“Well?” Alastair demanded when the examination had stretched past bearing. “What is it?”
Wilbur Harrison straightened, settling his spectacles more firmly on his nose. “A fever, Your Grace. Origin unknown, whichis unfortunately common in infants. Could be any number of things—a chill, teething, simple infantile ailment.”
“And the treatment?”
“Precisely what I suspect you have already been doing. Keep her cool. Offer fluids if she will take them. Watch for signs of worsening—laboured breathing, seizures, unresponsiveness.” He packed his instruments with maddening calm. “Most infant fevers resolve within a day or two. Send for me if she deteriorates.”
Then he left, as though he had not just catalogued every terror currently paralysing Penelope’s ability to breathe properly.
“Laboured breathing,” she repeated once he had gone. “Seizures.”
“Which she is not experiencing,” Alastair pointed out. But his face had gone paler than she had ever seen it. “She will be well, Penelope.”
“You cannot know that.”
“No. But I choose to believe it anyway.”
The declaration was so wholly unlike him—this man who hid behind charm and deflection—that Penelope found herself staring. He held her gaze for a moment, his eyes fierce, then moved to the cradle where Rose lay fitful and burning.
“What do we do?” he asked quietly.
We.Notyou. Not an order or an assumption, but a genuine question.
“We keep her cool, I suppose,” Penelope said, her voice cracking. “We take turns, so neither of us collapses from exhaustion. We watch for any change.”
“Then that is what we shall do.”
They fell into a rhythm born of desperation rather than planning. Alastair soaked the cloths whilst Penelope held Rose. Then they switched—he cradled the baby whilst Penelope prepared fresh compresses. When Rose would accept it, they coaxed willow bark tea past her lips in tiny, hard-won increments.
The nursery clock chimed midnight, then one, then two. Lottie dozed in the chair by the fire, her presence comforting but no longer needed. This vigil belonged to Penelope and Alastair alone.
For a while, they were silent.
“I caught fever as a child,” Penelope said at last. “I was eight, I suppose. Perhaps younger. And I… remember being so scared.”
“She’s not alone,” he said at last. “Even if she is scared, I am certain it is a comfort to her to have us here.”
His free hand came up, covering hers. For a long moment, they simply stood there—two people bound by a marriage of convenience, united by their fierce, aching love for a child neither of them had planned to want this desperately.
Rose’s breathing changed.
It took Penelope a moment to recognise what she was hearing. Not the quick, shallow pants that had terrified her for hours, but something slower. Easier. Almost normal.
“Is she—” She pressed her palm to Rose’s forehead, hardly daring to hope. “Oh God, the fever is breaking. Alastair, the fever is breaking.”
He shifted Rose in his arms, checking for himself, and his exhale carried six hours’ worth of held breath. “Good heaven! You are right.”
They watched as Rose’s colour gradually returned to normal, as her restless movements eased into genuine sleep. The terrible flush faded from her cheeks. Her breathing deepened, steadied, became the peaceful rhythm of a healthy infant.
Penelope felt her knees weaken. Alastair must have noticed, because his arm came around her waist, steadying her, pulling her down onto his lap with Rose cradled between them.
“Easy,” he murmured. “You need to sit before you fall.”
She should protest. Should remind him about propriety and appropriate distance. Instead, she let her head drop to his shoulder, too exhausted and relieved to maintain any pretense.
“She is well,” she whispered against his shirt. “She is truly well.”
“Because of you. Because you refused to let her face this alone.” His lips brushed against her hair—barely a kiss, more like gratitude made physical. “You were extraordinary tonight.”