“Will you stay at Houghton Manor for a time?” she asked quietly.
He knew he couldn’t stay too long. His finances were stretched paper thin, pulled so tightly they threatened to snap at any moment. Travel was not an inexpensive undertaking. Even with his efforts toward economizing while away from Sarvol House, he was incurring expenses. And the longer he waited to address the likely needs at Thimbleby, the more numerous and difficult those needs would inevitably grow. Neglect did not improve with time.
“You look tired, my dear Mrs. Brownlow.” He gently patted her hand. “Perhaps it would be best if you rested a while.”
“You sound like . . . that doctor over there.” Her eyes remained closed. “He is a terrible nag.”
“Promise not to compare me to him again, and I’ll promise to come visit with youafteryou have sufficiently rested.”
“I would like that, Mr. Sarvol.”
He gently released her hand, slipping it under her blankets. “Rest well.” He rose and walked with Gillian out of the room.
“Thank you,” she said once the door was closed again. “For your kindness to her and for agreeing to stay. Her recovery, if the heavens are kind, will go better with your company.”
“I cannot stay long,” he reminded her. “I have to assess Thimbleby. And my estate cannot bear the expense of my traveling for too long.”
Rather than look empathetic, she seemed a little panicked. “But you are such a comfort to her.”
“I have taken a liking to her as well, Gillian, but I am not exaggerating when I say I haven’t the funds to extend this journey much longer, and the most crucial bit of it hasn’t happened yet.”
“Please, Scott. She likes you.”
“Shelovesyou,” he reminded her. “You are family to her. Your presence will be comfort enough.”
Dr. Lowry slipped out of the bedchamber. He didn’t look as worried as he had the night before or even when Scott and Gillian had first stepped inside the bedchamber a few moments earlier.
“She is sleeping,” he told them. To Scott, he said, “Your conversation lightened her more than I’ve seen since she first fell ill. Not everyone has a knack for being encouraging to one laid low in the sickroom.”
“I am grateful to have been helpful,” he said.
“How long, Doctor, before you feel Mrs. Brownlow will have regained her strength?” Gillian asked.
“I still cannot say with certainty that she will,” the doctor answered. “I have more hope than I did last night, but she is not out of danger.”
Gillian paled. “How frail is she?”
“Quite. I’ve instructed Mrs. Millard to keep this wing quiet and to make certain Mrs. Brownlow has tea when she wishes, a fire to keep her room warm, the curtains pulled back if she wishes to see outside—whatever is needed to avoid any upheaval or stressors.”
“Ought I to stay in her room the next few nights?” Gillian asked.
The doctor nodded. “Unless she expresses worry about you losing sleep.”
“She needs to stay very calm.” Gillian took a shaky breath, but her shoulders squared. “Whatever she needs will be provided for her. I will see to it.”
“See to it your friend”—Dr. Lowry motioned with his head toward Scott—“visits her a few times a day to lift her spirits, and I suspect we will get her through this.”
His presence seemed crucial to Mrs. Brownlow’s survival. Yet, continuing his journey was crucial to saving his estate, his own future, his father’s beloved family home.
“How many days do you think remain before she will be out of danger?” Scott asked.
“Three or four. Perhaps a week.”
Scott shook his head. “I can’t remain that long.”
The doctor’s brows shot up. “You can’t leave now. She asked for you, earnestly, before your most recent visit to the sickroom. She grew agitated when told we weren’t certain how long it might take to find you. If you leave Houghton Manor entirely—” He began pacing. “She is not strong enough for a shock or such a significant disappointment.”
“And I do not wish to deliver one,” Scott insisted, “but I truly cannot stay.”