Page 67 of The Duchess Trap
Her Henry. The one who’d tugged at her sleeve and asked after her husband. The one with the shy smile on his face.
“Please,” she whispered to no one, “please let me be in time.”
The city blurred past shopfronts, lamplighters, and the river’s dull shimmer in the distance. She barely saw any of it.
At last, the carriage turned onto Brightwater Lane.
Even before it stopped, she was reaching for the handle. She pushed the door open and stepped down, her shoes splashing into a shallow puddle.
Mrs. Simms was waiting at the entrance, apron damp, face ashen. She hurried forward.
“Your Grace! Thank heaven you’ve come.”
“What has happened?” Catherine demanded, breathless.
“It began a few hours ago. He complained of dizziness, then fainted during his reading. We thought it was exhaustion, but he woke burning with fever. His breathing—” Mrs. Simms broke off, her hands wringing together. “I’ve sent for a physician, but none have come.”
Catherine’s stomach dropped. “How high is the fever?”
“I’ve seen worse,” the woman admitted, “but it rises quickly. I suspect infection. Perhaps scarlet fever, or something akin.”
Catherine felt her blood run cold. Scarlet fever. The same sickness that had taken half the city’s poor in the last season.
“Take me to him,” she said.
Mrs. Simms nodded and led her inside.
The orphanage had never felt so quiet. The children who normally filled the halls with laughter and noise were gathered in the corridor, wide-eyed and silent. Some clutched each other’s hands; others stared at Catherine as though she might carry a miracle in her skirts.
She forced a shaky smile for them. “He’ll be all right,” she said softly. “Go on, now. Wait here for Mrs. Simms.”
They nodded, obeying reluctantly.
Mrs. Simms led her down the narrow passage toward the infirmary, their footsteps muffled against the stone. The air grew heavier with each step, hot, close, thick with the scent of vinegar and sweat.
When they reached the small room at the end of the hall, Mrs. Simms hesitated at the door. “I’ve separated him from the others. For safety’s sake.”
Catherine drew a breath and nodded. “You did right.”
She pushed the door open.
The air inside was stifling, the curtains drawn tight to block the draft. A single candle flickered on the table, its light spilling over the bed where Henry lay small and still beneath the sheets. His curls, once golden, were damp and dark against his brow.His breathing came in short, shallow gasps, each one a fragile thread.
“Henry,” Catherine whispered.
The boy stirred faintly, eyelids fluttering but not opening. His lips moved soundlessly.
Catherine’s throat constricted. She moved closer, kneeling at the bedside. Her gloves were off before she realized it, her bare hand pressing to his forehead.
So hot. God, he was burning.
She turned to Mrs. Simms, voice trembling. “Bring more water. Cool it with ice if there’s any.”
Mrs. Simms hurried out.
Catherine dipped a cloth into the basin and began dabbing at Henry’s face, whispering his name again and again as if her voice alone could pull him back.
“It’s all right, my darling boy. You’re safe. You’ll get better.”
