiskers on his face. He knew others came and went, but Sinclair couldn’t pull his concentration from Andrew.
Sinclair always sensed Bertie’s presence though, even when he didn’t turn his head to look at her, even when she said nothing to him. Cool calm stole over the room whenever she was in it, as though she brought peace and reassurance with her.
When the sun went down, Peter restocked the coal fire, and Macaulay brought Sinclair a cup of beef tea and forced him to drink it. Bertie came in as Macaulay departed.
She didn’t speak, only closed the door quietly, made her way to the bedside, and laid the back of her hand against Andrew’s cheek. His fever had come down a little, or so Sinclair thought, but he was still far from well.
“Cat is finally asleep,” Bertie said. “I gave her some tea with sugar and lots of milk—seemed to do the trick. The poor mite is all in.” She touched the bandages on Andrew’s shoulder then looked at Sinclair. “So are you, I’m thinking.”
“I’ll sleep when it’s over,” Sinclair said sharply.
“I can stay with him. I’ll watch him every second, believe me.”
“No.” Sinclair didn’t move from where he sat on the bed. “I don’t want to leave, in case . . .”
“I’d wake you. I promise. The minute there’s any change.”
“No!” The word rang, Sinclair’s voice raspy. He shook his head as Bertie’s eyes widened. “When Maggie . . . Daisy . . . when she was ill, a nurse stayed with her. The nurse promised to wake me, and she didn’t. She thought it would be easier for me. But I didn’t . . . I didn’t even get to say good-bye.”
Sinclair’s voice broke and his eyes stung. He dragged in a shuddering breath, dismayed that it shook with sobs.
Bertie moved to him with a quiet rustle of fabric. Her arms came around him, and Sinclair found himself cradled against her, her cheek on his hair, her hands warm on his back.
She was so strong, this woman who’d come to him out of nowhere. Sinclair had been standing in the cold, all alone. When you’re ready for me to move on, I know you’ll tell me, he’d said in his thoughts to Daisy, and then Bertie had bumped into him.
He hadn’t been able to cease thinking of Bertie since. Only his son struggling to live had pulled him away from her.
“I’m sorry,” Bertie was saying. “I’ll never be able to say, in the whole of my life, how sorry I truly am.”
Sinclair gently parted her arms and wiped his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“This is my fault.” Her blue eyes were sad, full of remorse. “If I’d not followed you, I never would have led Jeffrey here, and Andrew wouldn’t be hurt. But no, I had to find out where you lived, decided to stay here in your house . . .”
“Why did you?”
Bertie stopped in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Why did you come here? You’d given me back the watch, I’d paid you to lead me back to familiar streets. I’d thought our contract at an end.”
A flush stole over her cheeks, one that rivaled the feverish stain on Andrew’s. “I wanted to see you, didn’t I? To make sure you were all right.”
Sinclair let some amusement trickle through his gut-wrenching worry. “Not to look over what pickings you might get from me? You don’t have to pretend.”
Her brows drew down. “You still think I came to steal from you?”
“No. Not anymore.” Sinclair squeezed her hand. “But when you first found out where I lived, you must have thought me a good mark. Not paying much attention to the world, my nose stuck in my papers. Ripe for the plucking.”
Bertie tried to pull from his grasp. “I told you. I wanted to see you again. If you don’t believe that, then you don’t.”
Sinclair lost his smile. “I don’t know what I believe anymore.”
They watched each other in silence a moment, Sinclair holding her hand as though he couldn’t let go. Her stiff fingers relaxed, and she didn’t try to pull away again.
“Believe me now,” Bertie said. “You need to rest, or you’ll get sick yourself. Cat and Andrew don’t need to lose you too.” She smoothed her free hand along the sheets. “You lie right here beside him, and I’ll sit by the bed and watch him like a hawk. The minute he moves, I’ll wake you. Can’t say fairer than that.”
Sinclair met her gaze, her eyes full of sincerity. Ironic that a backstreet London pickpocket could speak more truth than the men of law he worked with every day.
“Your name should be Verity,” he heard himself say. “Truth.” She was right, he needed sleep.
