Eloise hated that phrase, hated how doctors resorted to it when faced with illness beyond their skills, but if the physician was correct, and it was indeed in God’s hands, then by the heavens above, that was to whom she would appeal.
When she wasn’t placing a cooling cloth on Charles’s forehead or spooning lukewarm broth down his throat, that was. But there was only so much to be done, and most of her time in the sickroom was spent rather helplessly in vigil.
And so she just sat there, her hands folded tightly in her lap, whispering, “Please. Please.”
And then, as if the wrong prayer had been answered, she heard a noise in the doorway, and somehow it was Phillip, even though she’d only sent the messenger an hour earlier. He was soaked from the rain, his hair plastered inelegantly against his forehead, but he was the dearest sight she’d ever seen, and before she had a clue what she was doing, she’d run across the room and thrown herself into his arms.
“Oh, Phillip,” she sobbed, finally allowing herself to cry. She’d been so strong all day, forcing herself to be the rock that her brother and sister-in-law needed. But now Phillip was here, and as his arms came around her, he felt so solid and good, and for once she could allow someone else to be strong for her.
“I thought it was you,” Phillip whispered.
“What?” she asked, confused.
“The butler—he didn’t explain until we were up the stairs. I thought it was—” He shook his head. “Never mind.”
Eloise said nothing, just looked up at him, a tiny, sad smile on her face.
“How is he?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not good.”
He looked over at Benedict and Sophie, who had risen to greet him. They looked rather “not good” as well.
“How long has he been this way?” Phillip asked.
“Two days,” Benedict replied.
“Two and a half,” Sophie corrected. “Since Saturday morning.”
“You need to get dry,” Eloise said, pulling away from him. “And now I do, too.” She looked ruefully down at her dress, now soaked through the front from Phillip’s wet clothing. “You’ll end up in no better a state than Charles.”
“I’m fine,” Phillip said, brushing past her as he came to the little boy’s bedside. He touched his forehead, then shook his head and glanced back at his parents. “I can’t tell,” he said. “I’m too cold from the rain.”
“He’s feverish,” Benedict confirmed grimly.
“What have you done for him?” Phillip asked.
“Do you know something of medicine?” Sophie asked, her eyes filling with desperate hope.
“The doctor bled him,” Benedict answered. “It didn’t seem to help.”
“We’ve been giving him broth,” Sophie said, “and cooling him when he grows too hot.”
“And warming him when he grows too cold,” Eloise finished miserably.
“Nothing seems to work,” Sophie whispered. And then, in front of everyone, she simply crumpled. Collapsed against the side of the bed and sobbed.
“Sophie,” Benedict choked out. He dropped to his knees beside her and held her as she wept, and Phillip and Eloise both looked away as they realized that he was crying, too.
“Willow bark tea,” Phillip said to Eloise. “Has he had any?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“It’s something I learned at Cambridge. It used to be given for pain, before laudanum became so popular. One of my professors insisted that it also helped to reduce fever.”
“Did you give the tea to Marina?” Eloise asked.
Phillip looked at her in surprise, then remembered that she still thought Marina had died of lung fever, which, he supposed, was mostly true. “I tried,” he answered, “but I couldn’t get much down her throat. And besides, she was much sicker than Charles.” He swallowed, remembering. “In many ways.”
Eloise looked up into his face for a long moment, then turned briskly to Benedict and Sophie, who were quiet now, but still kneeling on the floor together, lost in their private moment.
Eloise, however, being Eloise, had little reverence for private moments at such a time, and so grabbed her brother’s shoulder and turned him around. “Do you have any willow bark tea?” she asked him.
Benedict just looked at her, blinking, and then finally said, “I don’t know.”
“Mrs. Crabtree might,” Sophie said, referring to one half of the old couple who had cared for My Cottage before Benedict had married, when it had been nothing more than an occasional place for him to lay his head. “She always has things like that. But she and Mr. Crabtree went to visit their daughter. They won’t be home for several days.”
“Can you get into their house?” Phillip asked. “I will recognize it if she has it. It won’t be a tea. Just the bark, which we’ll soak in hot water. It might help to bring down the fever.”
“Willow bark?” Sophie asked doubtfully. “You mean to cure my son with the bark of a tree?”
“It certainly can’t hurt him now,” Benedict said gruffly, striding toward the door. “Come along, Crane. We have a key to their cottage. I will take you there myself.” But as he reached the doorway, he turned to Phillip and asked, “Do you know what you are about?”
Phillip answered the only way he knew how. “I don’t know. I hope so.”
Benedict stared him in the face, and Phillip knew that the older man was taking his measure. It was one thing for Benedict to allow him to marry his sister. It was quite another to let him force strange potions down his son’s throat.