Page 49 of A Highly Unlikely Duchess
“It is likely just a summer chill, Your Grace,” Peggy offered, though her brow was furrowed as she wrung out a fresh cloth.
“We should tell His Grace,” said Martha.
Martha was one of the younger housemaids, a practical, soft-spoken girl of perhaps nineteen who was attached to Emily's orbit within the first day of their arrival. She was standing at the foot of Frederick's bed now with a damp cloth in her hands, too, and an expression of genuine concern.
“His Grace is kind,” Martha continued. “He could send for a good physician.”
“No,” Emily said, shaking her head. “I can speak to Mrs. Holt for a recommendation... perhaps, she can send for a physician. Not the duke.”
Martha looked at her.
“He is busy,” Emily said, smoothing Frederick's blanket. “I have not seen him properly in five days, and I am not going to interrupt whatever he is doing to tell him that Frederick has a fever that may well resolve itself by morning.” She looked at the boy's face, flushed and too warm against the pillow. “We simply need to keep him cool and make sure he drinks enough and watch him through the night.”
“But Your Grace —” Martha began.
“Let us hope he is fine by morning,” Emily said.
Peggy, who had been watching this exchange from the corner of the room, made a small sound that was not quite a word.
Emily looked at her.
“I did not say anything,” Peggy said pleasantly.
“You made a sound.”
“I cleared my throat.”
“Peggy.”
“I simply think...” Peggy said, with great care. “... that the Duke would want to know. That is all I think. I am not saying anything further.”
Emily looked back at Frederick. His breathing was even, at least. Restless but even. She had sent down to the kitchen an hour ago for warm milk with a little honey stirred in, which was what she used to give him when he could not sleep, and it had not arrived yet.
She frowned at the door.
“How long ago did I send down for the milk?” she said.
“Perhaps twenty minutes, Your Grace,” Martha said.
“Twenty minutes.” Emily stood. “I will go and check.”
“I can go,” Peggy said immediately, moving toward the door.
“Stay with him,” Emily said, already at the door herself. “I need you here. I will be two minutes.”
She slipped out into the corridor before either of them could say another word and pulled the door quietly shut behind her.
The corridor was dark and still, lit only by the wall sconces at either end, their flames small in the airless silence of the house at night. Emily stood for a moment with her hand still on Frederick's door and thought about what Martha had said.
He could send for a better physician.
She knew that. She had known that for the last two hours while she pressed cool cloths to Frederick's forehead and told herself it was just a fever, that children had fevers, and that it would resolve by morning. She had known it and chose not to act on it because doing so would have meant going to Theodore, and going to Theodore would have meant admitting that she needed something from him. She had spent the last five days very carefully constructing a version of this marriage in which she did not need anything from him that she could not manage herself.
She set off down the corridor toward the stairs.
The house was quiet around her. She was walking through them in her dressing gown, with her hair half down, worrying whether she was making the right call by not bothering Theodore with Frederick’s condition.
She reached the top of the stairs and started down. She was only a couple of steps down the stairway when she saw him, and a gasp slipped from her lips. Theodore was ascending slowly, the flickering light of a single candelabra carving sharp angles into his jawline. Emily hesitated at the landing, her first instinct to retreat.
