Page 12 of A Daring Desire

“What’s that for?” Berrycloth said in obvious alarm.

“Oh, eye of newt, bat’s wings, you know the sort of thing,” she said darkly and snorted at the look of horror in his eyes. “Good heavens don’t look so terrified. I shall boil some water and add marjoram oil. The steam might help ease his breathing.”

Berrycloth looked so ridiculously relieved at this information she almost laughed. Instead, she favoured him with a searching look, wondering how devoted he was to her husband.

“We have a very difficult few days ahead of us, Mr Berrycloth. If you believe it is possible you will take fright or object to my methods, it might be best if you leave before we begin, for I have no time for rowing or lengthy explanations to persuade you to my way of thinking. But I tell you now, I am not about to let Lord Kilbane die. I have waited this long to have my husband beside me, and if he thinks he can escape me by… by….” Her voice quavered and she sucked in a breath, steadying herself. “Well, I won’t let him, that’s all,” she finished, unable to say more, but certain Berrycloth understood.

Apparently, he did, for he stripped off his coat and pushed his spectacles up his nose. “I’m going nowhere,” he said grimly, rolling up his sleeves. “But if we are to become so very well acquainted, I believe I should prefer you to call me Gilbert.”

Cat let out a soft laugh and nodded. “I should be happy to do so.”

The next days were the worst that Cat had ever lived through as Kilbane grew steadily weaker, and his fever did not abate. His mind wandered, and he became increasingly agitated, sometimes raging at people who were not there, and at others becoming so distressed that Cat wept with him, wishing she knew how to comfort him. She had a cot set up in his room and slept beside him, snatching what rest she could, though she hardly dared to close her eyes for fear of what she might find on waking. The hours passed with the sense of being trapped in a peculiar nightmare. She had dreamed of her husband beside her for so long in ridiculous fantasies, for him to be here now like this was beyond anything she could have imagined. Kilbane had always been enigmatic, an elusive fantasy clothed in wickedness and mystery, aloof and alone, and yet now here he was, vulnerable and entirely in her power.

Gilbert had made himself indispensable, and whatever his opinion might be of the somewhat unconventional treatments she used, he never uttered another word of protest or rebuke. They took turns sitting with him, each giving the other the time to wash and change or have a bite to eat, but Cat rarely stayed away for long. Berrycloth had gone to bed a few hours ago, promising to relieve her in the morning and now Cat jolted awake, realising she had dozed off in the chair.

A frail daylight crept around the closed curtains, informing her the morning was upon them. Kilbane was muttering in his sleep. Cat hurried to him, dipped a clean cloth into cool water and bathed his parched face. His eyes flickered open, gifting her with a blazing glint of violet, but closed again as his fingers clutched fretfully at the bedclothes.

“I’m here, my love,” she said, her throat growing tight as despair settled over her. She knew very well that he could not endure this fever for much longer. It would put too much strain upon his body, and it would kill him. “Please, please get better. For me. Won’t you do it for me? I have asked nothing of you before now, but I ask this. Please… please, Ciarán.”

She had only ever said his name out loud once before, and it struck her as so tragic to do it in such circumstances that she burst into tears, weeping without restraint as she had not allowed herself to do.

“Catherine.”

Cat’s head snapped up, her tears stopping abruptly as he spoke her name. She reached for his hand, searching his fevered countenance for some sign he had truly spoken, that she had not imagined it. His eyes opened again, the lids heavy as he focused unsteadily upon her. His fingers tightened around hers just a fraction.

“Not… Not worth your tears,” he rasped and then subsided, drifting back into the misery of his dreams.

“You are,” she said stubbornly, holding his hand tight. “You are!”

Gilbert arrived then, so distressed to see her weeping hysterically at the bedside that he feared the worst and came in at a run. Once he perceived his master was not yet dead, he became stern with her, as he had not dared do until before.

“That is quite enough. You’ve worn yourself to a thread and need a rest,” he scolded. “I shall fetch Jefferies… Yes, Jefferies, excellent, just the fellow,” he said, upon seeing the butler look into the room.

“Oh, no, I—” Cat protested, turning back to look at her husband, but Gilbert forcibly evicted her from her chair and then propelled her out of the room.

“Jefferies, look after his lordship for a moment, I shall be back presently, but Lady Kilbane needs a cup of tea and something to eat before she falls down,” Gilbert instructed over his shoulder.

“Of course, Mr Berrycloth,” Jefferies said.

He had taken a liking to the man who had been such a support to his mistress, and easily agreed to Mr Berrycloth’s orders instead of getting on his high ropes, as he might have with anyone else who tried to command him. Cat glared at Jefferies, incensed by his fickle allegiance.

“I don’t want a cup of tea,” she retorted, dismayed to discover she sounded like a belligerent child, though no one took a blind bit of notice.

Gilbert escorted Cat to her private parlour and rang for a servant. He ordered tea, sandwiches, cakes, and anything else that might tempt her ladyship to eat to arrive with all haste.

Cat collapsed into the nearest chair, too exhausted and wrung out to protest further. Her mind still dwelled with her husband. She had always sensed that he believed himself unlovable, ruined beyond saving, but now she knew beyond a doubt and her heart bled. Though she had not made a great deal of sense of the odd things he had said in his delirium, those she had understood had painted a stark picture. Through careful questioning and listening to gossip, she had heard a fair bit about her husband’s family in the years since she had married him, and it had taken little investigation to discover his father had been a brute, and his brother far worse. Stories abounded about a home that seemed, to the gossip mill, to be on par with Sodom and Gomorrah. Debauchery and violence on a grand scale were the themes that attended any of the scandalous events that had taken place at Graymont Park.

His brother, Richard—or Ricky, as Kilbane referred to him when he appeared in his fever dreams—seemed to Cat to be the stuff of nightmares. That he had tormented his little brother was beyond doubt. Her husband’s ramblings revealed stories of being thrashed, locked in small dark spaces, or ridiculed by the vile Ricky and his appalling friends. The most mysterious thing, and one that seemed to trouble him the most, was the name Hugin. She had thought at first that this was a dear friend he spoke of but had come to believe it must be a pet, perhaps a dog. Except, the name seemed familiar. It nagged at her, but Cat could not recall where she had heard it before. From a story, perhaps?

These thoughts teased her mind while Gilbert bustled about, pouring tea and pressing the cup into her hand, just as the door was flung open.

“Dearest one, is it true?” demanded a familiar voice and Cat almost dropped the cup, instead thrusting it back at poor Gilbert as she surged to her feet.

“Perry! Oh, Perry!” she wept, and ran across the room to fling herself into his arms.

Perry bore this very well, not even remonstrating about the state of his neckcloth, until he noticed an unfamiliar face and stiffened.

“Cat!” he exclaimed, shocked and instantly on guard as he thrust her away. “Who is this fellow?”