Sherbrooke Twins (Sherbrooke Brides 8)

Corrie’s brain simply seized up. “But Mrs. Osbourne-”

“Aye, Corrie, we’ll see to him. Now, let’s get some of my special lemonade down his throat.”

Surprisingly, at least to Corrie, James drank when they put the cup to his mouth. It took a long time, but she managed to get most of it down him.

He slept, unmoving, the fever gone, until that evening. Corrie was reading a tract on animal husbandry by the light of a single candle. Mr. and Mrs. Osbourne were long in bed, but not Corrie. Sleep was far away for her. Every few minutes, she looked at James. He was still quiet. They’d gotten some chicken broth down his throat. The fire was going strong. He had four blankets tucked in around him.

Suddenly, he moaned, his eyes opened. He looked straight at her. “I was relieving myself and you were watching. I was never so mortified in my life.”

The memory flashed in her mind and she smiled. “I was only eight years old, James, and I really didn’t understand what I was seeing. You scared the devil out of me when you dashed away and got yourself thrown. I thought it was my fault. I felt guilty for years.”

“How did you know about my accident?”

“Your father told me. He said he wasn’t clear on exactly how all that had come about, so I told him everything that had happened.”

James groaned. “What did he say?”

“He was quiet for a moment, then he patted me on the head, told me he’d said exactly the right thing to you. It had calmed you.”

“Am I the only man you’ve seen relieving himself?”

“Yes. Forgive me, James, but I was so very young and I worshipped you to the point of idiocy. I thought the way you did it was quite remarkable and ever so much easier than it was for me.”

He laughed. He actually laughed, low and scratchy that laugh, then his eyes closed and his head fell to the side.

“James!”

She was on her knees over him, her palm on his forehead. No fever, thank God. She sat back on her heels and stared down at him. When he began muttering, she nearly fell over.

It didn’t make much sense, but she knew he was worried. He muttered about his father and the man who’d called himself Douglas Sherbrooke. Then he spoke of the Andromeda constellation in the northern sky, of the accident Jason had had when he was ten years old, falling from the hayloft. Then he mentioned her name, and how she wouldn’t leave him alone, how she was always there underfoot, and it was true, she was cute as a button, like his father said. The only time he muttered about wanting her in another galaxy was when he turned twelve and wanted to kiss girls. Corrie remembered he’d became quite good at escaping her.

Corrie came down beside him, and pressed herself to his side. She stroked her hand over his chest, his throat, his face. “James, it’s all right. I’m here. I won’t leave you. Everything will be all right, I swear it to you.”

He stopped muttering. She believed that he slept.

Corrie counted James’s money.

There was enough. She spoke to Mrs. Osbourne, then gave the money and directions to the Sherbrooke London town house to an excited Freddie. The earl and countess were in Paris, but Jason was there. He’d be here as soon as he could. There was nothing more she could do but wait.

The next days passed with terrifying slowness. James was delirious, then he was in a stupor, lying so still she thought several times that he’d died. Corrie prayed until she was out of words, and then she prayed feelings, swearing to God that she would become an excellent person if only He would spare James.

There was no sign of Freddie.

She and Mrs. Osbourne rubbed James down with cold wet cloths until their hands cramped and turned blue and wrinkled. Dr. Flimmy came once again, examined James’s armpits at greater length this time, and announced that his lordship was improving.

Corrie didn’t understand this, but she’d grab at any straw. “Will he live, sir?”

“He’s better, miss, but will he live?” He didn’t answer his own question, accepted a pound note Corrie gave him from James’s coat pocket, drank a cup of warm milk, and allowed Mr. Osbourne to take him back home, since there was still no sign of Freddie. Something must have happened to him, Corrie knew it. Mrs. Osbourne walked around, tight-lipped, shaking her head. It was interesting though how she smiled whenever she looked at James.

The next afternoon, Corrie fell asleep, her head on James’s shoulder, when a loud moo woke her. She jerked up, so exhausted that it took her a moment to realize that there really was a cow standing in the open doorway. She heard men’s voices from just outside.

Was it Dr. Flimmy? No, probably neighbors here to buy milk. She placed her palm on James’s forehead. He was cool to the touch. She nearly wept with relief. The cow mooed again. She came up on her knees when Douglas Sherbrooke appeared in the doorway, right in front of the cow.

If it had been God standing there, his sight adjusting to the dim interior, she wouldn’t have been more ecstatic.

“Sir!” She dashed to him, throwing herself in his arms. “You’re here! I thought you were in Paris, but you’re not. You’re really here. Thank God, thank God. I thought Freddie had gotten himself lost. I thought maybe someone had killed him.”

Douglas held her close, patted her back. “It’s all right, Corrie. How is James?”