Page 2 of The Heir
But Edward? Strong and plain-living Edward had taken Victoire and the children away from London because Fat George would not advance him the money he needed to live there. They had come to this dreary seaside town and huddled together in this tiny hovel of a cottage.
And Edward had gone for a walk in the December rain and had gotten his feet wet.
That was all. How can he be dying when that was all that happened?
Victoire pressed her hand against her eyes.
And still the baby was crying. And her husband wanted to speak to her.
“Conroy,” she said.
“Yes, your grace?” John Conroy was a tall man with a long face, bright blue eyes, and thick, dark hair. Ladies blushed and batted their eyes at him. The more vicious gossips wondered what kinds of services he performed for the duchess now that the king had brought her to England.
“Go see to the baby,” she said.Conroy is a father. He does not fear a nursery.“Go talk to the nurse. See that Feodora and Karl are still asleep. I . . . I cannot.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
If he bowed, she did not turn her head to see it. She rinsed the linen cloth in the basin on the nightstand and dabbed at Edward’s forehead. His skin was too dry. His eyes were too bright, and yet his cheeks were far too pale.
Bloodless.
“You are not crying, Victoire,” he said in German. He tried very hard to teach her English, but still, they always spoke German when they were alone together.
“No, of course I do not cry,” she lied. “I never do. You know that.”
“I know.” His fingers curled around hers, feather soft. Her heart twisted inside.
“I will show them yet,” he told her. “I have done what they could not. I have found a good wife. I have fathered a healthy child. You and I will take up the crown together, my heart. We will make a place for our Alexandrina Victoria. We will see them all bow their heads to her and to us. Tous.”
Victoire held her husband’s burning hand and willed herself to believe. But if he had been hollowed out by the fever and the bloodletting, she had been made equally hollow by fear. All the belief she could muster did not fill even an inch of her emptiness.
“Now, it may take some little while for me to get better,” he went on. “In the meantime, you may rely on Conroy. He has been with me these many years. I trust him absolutely.”
“Yes, my heart.” She wished he would stop. He was so weak. This talk was doing him no good. But she had not the strength to tell him so.
“And do not let them take our daughter.” Bythemhe meant his family. His mad father, his ridiculous mother, his spidery spinster sisters and, most of all, his greedy brothers. “They will try, but they want only to turn her against us and use her for their own purposes. You must hold her tightly to you.”
“They will have no chance to take her.” She meant to speak lightly, but her voice broke. “You will be better long before they can do any such thing.”
“Yes, yes. I have promised, haven’t I?” His eyelids fluttered closed.
Dr. Maton was back. He maneuvered daintily around her. She was a duchess, after all, and could not simply be elbowed out of the way. Instead, he took himself to the far side of the bed, coming to stand between Edward and the wall. He lifted Edward’s wrist and stared at his watch.
Fresh fear bubbled up in Victoire. As Edward weakened, Dr. Maton was all the hope that she had. He had scarcely left her husband’s bed, ceaselessly battling the encroaching fever with his knives and his glass cups and his jar of glistening leeches. He was so attentive, so unstinting. She tried to look at him now and believe he had succeeded.
He must succeed. He was all that they had left.
“Well,” said Dr. Maton softly. “Well. His fever has increased. Yes. I think we may bleed him one more time.”
“Bleed?” she breathed, ashamed of her weakness, her irrationality. “He surely has no blood left.”
From the way Dr. Maton stared at her, Victoire knew she’d spoken German. But she could not now summon her English.
“Ma’am.” Conroy stepped out from the shadows. “We must listen to the doctor.”
Dr. Maton was staring past her at Conroy, clearly uneasy. Afraid, perhaps, the duchess had gone mad with her grief and was spouting gibberish.
Edward’s hand twitched in hers. His eyes opened again.
