He lifted Mary Rose onto his lap and on her lap she held Rory, her white hands shaking even as she stroked them up and down his small back, steady circular motions while Tysen still massaged his small chest. Finally, Mary Rose laid her head against his neck. He kissed her hair even as his arms tightened around the two of them. Meggie knew she would never forget that moment her whole life. Rory was breathing, not just the stingy little gasps, but full breaths that sounded more and more normal. His cheeks were flushed, but now it wasn’t with fever. She took a blanket off the bed and wrapped it over all three of them.
“Another one, Meggie. He isn’t shivering now, but I want to make all of us sweat.”
“He’s all limp now, no more shudders or convulsions,” Mary Rose whispered, hope brimming in her voice. “Oh, Tysen, do you think he—”
“I don’t know, love, let’s just keep holding him and holding each other. Let’s keep rubbing him and massaging him. It can’t hurt. That medicine, Meggie—when you see Dr. Dreyfus, tell him it worked. Tell him I knew he would think of something more.”
“It isn’t from Dr. Dreyfus, Papa, it’s from Lord Lancaster.”
Tysen was silent a moment, confused, really, then he said, “Thank him for us and tell him it seems to have had something of an immediate effect. Tell him we are very grateful.”
“Yes, I will tell him,” she said, not mentioning that Thomas Malcombe was standing in the doorway watching them. She loaded them all down with all the blankets in the room. She lightly laid her palm against Rory’s cheek. He was cooler, she would swear that he was cooler.
“Papa, I think he’s truly asleep now, and his breathing is easy, regular.”
Her father smiled up at her. She smiled back at him, then leaned down quickly to kiss his cheek. “I will bring you some tea. Ah, good, Mary Rose is finally asleep, too.”
In truth, her stepmother looked like an exhausted Madonna holding her sick child close, her brilliant curly red hair all over her head, tickling her husband’s chin, framing her pale face.
Tysen whispered, “I had prayed until I was out of words, until there wasn’t another plea in my mind, Meggie. I think perhaps God heard me and sent Lord Lancaster here with that medicine.”
“Perhaps,” Meggie said, “I do think that Lord Lancaster felt some urgency to come here. Was it God nudging him? It is a comforting thought.”
“Now, I want you to take the medicine to Dr. Dreyfus, tell him that it appears to have worked with Rory. If another child falls ill, then we can see that—”
“Yes, Papa, I will. I will ask if Lord Lancaster has more of it. We are to give Rory another swallow in about twenty minutes or so. Then, if he remains like this, no more is necessary.” Meggie smiled, straightened, turned, and walked to where Thomas Malcombe stood, watching her come toward him, her old dressing gown flapping around her bare ankles, her lovely hair braided down her back, much of it come loose and now tangled around her face.
She nodded to him and he quietly backed away from the open doorway. He waited at the head of the stairs, his face in shadows now because the sun had slipped momentarily’ behind some clouds. She stopped right in front of him. She lifted his left hand in both of hers and clasped it strongly. “I thank you, my lord. Was it God who made you feel the urgency to come to us?”
“Perhaps it was,” Thomas said slowly, looking down at his large brown hand held between her two smaller ones, not fine soft white hands. Meggie Sherbrooke’s hands helped raise her brothers, trained racing cats, did countless tasks as the vicar’s daughter. And he found himself wondering: Why had he come so quickly? He didn’t know. He just knew that he’d had to. Was it God nudging him?
He said matter-of-factly, “The package of medicines arrived just a few moments before dawn along with other supplies. The fellow bringing it said he had this feeling that I would be needing it and thus pushed on from Eastbourne to my home. I heard that little Rory was ill and so I came here immediately. I think the messenger was the one whom God nudged.”