year or so. As for himself, he was rich and young and healthy and now he even sported a title. What more could a girl possibly want?
She was a vicar's daughter, for God's sake.
And she trained racing cats.
Chapter 6
WAS PLAYING with Rory, telling him stories about famous cat champions from years past. The most famous of all the cat racers in this century was Gilly of Mountvale mews, who had died of extreme old age some two years before.
'No one had much of a chance when Gilly was racing,' she was saying as she handed Rory a small cat carved in cherry, painted in Gilly's distinctive black, gray, and white colors. 'See how high his tail is? Racers always carry their tails high. I'm told it means they're very proud, that they know their own worth, and they are very pleased with the world and their place in it.'
'Meggie?'
'Yes, love?'
'I don't feel very good.'
Meggie felt fear so strong that she couldn't breathe for a moment. Automatically she laid the flat of her palm against his forehead. He was roasting. The fever. Somehow he'd gotten the fever. They'd all been so careful, kept both Alec and Rory home, entertained them endlessly, taken such care, and still he'd gotten ill.
She lifted him in her arms, no mean feat because Rory was quite good-sized for his age. 'Let's go see your mama.'
He didn't try to pull away, as was his wont, for he was a very independent little boy, no, he became boneless in her arms, his cheek resting on her shoulder. It scared Meggie spitless.
Meggie was praying frantically as she quickly walked from the nursery downstairs to the drawing room. Both her father and Mary Rose were there with his curate, Mr. Samuel Pritchert.
'Mary Rose,' she said quietly from the door. Mary Rose looked up. The smile on her face froze because she knew, oh yes, she knew immediately that something was very wrong, wrong with Rory. Rory was ill, he had the fever. She said blankly, 'Oh no, not Rory. Oh no, Tysen.'
Tysen immediately went to Meggie and lifted Rory off her shoulder. 'What's this, my boy? You are feeling a bit pecked?' Tysen felt his cheeks, his forehead, and felt fear cramp his guts. 'All right,' he said, all calm and easy, 'I'm going to give you to your mother and be right back. You just rest, Rory.'
'Yes, Papa. I don't feel good.'
'I know. But you will be pulling on Meggie's hair again in no time at all.' He hugged his son against him, then laid his palm against his cheek.
Tysen then lightly touched his palm to Mary Rose's cheek. Much cooler than his son's. 'It will be all right. I'm going to fetch Dr. Dreyfus. I'll be back as soon as I can.'
Tysen had never moved so fast in his life. He didn't realize that Meggie was trotting beside him he was so locked into himself, so frightened he wanted to curse loud and long to keep the awful fear at bay.
'He will be all right, Papa, you'll see.' Meggie was panting, running now, and everyone got out of their way. They arrived at Dr. Dreyfus's cottage in just under seven minutes, out of breath, nearly beside themselves.
Dr. Dreyfus, Mrs. Midderd told them, was seeing to the Clay boy, no, not the fever, none of those this week, thank the good Lord, and thank you, Vicar, for all your prayers. No, the Clay boy had broken his leg, something very very serious.
'How long as he been gone, Mrs. Midderd?'
'At least three hours, Vicar. What is the matter?'
'It is my son, Rory. He has the fever.'
Mrs. Midderd, a former Catholic, converted to the Anglican church upon her marriage to Mr. Midderd some thirty years before, crossed herself.
'I will send him to you immediately upon his return, Vicar.'
Back at the Vicarage, both Tysen and Meggie stood at the end of Rory's bed watching Mary Rose bathe his small face. He was flushed, he whispered to his mother that his bones ached as he clutched her hand.
It was nearly another hour before Dr. Dreyfus walked into Rory's small bedroom, the longest hour of Tysen's life. Meggie hadn't moved from the other side of Rory's bed, holding the little boy's hand, speaking quietly to him. As for Tysen, he'd sent Alec with Leo to Northcliffe Hall. Why hadn't he sent both of them? No, he as the vicar, couldn't very well send his own children out of harm's way when no one else had that luxury. Because of his idiotic sense of what was proper, he might lose his son. He was a fool.
Dr. Dreyfus's large hand was on Rory's forehead, then he was sitting beside him, his ear to his chest.
When he looked up, he saw the corrosive fear on the vicar's face, and slowly nodded. 'I have some laudanum for him. It will keep him comfortable. But the fever, Vicar, it will climb and climb, so we must keep it down as best we can.' He rose and took both Mary Rose's and Tysen's hands. 'Listen to me. We can pull him through. The Dixon girl survived it, so can Rory. Now, first things first. Let's give him the laudanum, then begin wiping him down.'
It was near dawn; Meggie was sitting beside Rory, having taken over from her father an hour earlier. Mary Rose was asleep on a small cot that Tysen had brought into Rory's room. She looked frightened even in sleep, all stiff, her hands clenching and unclenching.
There had been other illnesses in Rory's young life, but none so frightening as this one.
Meggie felt Rory's cheeks. He was not quite so hot to the touch, she was sure of it. Then he was trembling, jerking about, shoving his covers off. 'No, no, baby, don't do that.' His teeth were chattering. 'Oh goodness, you're freezing now, aren't you? Don't worry, baby, I'm here and I'll take care of you.'
Meggie shrugged out of her soft warm velvet dressing gown and wrapped Rory in it. Then she got into his small bed and pulled him close. She whispered to him even as she stroked her hands up and down his small back. Suddenly he stiffened, moaned, and became perfectly still.
Oh God.
Meggie very nearly yelled, then, suddenly, she felt him jerk, heave in on himself, and he was breathing once again, shallow spiking breaths. She was crying now, holding him so close to her heart, so afraid, so very afraid. She was rubbing his back as she said over and over, 'No, Rory, hang on, I know you can do it. Breathe, baby, breathe.'
He was fighting for every breath now, wheezing. Oh, God, no. No.
'Meggie, what is it?'
Meggie didn't know how she managed it, but she said very quietly, 'Mary Rose, get Papa. It's bad, really bad. Go, hurry. Send someone for Dr. Dreyfus.'
Mary Rose stuffed her fist in her mouth and ran from the small room. When they returned, Tysen eased down and gently pulled Rory into his arms.
'He just stops breathing, Papa. Then when you think it's over, he manages to draw in a bit more air. He can't go on like this.'
Tysen didn't look up. He just held his precious boy against him and willed him to breathe. Then he rose and carried him to the rocking chair that he himself had made for Mary Rose when Alec was born. Meggie and Mary Rose sat on the bed, watching the father and the vicar hold his child. Tysen rubbed the palm of his hand over his son's chest, pressing in, then out, trying to help him breathe. He knew he should send for Dr. Dreyfus. He also knew that he couldn't do anything for Rory that hadn't already been done. Rory would either survive this or he wouldn't. Tysen pressed and massaged his son's chest, over and over, and spoke to him, encouraging him, and he prayed; he, the vicar, was making agreements with God. If he could have, he would have freely offered his soul if the Devil had but come to bargain.
Mary Rose took Meggie's hand. 'He can't die, Meggie, he just can't.'
Meggie nodded, words beyond her. She didn't want to cry, it would gain naught. They sat together until the sun came up, until shafts of soft pink slipped beneath the pale cream draperies to bathe the room in dim light.
Samuel Pritchert came to tell them that Dr. Dreyfus's carriage had been thrown on its side and the doctor was
