Page 123 of The Heir
He’s dying.
Victoire, Duchess of Kent, sat on a hard stool at her husband’s bedside and willed him to keep breathing.
The room was dark, except for the fire that sputtered fitfully in the hearth, trying in vain to match the roar of wind and surf outside, trying also to warm the room and bring some small chance of life to the man who lay so still in the narrow bed.
John Conroy stood back and watched the duchess and the dying man. A strange mixture of hope and fear twisted in his guts.
The doctor—William Maton—was speaking to them both. Dr. Maton was a fussy, fat, pale, bald man. He had spent the past four days swearing as to the unfailing efficacy of his knives, cups, and leeches. Now he was saying something far different.
“Your grace, I believe we have done all we can at this time. Your husband is strong. We have every reason to hope, with the help of the Almighty, he shall make a full recovery.”
The duchess’s English was terrible. If she understood any of what Maton had said, she gave no sign. Her jaw moved back and forth. She had the habit of grinding her teeth when she was upset. The duke had sounded him out on several schemes to break her of the habit.
The doctor fell silent, but a fresh noise insinuated itself into the room’s chill—a thin, insistent bawling. The baby, tucked up in her cot in the adjoining room, had begun to cry.
Again.Conroy had three children of his own, and he’d never known an infant so demanding of everyone’s constant attention.
Drafts curled around Conroy’s neck and the backs of his hands. He watched the duchess. She was a beautiful woman, determined and quick, nothing like his own wife at home. But she was dulled by grief and confused by the danger that her husband and protector found himself in.
She is alone, he thought.And she knows it.
Dr. Maton looked up at Conroy. “Does she understand what I’m saying?”
“I’m sure she does,” he answered, although he was not sure at all.
“I think we will know for certain in another hour. I have every hope that this crisis is nearly past us.”
The duchess had turned her face toward the window, not that there was anything to see. The shutter had been closed. For all the good it did in keeping out the cold or the sound of the storm.
The baby was still crying. Where was the blasted nurse? Or that dratted Lehzen? Or even useless little Feodora?
“Victoire.”
It was the duke. His eyes were open, but the light in them was not a healthy spark. It was flickering, fevered.
Dying.Conroy’s heart thumped.
The duchess seized his hand. “Yes, my heart, I am here.”
“Victoire,” Edward said again.
“Rest, my heart. You must regain your strength.”
Victoire pressed her hand against her eyes.
The baby was still crying.
“Conroy,” said the duchess.
“Yes, your grace?”
“Go see to the baby. Go talk to the nurse. See that Feodora and William are still asleep. I . . . I cannot.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He bowed. He also caught Maton’s eye and jerked his chin, indicating that the doctor should accompany him.
Dr. Maton nodded, and together they left the room. The duchess did not look up to see them leave.
Like the rest of the house, the front parlor was dark. The storm rattled the shuttered windows and drew moans from the chimney.
