Another face came into focus, and just for a moment she thought she was dreaming again, and that this was herself, made young—Aphrodite, at the height of her powers and her beauty. And then Francesca said, “Mother?”
Of course. It was Francesca, her youngest daughter. Her most troublesome daughter. The one she worried about the most.
“Petit chaton,” Aphrodite whispered, “I am sorry you must see me like this. I am not at my best. I have been unwell. But I will get better, you will see. Soon I will be myself again.”
Tears filled Francesca’s eyes, and her mouth trembled. “I’m so sorry,” she said shakily. “This is all my fault.”
Aphrodite frowned. “Nonsense!” she said, as strongly as she could manage. “It is not your fault. It is not anybody’s fault. I was sick once for a year, but I forced myself to get better.” Francesca’s face shimmered, changed. “You look like your father,” she whispered, and smiled. “He was a wonderful man, petit chaton. You know, you are very like him.”
“Who was my father?” Francesca gasped. “Please, tell me who he was?”
“He died,” she whispered. “I’m sorry you never knew him.”
A grief Francesca had never expected to feel filled her heart.
“But he had plans for you. Grand plans. He wrote and told me. The letter was stolen…long ago.”
“What was my father’s name?”
“Tommy,” she said, and smiled. Aphrodite’s eyes closed, but she reached out her other hand, and Dobson closed his fingers over it. “The letter.” She was struggling to get the words out. “We must…the letter…” But she had slipped back into her feverish sleep.
“Will she get better?” Francesca sounded stark as Jemmy walked with her to the bedchamber door. Despite his own pain, his gaze was compassionate for her. Such kindness from a man she hardly knew, while her own uncle treated her with contempt! She felt as if her heart would break.
“I won’t lie to you,” he said. “She’s not strong in her body. But there’s no one else I know with a stronger will. She’ll fight.”
“This is my fault.”
“No, it ain’t,” he retorted.
“But Rosie! I sent Rosie to her.”
“She made you a promise that she’d care for Rosie, so she did. It meant a lot to her that you’d asked.”
Francesca stared up at him, a lump in her throat.
“It weren’t Rosie who made her sick. This ain’t the cholera. Believe me,” he said with certainty, “I’ve seen it and I know. This is something else.”
“My sisters…?”
“I’ve already sent a message.”
Her mother was dying. It was true. He wouldn’t have sent for Vivianna and Marietta otherwise. The acknowledgment was suddenly too much for her, and Francesca began to sob.
A step behind her, and someone turned her around. Arms enclosed her, amazingly strong and comforting. And familiar. With a gasp, Francesca lifted her ravaged face.
Sebastian?
He looked into her eyes, his own full of compassion. Her lips trembled. “Poor darling,” he murmured. “You have enough to bear, but there is more, Francesca, and I can’t spare you. You must be strong for me, for your mother.”
She pulled away and wiped her cheeks impatiently. “What do you mean? What are you doing here?”
“Francesca.” Jemmy Dobson looked weary beyond words. “Mr. Thorne is here to help. Your mother’s sickness…someone is poisoning her.”
She felt
as if the floor were moving under her feet.
Sebastian gave her a little shake. “I haven’t time to explain. We need your help, Francesca, if we’re to get this person to admit what they’ve done, and tell us what they are using. Your mother’s life may depend upon it. Do you understand me?”