“The willow bark will help with the pain,” Dr. Abernathy said. “Let’s leave him to his rest and talk outside.”
The three of them removed to the sitting room. Thea and Dr. Abernathy sat near the hearth while Tremont remained standing, his arm propped on the mantel next to a vase filled with damask roses. With any other gentleman, the posture would be indolent. Yet Thea noted the taut ridges of muscle straining against his tailored waistcoat and trousers. The morning light cast a metallic sheen over his hair and illuminated the sculpted angles of his face.
If Tremont was an angel, it certainly wasn’t the cherubic sort that lounged about on clouds. Or the ones whose voices lifted in heavenly song. No, he was kind that carried a sword and avenged trespasses.
“Well?” His tone held polite menace.
“Your son has suffered a mild aftershock,” the physician said without preamble. “His complaint of a headache is not uncommon after a prolonged spell such as the one he suffered at the gardens. Has he complained of such symptoms before?”
“No.”
“The situation was extraordinary, so I’m not surprised it overset his nerves. I wouldn’t worry about it. He should be right as rain by the morrow.”
While Tremont remained still, Thea sensed some of the tension leaving him.
Dr. Abernathy stroked his sideburns. “If I may, I’d like to get a further history of your son’s ailment. How old was he when the spells began?”
“Less than a year old,” Tremont said curtly.
A clamp closed around Thea’s heart. Poor little fellow.
“And what is the frequency of the seizures?”
“It waxes and wanes. Four to twelve episodes a month.”
“Have you tried any treatments?” the physician asked.
Tremont’s laugh held no humor. “We have tried all the treatments, sir. My late wife had great faith in your profession. Freddy has been thoroughly poked and prodded and has tried every herb, root, and snake oil concoction under the sun. When one quack proposed to drill a hole in his skull to release the unnatural forces, I put my foot down.”
Thea’s fingernails bit into her palm. With her own ailment, she knew that sometimes the so-called cure could be worse than the cause, and it pained her to think of Freddy undergoing so much and since such a tender age. The lump in her throat grew, as did her admiration for the lad: how strong he was to survive such ordeals.
“As a man of science, I can offer no excuse for such ignorance,” Dr. Abernathy said, his burr deepening with disgust. “There are charlatans in every profession, and unfortunately mine is no different. One must not throw the baby out with bathwater, however. There are newer, scientific treatments being studied that may—”
“My wife consulted the most prominent physicians in London. They were unanimous in prescribing bed rest and a quiet environment to calm Frederick’s nerves.”
“I don’t wish to disagree with my learned colleagues, my lord, yet in my own practice I have seen that cloistering a patient can have adverse effects. Especially for children.” Dr. Abernathy leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, expression earnest. “As such, I have been researching experimental treatments including—”
“My son’s health is not an experiment.” Tremont’s words hovered over the room as ominously as thunderclouds. “Had I not taken Freddy on this trip, none of this would have happened. As soon as he has recovered, I will return him to my estate and see that he suffers no further disturbances.”
I’d give anything to be like other boys. Freddy’s forlorn voice wound like a vine around Thea’s heart, squeezing. To be… normal.
How well she understood.
“He has spells there, too,” she said quietly.
Tremont turned to her. “I beg your pardon?”
She held herself steady in the wake of his stormy gaze, the tempest of frustration and anguish that he was clearly struggling to hold in check. Strangely, his potent emotions didn’t intimidate her. The knowledge that he didn’t want her—that she had nothing to lose in terms of his esteem—allowed her to speak with new freedom.
“Just now you said that Freddy has two to six falling spells even at your estate,” she pointed out. “What have you to lose by trying Dr. Abernathy’s treatment?”
“I’ll not raise Frederick’s hopes needlessly,” Tremont said, his tone curt. “He’s been through enough.”
“Do you think isolation isn’t a trial in itself?” Memories of being bedridden made her hands curl in her lap. And she hadn’t been shut away. Even when she’d been too weak to leave the room, her siblings had come to her, amused her with stories and games. “Do you know that your son longs to have friends, to have someone to play with? He wants to be normal. He needs to be.”
“Well, he isn’t. He’ll never be,” Tremont said.
“Perhaps if you didn’t lock him away on your estate, he might have a more normal life. He’s stronger than you think. And he wants your approval more than anything.”
“What makes you think he doesn’t have it, Miss Kent?”
The hostility in Tremont’s voice goaded her to honesty. “He’s afraid of disappointing you, my lord. Of embarrassing you in public with his illness. All he wants is to be able to ride and play sports with you, to do the things other boys do with their papas.”
Lightning flashed in his eyes. “Three days has made you an expert on my son?”
“No. Of course not. I didn’t mean—”
“My wife did everything possible to cure Frederick. On her deathbed, Sylvia’s only wish was that I continue to keep him safe away from the dangers of the world.”
“He needs to be part of the world—not shut out from it,” Thea insisted.
“You are gainsaying the wishes of his own mama?”
He said it as if she’d contradicted the teachings of a saint.
Wrangling back impatience, she said, “I do not mean to step on toes; I am merely presenting an alternate point of view. Your wife might have been a paragon, my lord, but I have been invalid.” Whoever thought that would be a source of confidence. “Trust me when I say I have intimate knowledge of what it is like to live with a condition beyond one’s control.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to interfere,” he said in arctic tones.
She teetered on a see-saw of embarrassment and anger. Why did the dashed man keep her off balance and disorder her feelings so? Before Tremont, she’d counted herself patient and even-tempered. She didn’t quarrel or provoke or invite conflict. Amongst her siblings, she often played the intermediary, grounded by her natural equanimity.
At the moment, however, her greatest desire was to pluck the vase from the mantel and smash it over Tremont’s head. She allowed herself to enjoy the image of him sopping wet, crowned by wilted flowers. Then she rose.
“If Freddy asks for me when he awakens, send word and I will return to keep him company.” She gave a cool nod. “Good day, sirs.”
***
That evening, supper was a strained affair.
Given his earlier behavior, Gabriel had expected no less. A part of him had wanted to avoid going down altogether. Thus far, however, he’d had his meals on a tray with his son and hadn’t yet dined with his hosts. Abernathy had been right about the headache passing, thank God, and Freddy had awoken after his afternoon nap feeling much recovered. Good manners dictated that Gabriel should make an appearance at the supper table.
As only the Strathavens, Thea, and he were dining, the long mahogany table had been set cozily at one end.
“No sense in shouting down the table,” the duchess said pragmatically.
The duke occupied the end chair, with the duchess to his right and Thea to his left. Gabriel had been placed on Thea’s other side. Tonight she looked more like a faerie tale princess than ever in an off-the-shoulder gown of light blue silk. As he cut into his filet of beef, he tried not to notice how the glow of the candelabra slid over her décolletage, kissing smooth, bare skin and creating an intriguing play of shadows. He picked up her sweet, subtle scent the way a bloodhound lifts it nose and scents a fox.
Beneath the table, something else lifted as well.
His lack of control was appalling. Not even the cold shoulder she presented him could dampen his physical reaction to her nearness. On the surface, she was all that was polite, yet the tension between them was downright Siberian and would have frozen a lesser man.
He deserved the chilly reception. Hell, he might be angrier at himself than she was.
You’re one stupid bastard. Devil take it, why had he lashed out at her? She’d only wanted to help Freddy. He sliced the beef with a vicious stroke, letting out some of his pent-up frustration, the helplessness of not being able to aid his own son.
Sylvia had consulted quack after quack in search for the cure. He’d stood by as physicians peddled their diagnoses like tinkers with a barrow of second-rate goods. Some termed Freddy’s falling sickness a “mental defect”; others cautioned against the contagiousness of the condition—ridiculous when no one around Freddy had developed a similar affliction. When one leech had gone so far as to declare the illness “the work of dark spirits,” Gabriel had finally intervened and ejected the charlatan from his property.