Page 56 of The Rules of Courtship
“We’ve sent for Dr. Burnside,” Uncle Charles said. “He should be with us shortly.”
Oliver swallowed, his throat dry. His father had always been a large man, tall and looming, his voice as big as the width of his shoulders. Now he was so small, so frail, it shook Oliver more than he had expected.
“And the doctor in Thistledale? What did he have to say?”
“There is not much time left,” Uncle Charles said. “We thought it best for him to come to Boone Park and spend his final days here with you in his home.”
This was not his home, though, was it? He had not lived here in decades, had not done much more than visit occasionally, then spent the entirety of his leave eager to be gone again. His relationship had been strained with his mother, but hissonwas in this house. It was not until Oliver was standing in this room, observing his ill father, that he realized the man had never truly been comfortable in Boone Park.
His eyes fluttered open, and Oliver felt frozen in place.
“Go to him,” Uncle Charles prodded.
Oliver did as he was told. He skirted the bed, coming to stop near the head. “You are home, Father.”
Father’s eyes were distant, but they looked up to Oliver, something like weariness passing over him.
“Your son is here, William,” Uncle Charles pressed.
“Son?” Father said, his voice hoarse and eyes closed. “I have no son.”
Uncle Charles coughed, but Oliver lifted his hand to put off further speaking. Grandmother had been similar toward the end, losing a sense of who was around her, believing, at one point, she was quite young and her husband was nearby. It was hard to hear that his father had forgotten him, but Oliver recognized the mind was difficult to understand at this stage in a person’s life. The illness, he had read in Uncle Harding’s original letter, had made him lose his wits in large segments of time.
A knock rattled the door behind them, and Oliver moved to let Dr. Burnside in.
“William has endured an arduous journey,” Uncle Charles said. “We opted not to stop for great lengths of time, as removing him from the carriage took a good deal of effort. I fear it has not been good for his health.”
Dr. Burnside listened to Uncle Charles’s explanation andtook the letter written by the doctor who had been seeing to him in Thistledale. “I will examine him thoroughly. You may remain if you’d like.”
Oliver moved toward the door. “I’ve been traveling and need to change. I will leave you to it.”
He left the men behind, feeling the weight of his uncle’s gaze on his back the entirety of his exit. Something was not quite right. Uncle Charles had had a week now to accept the situation, but he seemed to be taking it harder than Oliver was.
Shaking the tiredness from his mind, Oliver went to find his bedchamber and rid himself of his travel-dusted clothing.
“The doctor would liketo speak with you, sir,” Harrison said, looking in on Oliver’s bedroom.
Oliver was seated in his chair near the window, his head in his hands. He sat up and continued tying his cravat. “In my father’s room?”
“I’ve seen the doctor to the parlor, sir.”
“I will be right there.” Oliver finished dressing and brushed his hair from his face with his fingers before going in search of the parlor. He had intended to return home and prepare what he meant to say to Wycliffe. The man deserved an explanation for why Oliver was engaged to his daughter without first asking for his blessing, and Oliver hadn’t the faintest idea what to say. He respected Wycliffe far too much to lie to him, but it was not exactly comfortable to explain that he had been overcome, his attraction mounting, until Ruth had kissed him senseless and he lost all reasonable thought. His lack of self-control had put them into this position, and Oliver was doing what he ought to protect her reputation.
Even in the throes of dealing with an ill father, the thought of Ruth’s lips on his, her hands in his hair, made his body flushwith warmth. He wanted to ride directly to Willowbrook House and find her so she could help him forget everything he currently faced.
By the time he made it to the parlor, Uncle Harding, Samuel, and Uncle Charles were all speaking to Dr. Burnside. It was a veritable convention of Rose men.
Samuel moved toward him at once. Gone was the ornate peach colored waistcoat, yellow cravat, and blue coat he had worn earlier, all replaced with somber colors and reasonable raiment. His watch still boasted far too many fobs, clinking against the chain as he crossed the room. “How are you?”
His concern was touching. Oliver smiled softly in reply before turning his attention to Dr. Burnside.
The doctor wasted no time. “I’m afraid I do not have good news. My examination did not yield different results from the doctor’s in Thistledale. It would seem your father has very little time left. I can leave you with more laudanum to keep him comfortable if you wish, but I recommend having any conversations now that you feel necessary before giving him medicine.”
“Surely he cannot converse reasonably when he does not know to whom he speaks,” Oliver said.
Uncle Charles looked at him sharply.
“His wits were perfectly in shape,” Dr. Burnside said. “I did not receive the impression he was unaware of his identity or surroundings.”
