Mary Rose took Meggie’s hand. “He can’t die, Meggie, he just can’t.”
Meggie nodded, words beyond her. She didn’t want to cry, it would gain naught. They sat together until the sun came up, until shafts of soft pink slipped beneath the pale cream draperies to bathe the room in dim light.
Samuel Pritchert came to tell them that Dr. Dreyfus’s carriage had been thrown on its side and the doctor was in bed, his back wrenched. He couldn’t move. He said there was nothing more he could do in any case. He was praying for them, Samuel assured them.
Some minutes later Meggie heard Mrs. Priddle moving about downstairs. Then, quite suddenly, she head a knock on the vicarage door.
Mrs. Priddle was breathless when she stuck her head in Rory’s room. “Forgive me, Miss Meggie, it’s Lord Lancaster. He says it’s very important.”
Thomas Malcombe? What could that man possibly want at dawn, for God’s sake? She didn’t want to hear him again ask her to go riding.
She simply nodded to her father and to Mary Rose and quietly left the room. She stopped by her own bedchamber, pulled on another dressing gown, this one so old the elbows were nearly worn through. She hurried down the stairs. No candle was needed, there was nearly full light now.
He was there, standing in the entrance hall, wearing riding clothes, boots.
Meggie felt no Christian kindness in her heart. “What do you want?”
He merely nodded to her, then walked swiftly to where she stood on the bottom stair. She saw then that he was carrying a small package. He pressed it into her hand. “I have spoken to Dr. Dreyfus. He said to bring this over and give it to Rory, that it couldn’t hurt. It’s a medicine, one of many that my shipping partner sent me from Genoa, Italy. It’s for the fever. Is Rory better?”
“No,” Meggie said flatly, and she knew, knew to her heart, “No, I don’t think he will get better. What is this?”
She was ripping away the paper. There was a long thin bottle filled to the corked top with a dark brown liquid.
“It’s a medicinal root called the maringo. It grows near a river on a lava plateau on the western slopes of Mt. Etna in Sicily. Perhaps it will help Rory. The letter from my man says that this particular root is effective for virulent fevers. Here, Meggie, give it to the boy, quickly, a small drink, that’s all that’s needed. Then another drink every hour, until—well, until he’s better.”
Tysen and Mary Rose believed the medicine was from Dr. Dreyfus. Meggie didn’t correct them. She managed to get Rory’s little mouth open and poured a bit of the brown liquid down his throat, then lightly rubbed his neck with her fingers. He wheezed and coughed even as his teeth chattered and his small body clenched with the violent spasms that were killing him. But he was breathing, little gasps of breath.
They said nothing at all, just watched the little boy continue to labor for each breath. Suddenly, without warning, he went into convulsions.
Tysen held him firmly while Meggie tried to keep him from swallowing or biting his tongue. Mary Rose rubbed his arms, his legs, to keep him still and warm. After an eternity, the convulsions passed. Rory became utterly still.
Mary Rose fell back on her heels. “Oh God, no! Tysen, no, he can’t be dead, he can’t!”
“No, just wait, just wait.”
Meggie was praying harder than she’d ever prayed in her life. She couldn’t hear him breathe, couldn’t hear him do anything. He was dying. Oh, please God, no, not this wonderful little boy. She watched her father squeeze Rory’s chest, then massage it, again and again as he whispered, “Breathe, Rory, breathe.”
Meggie looked up then to see Lord Lancaster standing in the doorway, saying nothing, just standing there quietly, watching the tableau in front of him, his face pale, his dark eyes hooded.
“Thank God,” Tysen said then, unutterable relief mixed with tears in his voice, “he’s breathing.” He grabbed Mary Rose to him and held both Rory and her close. “Thank the good Lord, our boy is breathing again.”