“They took care of Mama too. But she died.” Cat’s voice was faint. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, not much we can do is there? Except hope. And pray.”
“I don’t believe in God.”
Bertie started. Personally, she and God had an off-again, on-again relationship, but to hear it put so baldly, from a child, surprised her. But then, Cat had seen her mother taken away from her and her father become an absolute blank, and no one, divine or human, had been able to stop either occurrence.
“Well, I believe it,” Bertie said. “I think if one of us does, that should be good enough.”
Cat gave her a skeptical look. “When Mama died, a lady from Sunday school told me I should be happy, because it meant Mama had been very good and was let into heaven early. She said the angels hadn’t wanted to wait to reward her.”
“Oh.” Stupid woman. What a horrible thing to tell a child! Bertie recalled a story she’d heard at the tender age of six, in which angels watched for children who were exceptionally good, and took years away from their lives so they’d die and go to heaven quicker. Bertie remembered being terrified and trying to be as bad as she could possibly be.
“Don’t you worry about that,” Bertie said, patting Cat’s hand. “That’s nonsense, that is. It isn’t even in the Bible. What I remember of it anyway.” Not that she’d read any of it herself, but some of the stories from the church her mother had taken her to had stuck with her. “That’s ladies who don’t know anything, and thinking they’re comforting you. I wouldn’t take no notice.”
“Andrew isn’t good,” Cat said.
“There you are then.” Bertie grinned at her. “He’ll be fine.”
“But everyone loves him.”
“So do you,” Bertie said.
Cat’s eyes filled with tears, and she nodded.
Bertie drew her close, doll and all. “It’s all right, love. You worry about him all you want, and I’ll pray. We’ll help your dad, and we’ll get Andrew better.” Then Bertie would hunt Jeffrey down and make him pay. If Andrew died . . .
“Do you love my papa?” Cat asked.
Bertie jumped, but again, she couldn’t lie. She gathered Cat closer and rested her cheek on the girl’s hair. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I think I do.”
Sinclair held Andrew’s hand far into the night and the wee hours of the morning. When he felt sleep coming upon him, he stretched out beside Andrew, laying his hand on Andrew’s chest. If Andrew so much as twitched, Sinclair would wake.
Sleep came in waves. It would surround Sinclair in blackness for a few minutes, then ease up, then sweep over him again. Through it all Andrew never moved.
When morning light came, so did Andrew’s fever. Sinclair came wide awake, never feeling his restless night. He commanded cool water to be brought and a tonic called Warburg’s tincture. The tincture was meant for malarial diseases, but Sinclair knew by experience it would work to bring down fever. The powders the doctor had handed to Bertie were useless—he knew that too. Good for dyspepsia and not much else.
Andrew, restless, didn’t want to swallow the medicine, but Sinclair got it into him. He bathed Andrew’s face and hands, changing the bedding himself when Andrew soiled it.
All day Sinclair nursed his son, not knowing what time it was or caring. Somewhere during the day, he let Macaulay talk him into donning a shirt and trousers, but Sinclair saw no reason to dress completely. He napped off and on, felt the deepening of whiskers on his face. He knew others came and went, but Sinclair couldn’t pull his concentration from Andrew.
Sinclair always sensed Bertie’s presence though, even when he didn’t turn his head to look at her, even when she said nothing to him. Cool calm stole over the room whenever she was in it, as though she brought peace and reassurance with her.
When the sun went down, Peter restocked the coal fire, and Macaulay brought Sinclair a cup of beef tea and forced him to drink it. Bertie came in as Macaulay departed.
She didn’t speak, only closed the door quietly, made her way to the bedside, and laid the back of her hand against Andrew’s cheek. His fever had come down a little, or so Sinclair thought, but he was still far from well.
“Cat is finally asleep,” Bertie said. “I gave her some tea with sugar and lots of milk—seemed to do the trick. The poor mite is all in.” She touched the bandages on Andrew’s shoulder then looked at Sinclair. “So are you, I’m thinking.”
“I’ll sleep when it’s over,” Sinclair said sharply.
“I can stay with him. I’ll watch him every second, believe me.”
“No.” Sinclair didn’t move from where he sat on the bed. “I don’t want to leave, in case . . .”
“I’d wake you. I promise. The minute there’s any change.”
“No!” The word rang, Sinclair’s voice raspy. He shook his head as Bertie’s eyes widened. “When Maggie . . . Daisy . . . when she was ill, a nurse stayed with her. The nurse promised to wake me, and she didn’t. She thought it would be easier for me. But I didn’t . . . I didn’t even get to say good-bye.”
Sinclair’s voice broke and his eyes stung. He dragged in a shuddering breath, dismayed that it shook with sobs.
Bertie moved to him with a quiet rustle of fabric. Her arms came around him, and Sinclair found himself cradled against her, her cheek on his hair, her hands warm on his back.
She was so strong, this woman who’d come to him out of nowhere. Sinclair had been standing in the cold, all alone. When you’re ready for me to move on, I know you’ll tell me, he’d said in his thoughts to Daisy, and then Bertie had bumped into him.
He hadn’t been able to cease thinking of Bertie since. Only his son struggling to live had pulled him away from her.
“I’m sorry,” Bertie was saying. “I’ll never be able to say, in the whole of my life, how sorry I truly am.”
Sinclair gently parted her arms and wiped his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“This is my fault.” Her blue eyes were sad, full of remorse. “If I’d not followed you, I never would have led Jeffrey here, and Andrew wouldn’t be hurt. But no, I had to find out where you lived, decided to stay here in your house . . .”
“Why did you?”
Bertie stopped in confusion. “What do you mean?”