“I am not hungry.”
“I am a man used to attaining my way. If you wish to continue enlisting my assistance, you had best do as I instruct.” He creaked open the gate for her, but instead of stepping inside, she hesitated.
She almost knew before she asked, but the words came out anyway, “Where did you send the other servants to look for the children?”
Mr. Oswald slipped a finger to his neckcloth and tugged, as if in discomfort. He averted her gaze when he whispered, “The river.”
Exhaustion weighted her steps as she climbed the Sowerby entrance stairs. She should not have relied so heavily on the arm looped about her, but she sagged into Mr. Oswald anyway and allowed his strength to compensate for her weakness.
When the door whined open, spilling light into the darkness, she shrunk back. “I cannot.”
“We have done all feasibly possible, Miss Whitmore. Enough is enough.”
“We have to keep looking.”
“On the morrow, we shall.”
“But what if they—”
“My servants will continue their search throughout the night. In the morning, we shall aid them. But for the present, you shall climb into your bed, or I shall throw you there myself. And sit there, the night through, to make certain you do not stir.” He guided her into the anteroom. “Although, I admit that would not suffer me greatly.”
“Georgina!” With an overwrought cry, Mamma sprung from a chair in the anteroom and swallowed Georgina in her arms, squeezing tight enough all the burns flared.
“Gently, Mrs. Lutwidge,” said Mr. Oswald. “Our little injured dove is not yet recovered.”
“Oh, this is unbearable.” Mamma drew back and blew her nose into a sopping handkerchief. “You must know I have been in utter hysterics ever since Mr. Oswald’s servant arrived and told me the news. My poor dear girl.” She inspected Georgina’s face in the candlelight, tilting her head by the chin in both directions. “Thank heavens you sustained no burns to your exquisite face. Then, I fear, you should have never gained the attachment I have been hoping for.”
“Mamma.” The scolding came more from habit than true distress, as Mamma lifted an insinuating brow to Mr. Oswald.
“But never mind that now. Byron, dear, do say something consoling to your daughter.”
For the first time, Georgina noticed him in the shadows of the anteroom, standing next to a chair, beaver hat shifting with discomfort between his hands. “Miss Whitmore.” He bobbed his head. “I am rejoiced to see you are unharmed.”
She knew she should thank him. For Mamma’s sake, if nothing else.
But the truth was he likely wished she had burned.
Excusing herself, she exited the anteroom and forced her legs faster. The dark, empty corridors engulfed her. She heard too many things in their silence.“Passed several hours ago…never woke again…cried his wife’s name…his children…”
When she reached the chamber, Dr. Morpeth pulled the door shut as he exited, wiping his hands on a towel. Blood pinkened the cotton. “Miss Whitmore, I would not go in there if I were you.”
A spasm attacked her heart. “He…is he…”
“No, he is not dead.” The doctor raked a hand through his frizzy white hair. “But he is in much pain, the fever is not yet broken, and I am in the process of bloodletting. I think he is best left alone.”
The coward in her wanted to consent. How could she face him with the news his children were still undiscovered? That the servants were searching the Thames? That nineteen London workhouses and three asylums knew nothing of them?
She lifted her chin anyway. “I shall be only a moment.”
That was all she—or Simon—would have strength for.
Of all the times she could have entered, he wished to heaven it was not now.
He was too weak.
His weakest.
He lay flat on his stomach, leeches on both of his bare arms and latched on to his legs beneath the sheets. Aches rippled through him. Hot, then cold; fire, then ice. He was exposed to her. His naked back, swollen and blistered. His bandaged hands. The blood spots on his pillow.
