Love According To Lily (8 page)

“Drinking, you say.”

The doctor felt Whitby’s neck again, and appeared to be concentrating very hard upon what he was feeling.

Just then Whitby opened his eyes. The doctor leaned over him. “Lord Whitby, I’m Dr. Trider. Do you know what’s wrong with you? Have you been in contact with anyone who’s been ill?”

“No, no contact,” Whitby said, slowly shaking his head on the pillow. “What I have is not contagious.”

“How do you know? Have you been diagnosed?”

“No. No need.”

Whitby closed his eyes again, and the doctor gently slapped at his cheeks. “Lord Whitby, wake up. What do you think you have?”

Whitby opened his eyes and looked at James. “Did you find Lily?”

“Yes. She’s with my mother.”

“And Richard?”

“Richard is nursing a bloody nose and is packing his things as we speak.”

Sophia’s gaze darted across the bed. “A bloody nose? James!”

He shook his head at her. “I didn’t give it to him. Lily did, after he tried something he shouldn’t have. And he bloody well deserved it, too.”

“That’s good news,” Whitby said groggily, before he fell back into a feverish sleep.

James stepped forward and leaned over him. “Whitby! Wake up. The doctor needs to ask you some questions.”

But Whitby did not wake.

James backed into the chair by the bed and sank into it. “What could it be, doctor?”

Dr. Trider’s brow furrowed. “I can’t be sure, but the swollen glands indicate a few possibilities. It could be influenza or lymphatic tuberculosis, but that doesn’t usually come on this quickly. Typhoid on the other hand develops very fast, but a sore throat for more than a week… ?” He shook his head. “I don’t believe it’s typhoid. And he said it wasn’t contagious, which influenza and tuberculosis both are.”

The doctor appeared baffled. He took another step toward the bed and felt Whitby’s glands again. “The other possibility is…” He glanced at James. “Have the glands been getting increasingly swollen over a long period of time?”

“I don’t know.”

Dr. Trider pressed upon Whitby’s abdomen, through the thin nightshirt his valet had dressed him in earlier.

“His spleen is enlarged. Do you know how long he’s had the sore throat? Weeks? A month? More?”

James went to the adjoining dressing room and opened the door. “Jenson, how long has Lord Whitby had the sore throat?”

The valet came out of the room. “He’s had a few of them, Your Grace. The first one was about a month ago.”

The doctor stepped away from the bed and pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “A few of them, you say? Is it possible it has been one continuous sore throat?”

Jenson looked uneasily at James and Sophia. “I suppose it’s possible.”

Dr. Trider nodded thoughtfully. “One disease that is consistent with his symptoms and is not contagious is Hodgkins. But how would he know that, if he was not diagnosed?”

“Hodgkins?” Sophia said. “What’s that?”

The doctor paused a moment before he faced her and spoke with a slow, gentle voice. “It is a type of cancer, Your Grace.”

James and Sophia stared at him in stunned silence. “That’s what killed his father,” James said.

Chapter 10

Lily was taking part in a quadrille—still exceedingly unnerved over what had happened on the veranda with Lord Richard—when she noticed Sophia and James enter the ballroom after having been gone for quite some time. Whitby had been missing as well, and Lily was beside herself with worry. It was not like James or Sophia to leave their guests for so long. Something was wrong.

As soon as the dance ended, she thanked her partner and quickly made her way through the tight crowd to where Sophia stood. Their gazes met with a heightened intensity.

“What’s going on?” Lily asked. “Where were you?”

Sophia took her aside. “Whitby is ill.”

The music from the orchestra and the laughter from the crowd seemed to fade into silence, and Lily wondered if her heart had stopped beating. “Oh no.”

“The doctor has just seen him, and we don’t know anything for sure yet. But he has a very high fever and some swollen glands.”

“Can I see him?” Lily asked.

“Yes, but he’s not conscious. And I must warn you that the doctor said it could be a very serious illness.”

“Is he sure?”

“No, not yet. He’ll need to examine Whitby further when he wakes.” Sophia led Lily out of the ballroom. “I’ll take you to him, then I’ll have to come back and be a better hostess. I don’t want any gossip over this. I’d prefer to keep this quiet if we can. It’s no one’s business but ours and Whitby’s.”

“Of course.”

They discreetly left the ballroom, and while they made their way through the corridors of the house, Sophia asked Lily about Richard.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No,” Lily replied. “He just tried to kiss me and was very persistent when I resisted. He’s a repulsive letch.”

“James said you hit him.”

“I couldn’t help myself.”

Sophia smiled. “Good girl.”

When they reached the Van Dekker Room, the door was closed, so Sophia knocked gently, then pushed it open.

The room was dimly lit and quiet, except for a fire crackling in the hearth. Lily followed Sophia inside, but stopped when her gaze fell upon Whitby in the huge bed.

He was drenched in sweat and his face was ashen. He wore a loose-fitting, white nightshirt open at the neck, and it was sticking to his damp skin. He looked half dead.

Lily sucked in a shaky breath, barely able to comprehend that this was her Whitby—who had always been so strong and full of life. He was silent and unresponsive. She couldn’t bear to see him this way or to think that—God forbid—he might not recover.

Then her eyes drifted to Lady Stanton, who was sitting next to him with her slender hand upon his.

“Lily, you’ve come to see the patient,” she said.

Lily merely nodded.

“I just got here a few minutes ago myself. He became feverish while we were dancing, you see. But do come and sit down.” Lady Stanton vacated the chair by the bed and went to join Sophia near the door.

Lily slowly moved to the chair and sat down.

“I should return to the ballroom,” Lady Stanton said to Sophia. “Will you keep me informed?”

“Of course, Eleanor. Lily will sit with him for a few minutes, while I walk you to the stairs.”

Lily barely heard what they said. She only noticed the door close behind them, and felt the sudden jarring impact of being alone with Whitby here in his bedchamber, when her entire being was dissolving into dread and despair over the fact that he was so very ill, and it could be serious.

She let her gaze travel down the length of his bare forearm to his hand on top of the sheet. She reached to touch it. God in heaven, he was scorching hot. She rubbed his hand gently between her palms, then rested her head upon it and prayed tearfully for him to get better.

Raising her head, she laid her open palm on Whitby’s chest where his nightshirt lay open. His heart was beating fast beneath his fiery, damp skin.

The door clicked and Lily abruptly sat back, wiping tears from her cheeks. Sophia entered and walked around the bed.

“Any change?” she asked.

“No. He hasn’t moved.”

“How are
you
?”

Lily considered the question for a moment, while she stared at Whitby’s sleeping face. Her brain didn’t seem to be working very well. “I’ve been better.”

Sophia squeezed her shoulder.

“What is there to be done?” Lily asked. “I want to
do
something.”

Sophia nodded, understanding. “The doctor had another call to make tonight, but he will return in the morning. Until then, someone needs to stay and keep Whitby cool with damp cloths.” She touched Lily’s forearm, her expression grave. “And the doctor said we should give him a tablespoon of brandy every six hours. But no more than that, even if he begs.”

Lily understood. She had been watching him this week. She knew…

“Let me stay,” she said. “I can do all that.”

Sophia nodded. “I’ll tell your mother.”

“She won’t like it.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Sophia said. “I’m sure she would want to know we are doing everything we can for Whitby.”

“I hope so,” Lily said desolately. “Because nothing could make me leave this room tonight.”

After going back to her room to change out of her ball gown into something more comfortable—a plain brown muslin day dress—Lily sat through the night with Whitby. She spent most of the time in the chair, holding his hand and watching him in the firelight, waiting and hoping he would stir. He slept very soundly, however, never moving, except occasionally when his eyelids twitched and he turned his head to the side with a moan or a sigh.

Lily was glad he did not wake and ask for brandy. She would have had a difficult time saying no to him.

The music from the ball downstairs continued until after two in the morning, at which time Sophia and James came to check on Lily before going off to bed themselves. After that, the house was deathly quiet.

She dozed off only once, very briefly, and stayed awake the rest of the night. At one point she rose to open the window and let in some fresh air, but the breeze was too strong and too cool, so she closed the window and sat back down again.

The night seemed dark and endless, and there were moments when she felt lost in a tunnel, unable to see light at the end. She was the only person awake in the household. But how could she possibly sleep? Reaching around to put a hand on her lower back, she stretched and yawned and prayed that Whitby’s fever would break.

It did not break, however. Not through the night. Nor had it broken in the morning, when he finally opened his eyes.

The sun was just rising and Lily herself was waking from a nap in the chair by the window. James was sitting by the bed.

It was the sound of their voices that woke her. She sat up sleepily, but remained quiet, for she did not want to interrupt their conversation.

“We’ve sent a telegram to Annabelle,” James said, sitting forward in the chair with his elbows on his knees and his hands laced together.

Whitby lay there motionless for a moment, then he wet his lips and whispered, “I’d like a drink, James.”

James shook his head. “The doctor said no.”

Whitby chuckled bitterly. “You’re going to dry me out, are you? What’s the point?”

“The point is you’ve had too much lately.”

Whitby lay in silence for a moment, staring blankly at the canopy above him. “I’m dying, James.”

Lily sat up straighter, a spear of dread piercing through her heart. She strained to hear James’s reply.

“No,” he said firmly, touching Whitby’s hand. “We don’t know that. It might be nothing.”

“I feel like I’m dying. I’ve felt it for weeks.”

James was momentarily staggered, which was uncharacteristic of her brother, who was always in absolute control.

“You told me it was just a sore throat,” he said.

Whitby wet his lips again, and it seemed to take forever for him to find the strength to speak. “I lied. I’ve been getting weaker and weaker.”

“You said you’d seen a doctor. What did he say about it?”

“I lied about that, too. I didn’t see anyone. I wanted to put that part off for a while. I thought I had more time.”

James took a moment to digest this. “Is that why you’ve been drinking so much?”

“I suppose. Brandy numbs the regrets.”

Lily watched her brother bow his head. Her heart broke a little at the sight of him, for he himself had had a difficult life with their father, and she knew Whitby was the one person in the world James had trusted when he was young. Whitby had been his only true friend at a time when he’d had no one— not even a mother he could rely on for love.

“You have nothing to regret, Whitby.”

Whitby turned his head from side to side on the pillow. “I beg to differ. I should have grown up a long time ago and gotten married like you did, but I thought I’d be young forever. And now I’m probably dying, and Annabelle will be…” He tried to sit up. “I need to see her. Is she coming?”

James managed to keep Whitby from getting up. “She’ll be on a train today.”

“Good. I must see her, James.”

“I know.”

“I’ve arranged for an allowance for her, so she won’t need to depend upon Magnus, but I don’t want her to live alone. I can trust you to take her in, can’t I?”

“Of course you can.”

Lily realized at that instant that Whitby didn’t know she was in the room. She wondered if she should make her presence known. She also wondered what was causing Whitby this concern over his sister, and who Magnus was.

“If anything happens to me,” he said, “promise me you’ll watch out for her.”

“I will. But nothing’s going to happen to you.”

Lily cleared her throat to announce herself. She slowly stood and smoothed out the wrinkles in her skirts as she walked to the foot of the bed. “Good morning,” she said nervously.

Whitby slowly blinked as he met her gaze. She could tell he wanted to go back to sleep. “Good morning.”

“Lily was here all night, Whitby,” James said. “She was your devoted nurse.”

Lily waited for him to say something, but all he did was stare at her for a long, agonizing moment.

She knew at once with shocking clarity that he knew she loved him. He absolutely knew.

Then she saw a spark of something else in his eyes…