Page 55 of A Highly Unlikely Duchess
“Together.”
“They will die.”
Theodore stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“They will die,” Frederick said again. “No food. No water. They argue.” He paused. “Then they die. That is sad.”
Theodore looked at him for a long moment. “I was not planning to lock them in without provisions.”
“But you said they cannot leave,” Frederick said.
“Until they agree,” Theodore said. “I did not specify the conditions of the room. There would be food. And water. And presumably windows.”
Frederick considered this. “How long before they agree?”
“I estimate,” Theodore said. “Three days. Perhaps four. Briggs is stubborn, but the estate manager has a weak constitution and would likely capitulate somewhere around the end of day two when Briggs starts talking about drainage at dinner.”
Frederick thought about this with great concentration. “What if Briggs also has a... weak constitution?”
“Briggs...” Theodore said. “... has been tending these gardens for thirty years in all weather. Briggs has no weak constitution.”
“What if the estate manager cries?”
“Then Briggs will feel terrible about it and agree immediately,” Theodore said. “Briggs strikes me as the kind of man who cannot bear it when people cry. He goes very red and apologizes for things that are not his fault.”
Frederick stared at him.
Then he laughed. Properly this time, the full unguarded laugh, bright and genuine, his whole small face in it.
“Is that funny?” Theodore asked, chuckling.
“I don’t think they will cry. Old people don’t cry.”
Frederick's laugh faded into the comfortable, drowsy quiet of a child who had spent something he had been holding. His eyes were still bright, but the brightness was softening now, the fever still present but the worst edge of it eased by the cool cloth and, Theodore suspected, by the fact that he had laughed.
He was quiet for a moment. Then he turned his head on the pillow and looked at Theodore.
“What does Emily do?” Theodore said. “When you cannot sleep.”
Frederick considered this as though it were a point of some significance. “She sings sometimes. But mostly she does this.”He reached up and made a slow, vague stroking motion near his own hair.
Theodore looked at the motion. He looked at Frederick. He looked briefly at the ceiling.
“She strokes you to sleep?” he said.
Frederick nodded.
Theodore sat with this information for a moment. Then he stood from the bed, set the cloth on the bedside table, and took off his coat. Frederick watched him with great interest, saying nothing.
“I am not going to sing,” Theodore said.
Frederick nodded seriously, as though he had already assumed this and was at peace with it.
Theodore shifted back against the headboard. Frederick turned toward him instinctively, and Theodore reached out and placed his hand on the boy's hair.
He moved it. Once. Slowly.
Frederick's eyes drooped immediately.
