A British Governess in America by Becky Lower

Author:Becky Lower [Lower, Becky]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Prairie Rose Publications
Published: 2021-01-14T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

T he cool cloth and gentle touch soothed Patterson’s weary body. He placed his own fevered hand over hers and squeezed it lightly. “Margaret.”

The hand tore itself from his grasp, and he feared it had been a dream. He laid on a battlefield somewhere and his dead wife’s spirit hovered over his body, calling him home. He needed to feel her touch again, to join her. He cried out for her. “Margaret!”

The cloth on his forehead was replaced by a colder one. A smaller hand than the one he’d squeezed touched him, and a sweet voice called out, “Papa?”

Elizabeth, not Margaret. The image of his wife receded. He had to remain strong for Elizabeth’s sake. Although he wished to give up and follow Margaret. He clung to the little girl’s hand as if it were a lifeline.

Undoubtedly, it was.

The little hand slipped from his grasp and he made out different voices.

“Raise his head just a bit, Adam. Your father needs water and some food. I’ll give him some broth from the venison.”

Life-giving water dribbled into his mouth and he forced his tongue to lap it up. The water was followed by some warm broth. Tasted good.

“That’s enough for now, Adam. Your father needs his rest.”

The voice was not Margaret’s. But it was as soothing as her touch, the cultured English accent lulling him into sleep. He hung onto the voice as he drifted. Before he succumbed to sleep altogether, it struck him he was not on a battlefield. He had made it home before he collapsed. And the voice belonged to Eleanor.

He was home.

Some while later, he forced his eyes to open. He blinked, trying to make out objects in the inky darkness. He was positive it had been daylight when he arrived home. He must have been exhausted to have immediately crawled into bed. He attempted to get up but rolled back onto the bed with a groan.

A rustling of fabric told him he was not alone in the room. A hand on his shoulder forced him to lie back. As if he needed any help. He flopped back onto the pillow, as weak as a newborn kitten.

“You should not even be attempting to get up, Patterson. Are you hungry?” Eleanor’s lovely, lilted voice soothed him, and he laid back.

“Have I missed dinner?”

She placed a cool cloth on his forehead. “Several dinners. You arrived home three days ago.”

He yanked the cloth from his head. “What? Are you saying I’ve been laying here for three days?”

“Yes. Now lie still and keep the cloth on your forehead. You were burning up with fever when you arrived, and your wound had become infected.” She lit a candle beside the bed.

He stared at her. “Have you been sleeping in that chair for three days?”

She nodded. “Are you hungry? Can I get you anything?”

He might have been burning up with fever when he arrived home, but now he was burning up with embarrassment. “I…uh…am in desperate need of a chamber pot.”

She fluttered her hands in the air.

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