Lady Tolliver knelt near her husband’s head, making small broken sounds that seemed all the more terrible for being nothing like her usual performances. “He said his chest,” she kept saying. “He said it was his chest. I thought it nerves.”
Lady Malverne moved along the passage behind Jasper, shepherding guests back. “Into your rooms, if you please. His Grace has the matter in hand.”
The doors reluctantly began to close.
Jasper stood in the corridor with Charlotte sobbing into his chest.
“Oh God,” she said, the words muffled against his waistcoat. “Oh God, Jasper. Papa. How could I? How could I even think to leave him?”
Jasper closed his eyes and held her tighter.
“How could I have packed my things?” she whispered. “He was across the corridor. He was just there. And I was going to—”
“Hush, now.”
Inside the chamber, Lord Tolliver groaned faintly.
Charlotte tore herself from Jasper’s arms at once and turned towards the door. “Papa?”
Morleigh glanced up. His eyes moved from her to Jasper, and in that brief look Jasper saw that the duke understood far too much. To his credit, Morleigh said nothing of it. “Do not crowd him,” he said instead. “But you may come here, Charlotte. Quietly.”
Jasper watched as she knelt beside her father, taking his limp hand in both of hers. He turned away, because there were some things a man had no right to watch too closely, even when they were breaking his own heart.
Lady Malverne approached him in the passage.
“Mr Deverell,” she said, with only the faintest glance at his greatcoat, his boots, and the hat still clutched in one hand. “You appear prepared for travel.”
Jasper looked down at himself. “I heard the cry.”
“Indeed.” Her eyes were sharp, though her voice remained mild. “Then be useful enough to justify your presence.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Stand there. Keep the guests back. If anyone attempts to enter, look aristocratic and immovable.”
“I am only the heir to an earl,” he said dryly.
“At midnight, in a crisis, that will suffice.” She swept away before he could answer.
Chapter 42
Lord Tolliver did not die.
I begin with this assurance because I wish to rob the reader of suspense, and because the Tolliver family has already endured quite enough of it, and there are only so many times in one week that a young lady may confront mortality before she becomes either philosophical or French.
His lordship had suffered, according to Dr Bell, “a most serious seizure about the heart,” which was a phrase sufficiently alarming to terrify everyone and sufficiently vague to comfort no one. He was to be kept warm, still, quiet, and entirely free from agitation.
Lady Tolliver, upon being told that agitation must be avoided, immediately became so agitated by the importance of avoiding agitation that Dr Bell was obliged to administer drops to her first.
Throughout the next day, Lottie sat in the little chair beside her father’s bed and did not run. She was not feeling very well, if truth be told. She had not slept, and was feeling relieved, guilty,tired, and haunted by the image of a small valise sitting upon the counterpane across the corridor, still packed for America.
But Papa was alive. Perhaps she should wash her face, and sleep for a few hours.
“I shall be back shortly, Papa,” she whispered, kissing his hand.
“Do not go far,” he murmured, and she jolted, for she did not realise he was awake.
The words destroyed her. “No. I shall not.”
