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t are you saying?” Impatience was heavy in the earl’s voice.
“I do not think he will survive.”
“No, you cannot mean it.” Cassie sat forward in bed, clutching at the cover, and shook her head back and forth. “I tell you he will get well. I will nurse him myself. Joseph has a great will, he will not allow himself to be felled by a fever when those men could not kill him.”
She drew to a breathless halt. Signore Bissone was regarding her oddly.
“You are speaking in English, Cassandra.”
“Oh,” she said numbly.
“La signorina was saying that with proper care, Joseph could recover.”
Signore Bissone carefully laid his crystal wine goblet on the table and bowed formally to the earl. “It is possible, my lord,” he said stiffly. “I have instructed the woman, Marrina, to make up certain draughts. If he worsens, I will, of course, return as speedily as possible. Otherwise, I shall come to see him again this evening.”
“This evening?”
Signore Bissone frowned at the young English girl. He wondered at her relationship with the earl, but supposed that he was allowing her license because of her condition. “There is nothing more that medical knowledge can offer, signorina.”
“An offer of nothing can hardly be described as knowledge, signore.”
The earl saw the offended tightening of the doctor’s lips and said smoothly, “I know that you are doing all that is possible. My man, Scargill, also has experience with such fevers. I thank you, signore, for your help.”
After the doctor had taken his leave, the earl turned to Cassie to remonstrate with her, but the sight of her stricken face stilled his tongue.
“Please take me to Joseph’s room now, my lord.”
“Very well, Cassandra.” He wrapped her in a heavy blanket and gently lifted her into his arms.
Several hours later, when Joseph had finally fallen into a fitful sleep, the earl carried Cassie back to their bedchamber. “I do not wish you to exhaust yourself, little one. Now it is time for you to rest.” He answered her unspoken question. “I will stay with him.”
The earl looked at the clock on the opposite wall from Joseph’s bed. It was four o’clock in the morning and Cassandra was finally asleep.
He stared down at Joseph, whose eyes were closed in a fitful sleep. His breathing was shallow and harsh, his cheeks sunken and flushed with fever. It struck the earl for the first time that Joseph truly looked like an old man. His cheeks were sunken and feverishly flushed. His fierce proud eyes were closed in his pain. The earl knew, even without Signore Bissone’s opinion, that Joseph could not survive. He felt a tightness in his throat as he gazed down at Joseph’s parchment skin. He took Joseph’s limp hand into his and said softly to the sleeping man, “I do not want to lose you, old friend. We have shared many years together. Do you remember the time when Mr. Donnetti, drunk as a wheelbarrow, overheard a Spanish captain bragging about his invincibility and the cowardice of the Genoese? And you, brave fool that you were, managed to save him from five Spanish sailors, bent upon bashing his brains all over the tavern.”
The earl was silent a moment, remembering how Mr. Donnetti, usually a silent, rigidly controlled man, had laughed and cursed all in the same breath when Joseph recounted trussing him up and dragging him back to The Cassandra, moored in the harbor of Cadiz.
“I remember.” The earl jerked his head up, and looked into Joseph’s shadowed eyes. He saw a spark of life and humor.
A rasping laugh broke from Joseph’s throat. “Poor Francesco, he was so foxed he did not even realize the danger. For days after, he cursed me for a meddling ass.”
“Francesco will be here tomorrow or the day after, Joseph. He is in Palermo.” Joseph’s fingers clutched about his hand.
“It is a pity that I will not see him again. You will remind him, will you not, that it was he who was the fool.”
“I have a fancy that you will tell him yourself, my friend.”
A deep crackling cough sounded from Joseph’s chest. He was so weak that he lay choking, unable to draw his breath. The earl quickly raised him in his arms until the attack subsided.
“I do not want to lose you, Joseph. Cassandra is forever yelling at Signore Bissone about your great will.” He buried his face in the old man’s gray hair, unable to speak further.
Joseph sighed, and the earl eased him gently onto his back. “It is the madonna who has the great will, my lord. I have wanted for some time to let this rotting body find its final rest, but she will not allow it. I have tried to tell her that I am an old man, that I am content with what life has given me, but she scolds me, and refuses to listen to me.” A travesty of a smile parted his lips.
“She loves you deeply, Joseph, as do I.”
“She has never known the death of one who is close to her. Nay, do not tell me about her father. That one must have been a scoundrel, but of course she never said anything of the sort.”
The earl saw that each word was a great effort for him. “You must rest now, Joseph. We will speak more after you have regained your strength.”
