"It's Lady Harriet, sir," Bates had said, out of breath. "She is burning up. Miss Miller sent me for you. The physician has been sent for, but the roads are flooded from the storm."
Richard didn't remember walking down the corridor; he didn't remember climbing the stairs to the nursery wing. His body moved on pure, primitive terror, but his mind was trapped 2 years in the past. He was back in Eleanora's room. He was hearing the ragged, wet rattle of her breathing. He was watching the life drain out of the only woman who had ever made him feel human.
He stopped dead on the threshold of Harriet's bedroom. The room was sweltering, heated by a roaring fire in the hearth. Clara and Abigail were huddled in the corner, clutching each other, their faces pale and terrified. In the center of the room, on the small four-poster bed, lay Harriet.
The 8-year-old was thrashing violently, her usually muddy, chaotic face flushed a dark, alarming crimson. Sweat soaked her nightgown, plastering her dark curls to her forehead. She was crying out high, thin whimpers that tore straight through Richard's chest.
Josephine was sitting on the edge of the mattress. She had stripped off her outer gown and was working in her shift and stays, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She was furiously wringing out a cloth in a basin of cold water, her movements sharp and desperate.
"Hold her down, Clara!" Josephine shouted over her shoulder, pressing the icy cloth to Harriet's forehead. "She's going to hurt herself! Abigail, fetch more water from the pump now!"
Abigail didn't move. She was staring at her little sister, completely paralyzed by fear.
"Abigail!" Josephine's voice cracked like a whip. "Now!"
The teenager jumped, grabbing a brass pitcher, and bolted past Richard without seeing him.
Richard couldn't move. His boots felt as though they were bolted to the floorboards. The room began to spin, the edges of his vision bleeding into blackness. It's happening again, a voice in his head screamed. You are going to lose her. You are going to watch her die.
Josephine looked up. She saw him standing in the doorway, pale as a corpse, trembling uncontrollably. She dropped the cloth into the basin. She didn't comfort Harriet; she didn't call out for Bates. She stood up, marched directly across the room, and grabbed Richard by the front of his linen shirt.
She slammed him backward against the wooden doorframe.
"Stop it!" Josephine snarled, her face inches from his, her gray eyes blazing with absolute, unyielding fury. "I know exactly where your mind is right now. Pull it back! You are not losing another wife; you are failing a daughter!"
Richard gasped, his hands coming up to grip her wrists. "Josephine, I can't... I can't watch it again. The fever—"
"You are a soldier!" she hissed, shaking him fiercely. "You commanded men in the Spanish mud! You held the line! Do you dare retreat on an 8-year-old girl?! She is terrified, and she needs her father, not a ghost! Look at her!"
She twisted her grip, forcing him to turn his head toward the bed. Harriet was sobbing, thrashing against the tangled sheets, calling out blindly.
"She is fighting," Josephine said, her voice dropping to a harsh, desperate whisper. "Get in there and fight with her."
She let go of his shirt and shoved him toward the bed. The violent physical contact shattered the paralysis. The past violently receded, leaving only the terrifying, demanding present.
Richard stumbled forward. He dropped to his knees beside the low bed. "Harriet," Richard choked out. He reached for her, his large, bandaged hands gently pinning her flailing arms to her sides. "Harriet, Papa is here."
The little girl's eyes rolled open, glassy and unseeing. "It hurts, Papa. It's too hot."
"I know, sweetheart," Richard murmured, his voice breaking. He leaned over her, ignoring the stifling heat radiating from her small body. "I have you."
Josephine reappeared beside him. She handed him a fresh, dripping cloth. "Back of her neck, Richard. Keep it there. We have to force the temperature down before it cooks her brain."
He didn't flinch at her use of his first name. He took the cloth. He pressed it to the nape of his daughter's neck, talking to her continuously. He told her stories of his cavalry days; he told her about the time his own horse had eaten Lady Agatha's prize-winning roses. He kept his voice steady—a low, rumbling anchor in the chaotic storm of the fever.
Hours bled together. Abigail returned with water. Clara sat at the foot of the bed, rubbing Harriet's feet. Josephine moved relentlessly: mixing willow bark draughts, changing basins, checking pulses. She was a general commanding a desperate defense, and Richard was her most devoted foot soldier.
Sometime near dawn, the thrashing stopped.
Richard braced himself for the worst, his heart stopping in his chest. But Harriet wasn't still with death; she was breathing deeply, evenly. The terrifying crimson flush had faded from her cheeks, replaced by a pale, exhausted gray. Her skin was cool to the touch.
The fever had broken.
Richard slumped against the side of the mattress, dropping his forehead onto the damp sheets. A ragged, tearing sob ripped its way out of his throat. He couldn't stop it. Two years of unwept tears, of suffocating terror, finally broke open. He wept for Eleanora. He wept for the time he had lost with his daughters.
A hand settled on his shoulder. It wasn't hesitant; it was firm, heavy, and incredibly warm.
Richard looked up. Josephine was standing beside him. She looked utterly wrecked: her hair was a tangled mess, her shift was soaked with water and sweat, and dark bruises of exhaustion painted the skin beneath her eyes. She didn't say a word. She just slid her hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair, grounding him.