Chapter 17

It had been a wretched winter. Edward cursed the frigid winds that whipped around him as he dismounted in front of the village tea shop, then chose some rather strong words to fling at himself for braving what surely had to be the last storm before spring for something as whimsical as strawberry tarts. They weren’t even for him. As nearly a week and a half had passed and Julia had yet to communicate with him in any manner whosoever, he knew she was still grieving, and he was hoping the tarts might cheer her, lessen her disgust with him. Or they would make her angry, but her fury was better than her sorrow.

The bell atop the door tinkled as he stepped inside and welcomed the warmth. The only other customer was a young boy, barefoot without a jacket. What sort of parents would be so negligent? He was of a mind to have a word with them.

“Please,” the boy pleaded, holding up a fist that appeared to be closed around a coin. “Me mum’s hungry.”

“Sorry, love,” Mrs. Potts said, “but a ha’penny isn’t going to buy you a meat pie.”

“But she’s gonna die.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine.” Mrs. Potts looked at Edward. “Good day, Lord Greyling. What would please you?”

He understood no profit was to be made in giving away food, but surely exceptions could be made. On the other hand, if she gave something away, she’d have all manner of beggar at her door.

Edward knelt before the boy, who he put at around six years of age, surprised to see how flushed his face was. It wasn’t that warm in here. “What’s wrong with your mother, lad?”

“She’s sick.”

“Probably influenza,” Mrs. Potts said. “Lot of people coming down with it.”

He touched his palm to the boy’s forehead. “He’s far too hot.”

“He shouldn’t be in here, then. Be off with you, lad. Go on home.”

Edward held up his hand to halt her hysterics, wrapped his other hand around the child’s bony shoulder. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Johnny. Johnny Lark.”

“How many in your family?”

“Four.”

“Box up four meat pies, Mrs. Potts. Put them on my account.” Removing his coat, he wrapped it around Johnny Lark and lifted him into his arms. The lad weighed nothing at all. Taking the box Mrs. Potts placed on the counter, he said, “Box up four strawberry tarts. I’ll return for them shortly.” He turned his attention to the boy. “Show me where you live, Johnny.”

It was a small cottage at the edge of the village. Based upon the lines of rope strung along the back that he could see as they neared, Edward assumed Johnny’s mother was a washerwoman. Setting the lad on his feet on the stoop, he knocked on the door. When no one called out to him, he opened it and was nearly knocked back by the foul stench of sickness.

“Mrs. Lark,” he announced as he stepped inside.

On a bed in the corner, a woman with tangled red hair pushed herself up. “What’d ye do, Johnny?”

Her voice was scratchy, raw, and weak. Her face glistened with sweat; her eyes were dull.

“He acquired some food for you. I’m the Earl of Greyling.”

“Oh, m’lord.”

Edward rushed forward, placed a hand gently on her shoulder, taken aback by the heat emanating through the flannel. “Don’t get up. I’m here to see after you.”

“But you’re a lord.”

“Who was rather impressed by your son’s resourcefulness.” Turning away, he took his coat from the boy, draped it over the back of a chair at the table. Opening the box, he set a meat pie on the table. “You need to eat, Johnny.”

“But me mum—­”

“I’ll take care of your mum.”

A little red-­haired girl slightly younger than the boy crawled out from beneath the bed. Edward placed a pie on the table for her, lifted her onto a chair. He found spoons for them. The fourth member of the family was still in the cradle. He was going to have to mash up the meat pie for that little one. He needed to locate some milk as well.

He took a pie to the woman, offered it to her.

She shook her head. “It won’t stay down.”

“You need to try, even if it’s no more than a couple of bites. What does the doctor say about your condition?”

“He won’t come here. I got no way to pay him.”

“He hasn’t been here at all, then?”

She shook her head. “Wouldn’t even come when me husband was dying last week. Said there weren’t nothing he could do. Ben died. Undertaker came, took him and the last of me coin. Then I got sick. Who’s going to take care of me bairns when I’m gone?”

“You’re not going anywhere.” He placed the pie in her hands. “Eat what you can. I’m going to fetch the physician.” He grabbed his coat and headed toward the door.

“I’m telling you—­he won’t come.”

Edward stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “For me, he’d better damn well come.”

He stormed out of the house, barely noticing the drizzling rain that had started. When he’d seen the sickly woman, the babe, the little girl crawling out from beneath the bed, a near panic had hit him as Julia flashed through his mind, alone and sentenced to squalid conditions. He knew that if she decided not to remain at Evermore, she would not be living in a hovel. She would have the cottage in the Cotswolds, an army of servants, and funds to ensure that she and Allie never went without. He would set up a trust. He needed to see to that immediately. As well as a will. He needed to ensure they were provided for. It didn’t anger him that Albert hadn’t seen to those details. He’d been a young, virile man. Why would he think death would come before he even reached his thirtieth year? But Death honored neither calendar nor clock, and Edward had no plans to be caught unawares when his time came.

He’d been striving to get all his holdings in order, to take stock of all that came to him with the title. His brother had left things in relatively good order, but still he had so much to learn, so much to comprehend. While he was not lord of the village, he could not help but feel as though he had a role in the care of its citizens. He was the largest landowner in the area, the only man for miles with a title. Those two aspects alone came with responsibilities that he had no intention of shirking.

When he arrived at the physician’s residence, he pounded on the door. It was opened by a small woman with hair the color of corn silk. Her eyes widened.

“Lord Greyling, you shouldn’t be out and about in weather such as this. Come in.”

Removing his hat, he stepped over the threshold. “Is your husband home?”

“He’s at Mr. Monroe’s lancing a boil. He shouldn’t be long if you’d like to wait.”

“I shall do that, thank you.”

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“I don’t wish to trouble you.”

“It will be no trouble.”

“Then, yes, thank you, I would welcome it.”

“Please, take a seat.”

“I’m drenched, Mrs. Warren. I have no desire to ruin your furniture. I’ll stand.”

“As you wish; I shan’t be long.”

Warren on the other hand seemed to take his time. It was nearly an hour and two cups of tea later before he walked through the door. His eyes widened. “Greyling, this is a pleasant surprise.”

“Not so pleasant. I’ve just come from Mrs. Lark’s. She’s unwell.”

“Yes, influenza.”

“How would you know? You haven’t seen her.”

Warren raised his chin. “Half the village has succumbed to the disease.”

“What is the treatment?”

“There is none except to let it run its course.”

“Her husband died.”

He lowered that chin that Edward had a good mind to punch. “The disease can be quite . . . unforgiving.”

“She has three small children. I believe the boy to be fevered as well.”

“It is contagious, I’m afraid.”

“So is it her lack of funds or your lack of courage that prevents you from going to her?”

The chin up again, the nose at a haughty angle. “I resent the implication that I am a coward.”

“Good. Then it’s lack of money. I can deal with a man who is absent of compassion. You will go with me now to see her. You will then call on anyone who is ill. If they cannot afford to pay for your time, then you will come to me for payment. You will also let it be known that I will pay handsomely anyone who is willing to nurse those who have no one to care for them.”

Warren shook his head. “To put the well with the unwell will only spread the disease.”

“So your solution is to leave them to die?”

“Not everyone dies.”

“Then one is merely inconvenienced for a time. You will do as I demand or come spring there will be another physician in the village.” Regardless of whether Warren did as he’d insisted, there would be another physician come spring. A little competition always brought out the best in people. “Shall we be off?”

Warren sighed. “As Mr. Lark just died, I don’t know that I’ll have any luck finding anyone willing to go into the house and take care of Mrs. Lark and her children. Death tends to make people uncomfortable, as though if it visits once, it’ll visit again.”

“You don’t have to find anyone for her. I’m not going to ask others to do what I am unwilling to do. I’ll see to Mrs. Lark. I just need you to examine her and tell me how best to help her.”

Sitting on the sofa before the fireplace in her bedchamber, Julia stared at the clock on the mantel, watching as the hour hand neared two and the minute hand came ever closer to twelve. No missive alerting her to the earl’s afternoon visit to the nursery had been delivered. Did he assume that after nearly ten days it was understood that he had established a ritual and would be attending to her daughter?

Or had he grown tired of his visits, weary of giving time to Alberta? Had he been using Alberta to manipulate her, and when she failed to rise to whatever bait he was dangling, decided to cast her daughter aside like so much rubbish?

Even as she had the horrid thought, she couldn’t envision it of him, not after witnessing him with Alberta perched protectively on his chest two nights ago.

Torrie was no doubt at fault, lounging around somewhere instead of seeing to her duties. Shooting to her feet, she crossed the room and yanked on the bellpull. Then she paced, wondering why she felt strung as tightly as a bow. When the knock finally came, relief swamped through her. “Come in.”

Torrie entered, gave a little curtsy. “You rang for me, m’lady?”

“Did you not have a missive to deliver to me?”

“No, m’lady.”

Julia was unprepared for the disappointment that struck her. “The earl did not give you a note for me?”

“I don’t see how he could. He’s not here.”

“What do you mean he’s not here?” Where was he? London? Another estate? Havisham Hall? He couldn’t just leave without telling her.

“He rode to the village this morning and he hasn’t returned yet.”

“In this weather?” She raised her hand. “No need to answer. It’s not our place to question him.” But why did this man have such a penchant for traveling about in dreadful weather? No doubt it was the adventurer in him. Pity his poor wife, who would in all likelihood spend an inordinate amount of time worrying over him. Not that Julia was worried. He could catch his death for all she cared. Served him right for never saying anything when she whispered naughty things in his ear. It still mortified her to know he’d heard every shameful word she’d spoken.

“That’ll be all.”

“Shall I alert you when he returns?”

“That would be splendid. I’m going to spend half an hour with Lady Alberta, and then I’m going to work with my watercolors.” She’d been envisioning a new character for her menagerie, and she was anxious to begin working on him.

Torrie smiled as though Julia had just announced she was going to set her up with a house and she wouldn’t have to work for the remainder of her life. “Very good, m’lady. That room’s been lonely without you.”

“Don’t be absurd, Torrie. A room can’t be lonely.”

“You’d be surprised, m’lady.”

Perhaps not, as this room at night felt incredibly lonely. Near midnight last night she’d gone into the master’s bedchamber seeking some sort of solace that she couldn’t understand. Failing to find it there, she’d gone to the chamber that had been designated as Edward’s whenever he visited. The trunks were still there, untouched since her last sojourn into the room. Sinking to the floor, she’d opened Albert’s trunk and wept as his familiar scent circled about her. Then for reasons she failed to comprehend, she opened Edward’s and wept all the harder.

What a difficult task Albert had set before Edward. So many of her conversations with him since his return randomly ran through her mind, and she saw them in a different light, saw a man striving to remain as honest as he could with her while at the same time deceiving her.

With a shake of her head to scatter those disturbing thoughts, she put on her slippers and wandered down to the nursery. No need to creep about trying to be quiet.

Nanny immediately jumped to her feet. “M’lady.”

“Go enjoy a cup of tea. I’ll watch Lady Alberta for a while.”

Nanny’s brow furrowing deeply, she looked toward the door. “Is his lordship not coming, then?”

“Perhaps later.” She walked to the crib and picked up Alberta. “Hello, my darling.” The infant’s face scrunched up as though she were on the verge of bellowing in protest. “I know I’m not who you were expecting, but he’s been delayed. I’m sure he’ll come see you as soon as he returns home.”

Holding her daughter close, she sat in the rocker. “I haven’t your uncle’s gift for storytelling. What do you suppose that naughty weasel is up to? Do you know what I think, Allie? I think the weasel—­who is supposed to be the villain of our tale—­may just turn out to be the hero.”

Hours later she set her watercolors aside and walked to the window. It had grown dark and he had yet to return. She was considering whether to send the stable lads out to search for him when Torrie walked in and handed her a missive.

Lady Greyling,

A widow in the village is in need of my assistance. Not certain when I will return. Kiss Lady Alberta for me and give her my love.

—­Greyling

With a scoff, she crumpled the paper. Did he think her a fool? She knew precisely what sort of assistance he was delivering. He was a man with needs, and they would be met most willingly with a night in the arms of a widow. Assistance, indeed.

Julia took her meal in the dining room, the first time since that fateful night when she’d discovered the truth. She was kept company only by the ticking of the clock on the mantel, the footman occasionally removing one dish to place another before her. While she had dined alone within this room many a night while Albert was away, she couldn’t recall ever feeling quite so devastatingly alone.

Following dinner, she enjoyed a glass of port in Edward’s library, sitting in a chair, listening to the crackling of the fire, imagining him here by himself night after night while she remained in her bedchamber seeking to ensure he understood her displeasure at all he’d done, hoping to make him miserable. In the end, being the one who was miserable.

It was after ten when she went into the billiards room and, using her hand rather than a cue, rolled balls back and forth over the table, remembering how easily he had lifted her onto it, the devilish smile he’d given her. She thought of all the times he had looked at her with desire and hunger, all the times he made her feel as though he had no interest in any other woman, made her believe that no other woman would satisfy him.

What a fool she was. She kept envisioning him with the widow. She wanted her to be old, wrinkled, with half her teeth missing. No, all her teeth missing. But in truth, she suspected she was young and pretty, more than willing to provide an evening of comfort to a man as strappingly built and handsome as he.

She understood now why he had drunk, why he had sought to dull his senses. Thinking of him in the arms of another woman made her want to weep when she knew she had no right to him, no cause to expect him to be loyal to her.

For all she knew he had sought out dalliances before now, only he’d been incredibly discreet and now there was no need for discretion. But even as she thought it, she rejected the notion that he’d been with others before now. Strange that she had known Edward as a drunkard, a womanizer, a gambler, and yet had no doubt whatsoever that from the moment he returned from his travels until this evening, had been faithful to her.

The fact that he was with another woman should not have caused the ache in her chest that it did. She should not be missing him.

But she was grateful for tonight, for the reality of it, because it made her realize that she might not be strong enough to stay here after all.

Two afternoons later Julia was convinced that the widow was not only young, but incredibly skilled at pleasuring his lordship and distracting him from his duties. As she splashed watercolors on her canvas in order to create tempestuous skies, she was half tempted to ride into the village and remind the Earl of Greyling that he had responsibilities. Although perhaps he had moved on to tavern wenches. He did tend to take his vices—­whether it be wine, women, or wagering—­to excess.

She’d thought he had changed, thought he was different, but he was falling into his old habits.

Torrie opened the door and walked in carrying a tea service on a tray. She set it on the low table before the fire. “I brought your afternoon tea.”

Julia took a seat on the sofa and smiled with delight at the sight of four strawberry tarts. “Please give Cook my regards. I had no idea she could make tarts that look just like the ones at the village tea shop.”

“In fact, m’lady, they are from the village tea shop. His lordship brought them.”

She jerked her head up. “The earl has returned?”

“Yes, m’lady. Not more than twenty minutes ago. Gave the tarts to Mr. Rigdon, with orders to serve them with your tea, and dashed off straightaway to his chambers.”

He was back and he’d brought her a gift. She was touched that he’d remembered how much she enjoyed strawberry tarts, almost enough to overlook that he had spent the past three nights keeping a widow company.

Biting into the pastry, she moaned with the pleasure the taste brought her. It was so decadent, and now she was beholden to him. She would have to thank him.

Torrie turned to leave.

“Press my red gown. I’ll be dining with the earl tonight.”

Her maid’s smile was so wide and bright as to be blinding. “Yes, m’lady. With pleasure.”

She fairly skipped out of the room, while Julia took another bite of pastry and wondered if Edward would come to this room today, if he would pay a visit to Allie.

Edward leaned against the wall near the window while his valet oversaw the preparation of his bath and the building of a fire in the fireplace. He’d never in his life been so bloody tired. The widow’s fever had finally broken late last night, her son’s this morning. Both of the other two children had seemed to escape the disease—­at least so far. As chills were racking his body, he didn’t think he’d been as fortunate.

As he’d ridden back here, he thought it was exhaustion coupled with the weather. But now he wasn’t so sure. When the servants finished with their chores, his valet stood at attention by the door. Edward had already ordered him to keep his distance. “After you walk out of here, you are not to come back in.”

“My lord, I don’t think you’re well.”

“Very observant. I’m going to bundle my clothes into a blanket and set them outside the door. Touch them as little as possible. Burn everything.” That was probably an extreme precaution, but he was going to take whatever means necessary not to cause anyone else to fall ill. “Every two hours you are to leave a pitcher of water and a bowl of broth outside the door. If they remain untouched for two days, you may enter.”

“My lord—­”

“If you enter before that, you’ll be sacked. And you’re not to breathe a word of this to the countess.” Not that he thought she would ask after him, but again a precaution was needed. He didn’t need her praying for his hasty demise.

“I don’t feel right about this, my lord.”

“It’s only influenza. I’ll be miserable for a few days and then I’ll be fine. No need for anyone else to be bothered by it.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“Good man. Now be off with you.”

With obvious reluctance, Marlow opened the door and slipped out. Edward pulled a blanket from the bed and dropped it to the floor, tempted to follow it down and stretch out right there. Instead he began the laborious process of removing his clothes.

He did hope Julia enjoyed her strawberry tarts.

She dined alone, blast him. He hadn’t come to her room where she worked with her watercolors. Nor had he visited Allie. His absence there was odd, as he had seemed to adore the girl. Had he only been pretending in order to get into Julia’s good graces?

She didn’t think so. From the moment her daughter was born, he could not have been more tender or expressed a more sincere interest in her well-­being. Perhaps he was simply worn-­out from his escapades. She knew firsthand that he poured a great deal of effort and himself into the act of pleasure. As hard as she tried, she had no success not envisioning his powerful muscles bunching and cording as he glided his body—­

Damn him. Damn him for giving her a taste of what she could not have. Damn her own weak body for wanting to be worshipped.

She spent most of the night writhing on the bed. Every time she drifted off to sleep, she dreamed of him reaching for her. Even though he and Albert looked exactly alike, she knew it was Edward, because of his devilish smile and his smoldering eyes.

She awoke in a foul mood, with a need to confront him, to face him, but feared he’d take satisfaction in her need to see him, that he would know he had sparked jealousy in her by spending multiple nights with another woman. Which was ridiculous, as she had no hold on him. She was a widow, in mourning. The last thing she should be thinking about was another man.

Still, she needed to thank him for the tarts. It was unconscionable that she had yet to do so. Taking breakfast downstairs would allow her the opportunity to express her appreciation.

However when she entered the breakfast dining room, Rigdon informed her that the earl was taking breakfast in his room. First dinner and now breakfast? He was secluding himself as she had been. Why?

“Is he planning to have all his meals in his bedchamber?”

Looking somewhat guilty, Rigdon shifted his feet. “For the present time, yes.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing m’lady.”

Oh there was something. Otherwise he wouldn’t have averted his eyes. Why was Edward staying in his room? Oh, dear Lord! Had he brought the merry widow home with him? Had he sequestered himself away because he was coupling with her?

And what if he had? It wasn’t her business. She couldn’t forbid him from bringing women into his own home, not like before when it was hers. Except that everyone thought he was Albert being unfaithful to her. And that she could not tolerate. He was disparaging Albert and her relationship with him.

Rigdon suddenly straightened his stance, squared his jaw. “It’s not right, m’lady. On this matter, his lordship is being most foolish.”

Oh, God, she was correct and the servants knew he was carrying on with some other woman. Why the devil couldn’t he have been discreet? The anger swept through her on such a rush of heated indignation—­

“He ordered us not to tell you but I fear for him.”

As well he should. She was going to do all within her power to ensure Edward was never able to show his face in a fancy parlor. To humiliate her like this was beyond the pale. She might even take a poker to him in his most private of areas to ensure he pleased no other widows.

“He has yet to retrieve the broth or water that Marlow left out for him,” Rigdon told her.

Broth? He was serving his mistress broth? Hardly the most charming means of seduction. Yet he’d brought her strawberry tarts. None of this made any sense. She shook her head. “Marlow is leaving broth where?”

“In the hallway, outside his lordship’s chamber door.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s forbidden anyone from going inside—­unless the broth sits there for two days, at which point someone may enter. I suppose because Lord Greyling will be dead.”

Did one die from excessive sex? She supposed it was possible, and wasn’t an entirely unpleasant way to go . . .

“Rigdon, I’m not quite sure I follow.”

“Of course not, m’lady, because we’re not allowed to tell you.”

“Then I suggest you tell me.”

“He’ll sack me.”

“I shall sack you if you don’t.”

He released a big heavy sigh. “Very well. Lord Greyling is ill.”

“Ill?”

“Yes, madam. Influenza. He feared that if he did not isolate himself . . .”

The remainder of his words faded into the background because she’d already run out of the room and was rushing down the hallway. Her parents had died of influenza. How had this come to pass? How had he gotten ill? He was too strong, too bold, too young to be taken down with an illness such as this.

Not until she reached his wing did she realize that she had no idea which room he had claimed as his own. Broth. She merely had to find the broth in the hallway. She sprinted up the stairs. At the landing, she headed toward the left.

She didn’t need to locate the broth after all. Marlow was sitting in a chair at the end of the corridor. As she neared, he came to his feet. “Lady Greyling.”

She went past him.

“His lordship doesn’t want—­”

But his words, too, were lost as she shoved open the door and dashed over the threshold, coming to a staggering stop as she saw Edward, lying in a tangle of sheets, the upper half of his body exposed and covered in sweat.

He pushed himself up, waved his hand. “You can’t be in here.”

“And yet I am.”

As she crossed over, he flopped back onto the bed. “You need to leave.”

Ignoring him, she pressed the flat of her hand to his forehead. “You’re fairly on fire.”

“Which is why you need to leave.”

Which was exactly why she wouldn’t. Turning, she was grateful to see Marlow had followed her in, hovering just inside the doorway. “Have someone fetch Dr. Warren.”

“There’s nothing he can do,” Edward muttered.

“Oh, and when did you become an expert on medicine?”

“When I was caring for Mrs. Lark and her son.”

Who the devil were Mrs. Lark and her son? And where was Mr. Lark? Good Lord, was it conceivable that he hadn’t been fornicating with a widow but caring for one? “Is Mrs. Lark a widow?”

He gave a slight nod. “Her husband died recently. Fever. She was ill. The boy was ill. I shouldn’t have returned here. Should have stayed in the village, but I was just tired. Thought I was cold because of the weather.”

“Doesn’t matter. You should be home when you’re ill. But why were you caring for this woman and her child?”

“No one else would.”

He’d stayed in the village to do good, and she’d assumed the worst. How much longer was it going to take before she accepted that the man with whom she’d been living for nearly three months now was the true Edward Alcott? She turned to Marlow. “Send someone to fetch Dr. Warren. He’s to come as quickly as possible.”

As Marlow left to do her bidding, she looked back at Edward and prayed that quickly as possible would be soon enough.

You need to prepare yourself, Lady Greyling,” Dr. Warren said solemnly as he turned away from the bed. He reminded her of a dog that had been kicked. “It’s unlikely your husband will survive.”

He might as well have bludgeoned her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t feel her fingers, her toes. “There must be something you can do.”

Slowly, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but there is no remedy I can offer for this illness.”

“The woman he cared for, Mrs. Lark, did she die?”

“No.”

“Her son?”

“He recovered as well.”

“What did he do for her?”

“It doesn’t matter what we do. Some people die, some don’t.”

“Then what bloody good are you?” She spun away from him, trying to contain the tremors of anger and fear that were cascading through her. Whipping back around, she glared at him. “Be off with you.”

“I’m sorry—­”

“I don’t want to hear it. Just go.” He shuffled out. She wanted to be sympathetic. He’d probably helplessly stood by while many died, but she could work up no sympathy when he wasn’t even willing to try. She looked over at Marlow, who stood just inside the door, a silent sentry. “Fetch me a bowl of cool water, some cloths, ice chips from the ice box, and some fresh broth.”

He turned to leave, and she was struck with an idea. “And Mrs. Lark.”

He spun back around. “I beg your pardon?”

Unlike Dr. Warren, she did not intend to stand helplessly by while some disease ravaged this man who was far more noble than she’d ever given him credit for. In her mind, she’d accused him of fornication when he’d actually been caring for the ill. She was ashamed of the thoughts she had. She always expected the worst of him, but for nearly three months now he had shown her the best of himself. “Send a footman to the village to ask Mrs. Lark exactly how Lord Greyling took care of her. Have him write it all down. Even the smallest thing may be important.”

“My mum always recommended a hot toddy.”

Edward would certainly welcome that. “Thank you, Marlow. Fetch it as well.”

Leaving, he closed the door in his wake. She gave her attention back to Edward. He seemed to have drifted off. She couldn’t help but believe that time was of the essence. And now that they were alone, she could address him far more intimately. “Edward, Edward, I need you to wake up for just a bit.”

His eyes fluttered, closed.

“Listen to me. I’m sending a servant to talk with Mrs. Lark. But can you tell me what you did to help her get better?” She shook his shoulder. He failed to respond. She shook harder. “Edward, can you tell me what you did?”

Opening his eyes, he blinked at her. “I killed him. I killed Albert.”