When Strangers Marry (Vallerands #1)(17)

“Don’t speak of it around her again,” he said curtly. “She is going to be well. I won’t allow otherwise.”

“But Max, she cannot understand—”

“She can hear what’s being said.” He stood and glared at her. “Remove her clothes and bathe her with a cool cloth. When the doctor arrives, tell him that he is not to do anything without my permission. I don’t want her bled.”

Irénée nodded, remembering how they had nearly lost Justin during his bout with the fever, when he had been bled too copiously.

———

Irénée and Noeline took turns sitting with Lysette the first forty-eight hours. Irénée had forgotten the work and patience it required to nurse a yellow fever patient. Her back ached from hours of leaning over the bed and sponging Lysette with cold water. The violent bouts of vomiting, the delirious raving and nightmares, the pungent smell of the vinegar baths they gave her— all of it was repellent and exhausting.

Max frequently asked about the girl’s condition, but propriety barred him from entering the room. Although nothing was discussed or admitted, Max suspected Justin’s involvement with the letter, knowing his son’s penchant for stirring up trouble. The boy slunk around the house, avoiding his father and brother.

At such times, when the adults were otherwise occupied, the twins usually took the opportunity to run wild, dodge their lessons with the tutor, and sneak off to see friends or cause mischief in the city. Now, however, they were unusually quiet. A fog of gloom seemed to have descended on the house, the silence interrupted only by Lysette’s incoherent cries during the worst periods of delirium.

This time, when Lysette’s family returned to the Vallerand house, they departed with no doubt that she was indeed extremely ill. Delphine was allowed to visit the sickroom, but the girl did not recognize her. Gaspard was subdued as they left, for it was clear that Lysette’s chances of survival were slight.

Succumbing to a fit of melancholy, Justin grumbled about the nuisance it was to have an ailing houseguest. “I wish it would end one way or the other,” he said dully, as he and Phillippe sat on the stairs. “I can’t stand everyone having to walk on tiptoe, and the noises she makes, and the whole house stinking of vinegar.”

“It won’t last much longer,” Philippe commented. “I heard Grand-mère say she will not live another day.”

They froze as they heard a weak cry from upstairs. Suddenly their father emerged from the library, brushing by them without a word. He went up the stairs two at a time. The twins glanced at each other in surprise.

“Do you think he cares for her?” Philippe asked.

Justin’s young face hardened in contempt. “He’s only concerned that she’ll die before she is of any use to him.”

“What do you mean?” Suspecting that his brother was hiding something from him, Philippe caught him by the sleeve. “Justin, what do you know that I don’t?”

Justin took his arm free impatiently. “I won’t tell you. You’d only try to defend him.”

———

Irénée tried in vain to quiet the girl who twisted and turned in the throes of violent delirium. “Pauvre petite,” Irénée exclaimed under her breath. Nothing would bring tranquillity. The girl would neither drink nor rest, and no medicine would stay down long enough to do any good. Wearily Irénée slumped in the chair by the bed, watching Lysette’s restless twitching.

“Don’t… don’t let him… oh, please, please…” The thin voice rose and fell monotonously.

Slowly Irénée began to reach for the sponge and basin, hoping to cool the fever with more water. She fell back in surprise as her son appeared in the darkened room.

“Max?” she exclaimed. “What are you doing? It’s not proper for you to be here. She’s not dressed.”

“I don’t give a damn.”

He swatted aside the filmy folds of the baire and sat on the edge of the bed. His dark head bent over the girl’s writhing form.

“Max, this is indecent,” Irénée protested. “You must leave.”

Ignoring her, Max pulled away the knotted mass of sheets from Lysette’s sweating body. Her damp chemise was transparent as it clung to her skin, doing nothing to conceal her nakedness. Max’s face was taut and harshly drawn as he pushed back Lysette’s matted hair and lifted her into his arms. All the force of his will was focused on the shivering figure folded against his chest. “Shhh,” he whispered against Lysette’s temple, cupping her head in his hand. “Rest against me. Yes. Hush, petite. You’re exhausting yourself.”

The girl clung to him and muttered incoherently.

Shifting her higher against him, Max reached for the wet sponge. He drew it over her face and chest, squeezing until the cool water ran in rivulets over her skin and soaked his own clothes. “Lysette, be still. Let me take care of you. Sleep. You’re safe, machère.”

After a while the stroking and the quiet words soothed the girl, and she went limp against him. He took the cup from the bedside and pressed it to her lips. She choked and tried to resist, but he coaxed and urged and insisted until she swallowed some of the medicine.

Gently Max eased her back to the mattress and covered her with the sheet. He glanced at his mother’s astonished face. “Tell Noeline to bring fresh linens,” he said. “She can help me change the bed.”