Page 43 of Marriage Most Scandalous
“Any change?” she asked.
“No, none yet,” Margaret told her.
“I’m not surprised,” Abigail said in a disagreeable tone. “He’s a stubborn fool even when he’s sick.”
That remark harked back to Abigail’s old bitterness, the reason she and her son hadn’t spoken in all these years. Margaret joined her by the door and said quietly, “He doesn’t know yet that Sebastian is here. I’d rather keep it that way, until he’s feeling up to scratch and able to deal with it.”
“Deal with it?” Abigail scoffed. “You mean give Sebby the boot again.”
Margaret winced. “That’s quite possible. In fact, Sebastian expects it. He’s here to visit with you, Abbie, not patch things up with his father.”
“Which would be a useless endeavor if he tried,” Abigail predicted.
Margaret raised a curious brow. “Do you really think so? After eleven years?”
“Has it been that long? Yes, of course it has. But nothing has occurred to make Douglas change his mind. He wouldn’t discuss it back then, why would he now?”
“I’m sure he had his reasons—”
“Don’t defend him to me, gel,” Abigail cut in. “He was wrong, so wrong. Instead of standing by Sebastian in that unfortunate tragedy, he did what he assumed would be expected of him.”
“Sebastian outright defied him and caused a death in doing so. Did you never think that that was the reason Douglas took the stand he did?”
“Sebastian made a mistake. He didn’t deserve to be condemned by his own family for it.”
“You have a tender heart, Abbie. You see it that way. Obviously Douglas saw it differently. But that’s all water under the bridge.”
“Water soon to rise again,” Abigail said with a snort, then headed back down the corridor.
Margaret sighed and quietly closed the door. Douglas and Abigail were both too stubborn by half. She’d never noticed that trait in Denton. Sebastian, possibly . . .
“Was that my mother?”
“Douglas!” Margaret gasped and swung about, then rushed to the bed to feel his brow. It was still quite hot. “Let’s feed you first, before we talk. Doctor’s orders.”
His eyes were only half opened. She was quite fearful that he would nod off again before she could get some nourishment into him. He tried to sit up to eat. That didn’t work, so she stuffed some pillows behind him to prop him up a bit. He reached for the bowl of soup she brought him as well, but when he nearly spilled it, she took it back and started spoon-feeding him herself.
He didn’t like being waited on to that extent and demanded between spoonfuls, “Why am I so weak?”
“You lost a good deal of blood, and you’re running a nasty fever. Now, shh. We’ll talk after you finish this bowl of soup.”
He complied, though grudgingly. In fact, he looked about as annoyed as his tone had been. Margaret recalled two times during her stay here when Douglas had been sick and told to stay in bed. It had been like trying to contain a lion in a small cage.
He finished the soup, but by the time he did, his eyes were starting to droop. “Normally I would suggest more sleep, until you feel better,” she told him. “But you’ve had so much of it already . . . Does your head hurt?”
“Like it’s splitting in two.”
“Oh, dear. Well, I have a powder here for that, one of Dr. Culden’s concoctions to relieve the pain. Give me a moment to stir it into some tea for you.”
She moved to the table where a tray of tea had been brought for her. “How did you get that wound?” she asked over her shoulder. “Do you remember?”
“I’m not positive,” he replied. “I think my horse got spooked by something. I recall I was riding down the road on my way home when he suddenly bolted to the side. Blasted branch there swept me out of the saddle. I think I tumbled a bit. Must have been the slope off the side there. Then a wicked pain in my head. Then nothing. Remind me to cut down those lower branches along the road to the house. They serve no useful purpose.”
His tone was grouchy and weak by turns. And his eyes had closed again. Margaret hurried with the tea. She was afraid he was going to pass out again. But at least she’d gotten some food into him first. Dr. Culden had warned that the powder he’d left would make Douglas sleepy as well as ease the pain.
She brought him the tea. He hadn’t passed out as she’d feared. His eyes opened again when he sensed her presence by the bed.
“I had the oddest dream,” he said after he drank the tea. “I dreamt I woke up and saw my mother sitting in the chair beside my bed. I started to speak to her but then—nothing, complete blackness. I assume I really woke up at that point, or the dream just ended.”
