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“Fingal says three days, but I cannot be sure. Lost count.” He sat by her side on the mattress.
She did not show surprise with the information. “Can I have some water?”
With a cup in his hand, he filled it from the jug on the nightstand, and came back to her side to help her drink it. Her complexion was sallow, and she lost weight despite his efforts to make her ingest broth these last days. She would have to stay in bed for a while longer.
“You must rest.” Her voice still feeble.
“Do not worry about me.” His thumb caressed her bony fingers. “You are the one who has just vanquished a fever.”
Hazel eyes took in his bedraggled state and paid his words no heed. Her other hand touched the place by her side. “Come to bed.”
He should not disturb her, he understood it. Should let her recover. But he was damned tired. And she offered him a warm place by her side. Who was he to refuse? How was he to refuse? He came under the coverlet as her head rested on his shoulder. He held her protectively, and they fell asleep.
Hours later, Freya snapped her eyelids open to full morning. The need to check on her son led her to ignore her dizziness while she tried to disengage from Drostan and stand.
The movement must have alerted him. “Freya.” He rasped. “You are not well enough to get up.”
In between staggering steps, she tried to reach the chair where a wrap lay. “I would like to check on Ewan.” Barely sustaining her weight, she almost fell over the chair.
Her husband was up and by her side in a second. “The nanny is with him.”
“Yes, but he may need something.” She insisted, fumbling with the fabric.
He understood she would not give up, so he helped her into the garment before he lifted her in his arms. “I will take you in that case.” And carried her as though she was a feather.
In the nursery, the nanny sat by the boy’s bed and stood when they came. “I managed to give him some broth, my lady.” She informed.
“Thank you, Bess.” She answered. Aided by Drostan, she put her feet on the carpet, and bent over the bed to look at him, the man’s arms around her for support.
Still flushed, he slept peacefully, covered in wool. His parents looked down at his wan cherubic features. A sharp pain shredded her heart to see him in this state.
Slowly, so slowly, he stirred in the bed and his eyes struggled to open. “Mama.” He said almost inaudibly. “Papa.” His chubby hands rubbed his eyes. “I feel funny.”
“I know, my love.” A faint smile designed on her dry lips. “You will be well soon.”
The boy nodded sedate. “You must rest, mo balach.” Drostan recommended. “To regain your strength faster.”
“Is Loch here?” His parents exchanged a glance.
> “Yes, son, do not worry about her.” His father answered.
The toddler seemed satisfied with the answer, and fell back asleep.
“Come, Morair Chat.” Drostan interrupted her contemplation of her son. “You should not be out of bed either.” He held her in his arms and left the nursery.
Later that day, Freya progressed to a much better state. A warm bath and solid food contributed to it. Not long ago, she padded to the nursery to check on Ewan and relief filled her as she found the boy up and playing with the nanny. They chatted, and he wanted to show her the toys he had there.
After eating dinner which came on a tray, she sat on the bed reading a book in her nightgown and woollen wrap. The snow stopped, but the grey weather continued to paint the landscape in gloomy shades.
The recent events still caused a shrill to go through her. She avoided thinking about how close she and her son edged to the worst. But it loomed in her mind, anyway. And there had been many ‘worst’ scenarios. The possibility of embarking on that ship, for one. Intense pain convulsed in her at the thought of leaving the country she loved and the husband she would never forget. She would have evaded this destiny if she had put her mind to it. She might have taken the ship and gone down in Glasgow where it headed before gaining open sea. She could have come back to Aberdeen and made a home for her and Ewan there, or even in Glasgow itself. If living in the derelict cottage had been hell, for it lay on the borders of the McKendricks, Aberdeen or Glasgow would have been infinite anguish. On this side or on the other of the ocean, away from Drostan would become exile in equal measure. The mere hint of it dripped despair in her insides.
And then falling sick right on the road back. If something had happened to Ewan, she would never be able to forgive herself or whoever caused it. She feared she would have committed murder with her own bare hands. To imagine life without her son, who had been so close to her in these last years, the only solace, the only sunshine, the only positive outcome of this whole mess. She would have gone out of her mind.
The worst did not transpire. Which was why she sat on her former bed. Or present one, she could not tell. Preferred not to, frankly. Because it would lead her to question her future. Right now, there was no predicting it with the danger hanging over her yet.
Earlier, she had asked John to come talk to her. He reported he took Mrs Wilson to Aberdeen, saying the snow had favoured them. With a hazy horizon, the lackey who kept on their hills could not see them so accurately, especially under the layers of clothing they wore. At the port, he bought her the first-class passage, helped them in the ship and bid goodbye. Freya made a mental note to ask Drostan to reward the footman. Without him, she would have accomplished none of it. The lad expressed his admiration for her acumen in dealing with the predicament they had at hand. And wished her fast recovery before going back to his chores.
A movement at the threshold made her turn to it as Drostan entered the bedchamber. Night had fallen, and the fireplace blazed, casting an intimate light around it.
