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“I was thinking I might offer to read to him. It would give him something to focus on. And help keep him quiet as the nurse wanted.”
“That is a very kind offer, Sarah.”
“It would not be a hardship for me. I enjoy reading aloud.”
“As well as every other kind of reading.”
She was heartened that he could tease a little. “As has been well established,” she answered in the same lighter tone. “I find reading comforting.”
He pulled her closer against him.
“Do you know what subjects interest your father?”
Kenver had to think. “He is not a great reader. Mostly just estate documents.”
“Ah.” Sarah didn’t think she could manage that sort of reading. Even if Lady Trestan would provide the papers, which she would not.
“He told me once that he was impressed by Mozart. Not the music chiefly. He said he found child prodigies a mystery. I had forgotten about that.”
Sarah doubted that Poldene’s limited library would have anything on that subject, and when she looked the next morning, she found she was right. She settled on a history of the county instead, thinking that tales of his own familiar territory might engage the earl. The style of the volume was lively, and she knew she read aloud well.
The nurse was amenable to her plan once she understood the nature of the book. Sarah suspected she saw history as boring and likely to keep the earl quiet, if not soporific. And so Sarah arranged a chair by the side of his bed and began.
Lord Trestan showed little reaction at first. There were moments when he seemed scarcely conscious. But as she went on, he noticed her presence. It seemed to puzzle him. “It’s Sarah,” she said, thinking he might have forgotten they’d returned. “I’ve come to read to you about Cornwall.”
He nodded and then drifted away again.
As time passed, Sarah thought he seemed comforted by her company and the diversion. He couldn’t speak without bouts of coughing, which the nurse naturally discouraged, and so there was no conversation. This was easier for Sarah, who’d never had an easy relationship with the earl. She enjoyed the reading and of course found it far better than sitting with the countess, who did not want her. Lady Trestan was constantly busy with estate matters, often sending Kenver on errands around the land. As he fulfilled them, he resumed his customary inquiries among the people who lived on the land.
Several days passed in this manner, Sarah spending hours in the sickroom. The earl grew worse, however, and Mrs. Dillon was not encouraging. Sarah began to worry. When at last Lady Trestan came to visit, she glanced at Sarah’s book as if it was ridiculous and spoke only to the attendant. “How is he?”
“In a decline,” Mrs. Dillon replied. “Not likely to live, I’m sorry to say.”
Sarah’s mouth dropped open. She was astonished that the woman would state this so baldly with her patient lying right there. Shouldn’t she be suggesting more remedies instead? Some heartening possibility? Glancing at the bed, Sarah saw that the earl had heard the pessimistic assessment. He was not always completely conscious, but this was one of the moments when intelligence gleamed in his eyes. He raised his head a little as if to speak but went off in a paroxysm of coughing instead. To Sarah’s further amazement, Kenver’s mother turned and walked out of the room.
“I do not think you are right,” Sarah said to the nurse—loudly, so the earl could hear over his hacking. “He will recover.”
“I’ve seen more of these cases than you,” Mrs. Dillon replied. She looked sympathetic but unconvinced. Aware that Sarah was not her employer, the nurse didn’t show her any particular deference. “The coughing is likely to do for him,” she added.
Sarah turned her back. She saw that the earl was staring at her, his eyes wide, his expression strained. She met his gaze, held it, and gave a resolute nod. She was here, she let him know. She intended to help him fight. Anything she could do, she would. There must be something. Lord Trestan blinked back tears. And then the terrible cough took him once again. Mrs. Dillon came forward with the laudanum.
Kenver rode across a mown hay field, breathing deeply of the crisp air. The September sky was a glorious blue, the trees tossed in a bracing breeze. He’d resolved a dispute between two tenants to everyone’s satisfaction and heard more bracing news from Stovell the schoolmaster. This was the sort of thing he was meant to do, he thought. And he’d done well.
Hoofbeats approached from behind. He turned to find one of the Poldene grooms catching up to him. “Her ladyship said you should come right away,” the lad called.
“Is my father worse?”
“I don’t know, sir. I was just sent to bring you.”
Concerned, Kenver urged his mount to a canter. When he reached home, he started toward his father’s bedchamber, but a footman diverted him to his mother’s private parlor.
“Your father is dying,” she said when he came in.
“What?”
“The nurse offers no hope.”
“But Sarah said…”
