Chapter 11

Eleanor ran down the steps. She felt a moment's fear, but as she reached the bottom of the stairs and saw the Marquess seated there, his face white, his hand at his side, his body limp, some other part of her took over.

"Sebastian," she addressed Lord Glenfield directly. "You stay there. Sit with your Papa. Has he choked on something?"

"No!" Sebastian said desperately. "No. He just...he just collapsed."

Eleanor frowned, her thoughts of choking replaced with thoughts of apoplexy or asthma. Her gaze fixed on the groom, who had wandered over, drawn to the noise. His name was Thomas—she knew that because Miss Whitford, whose name was Amy, had told her that. "Thomas!" she addressed him, making him blink. "Ride to the town and fetch the physician, please. His lordship needs urgent help." As she heard a step on the stairs, she turned to find the butler. "Please help his lordship carry his father upstairs?" she asked him.

"At once, my lady."

Eleanor watched as the butler went to where Sebastian was crouched, holding the prone form of his father against his chest. She felt her heart ache, seeing the lost, frightened look in Sebastian's gaze as he sat with his father, rocking him against his chest as though he were a child.

"My lord?" the butler inquired, tapping Sebastian lightly on the shoulder. Sebastian looked up blankly.

The butler explained to him gently what they needed to do, and Sebastian lifted his father, then they carried him together, his body prone between their two arms.

Eleanor stood back in the doorway, letting the men carry the Marquess up the stairs. They carried him to his chamber and Eleanor followed behind. As she walked along, Amy came out of her room and gasped.

"Amy?" Eleanor instructed her gently. "The marquess has been taken ill. Could you go down to the kitchens and fetch some water for him?"

"Of course, my lady!" Amy hurried off, round-eyed, to do as Eleanor instructed. She went to where Sebastian and the butler were opening the door to the Marquess' room and settling him on the bed.

"The physician is on his way," she assured gently. Sebastian stood by his father's bedside; his face drawn.

"My lord. My lady?" The butler turned to both of them. "What shall I do?"

"Please go down to wait for the physician to arrive," Eleanor instructed him swiftly. He inclined his head politely and went out to wait.

Eleanor turned to Sebastian.

"He is still breathing," she told Sebastian gently. The Marquess was certainly breathing, if in a labored way, gasping quite audibly.

"Yes. Yes," Sebastian murmured. He sat down in the chair by his father's bedside, his gaze glued on the man.

"He will be all right," Eleanor assured him. She was not sure how she knew, but she had a strong sensation that the Marquess would live. If he was still living—if he was still trying to breathe, if his heart was still beating—then he would recover from whatever it was that had ailed him.

"You don't know," Sebastian whispered.

"I am fairly sure," Eleanor said firmly. She looked into his eyes, seeing the pain and fear there. He could have been just a few years older than Johnny—the fear and confusion were the same.

"I can't lose him," Sebastian said softly. His voice was that of a child, lost in the dark.

"It's all well," Eleanor answered quietly. She took his hand, squeezing it gently. Her other hand rested on his shoulder. "It's all well. He's still alive, and I believe he will recover."

As Sebastian drew a breath to reply, a noise in the hallway made Eleanor turn to the door.

"My lord, my lady," the butler called them, hurrying to the door. "The physician has arrived. He is with me here."

"Please, show him in." Sebastian stood up from the chair. He gestured to the physician to stand beside the bed. The man—a bald-headed man with a thin, yet strong-seeming frame, came over to the bed and took his lordship's hand.

"My lord?" the physician addressed him firmly. "Can you hear me?"

"Y...yes." The Marquess' voice was a barely heard whisper.

Eleanor stood by the door as the physician addressed the Marquess. Sebastian stood beside him, not moving. He was gazing at his father, fear and joy on his face. Fear for the Marquess' delicate health, but such pure joy to see him speaking, if slowly and indistinctly, once more.

"My lord?" The physician seemed to have completed his talk with the Marquess and he turned to Sebastian, evidently giving him a list of things he needed to do. Eleanor stood where she was, feeling a little awkward. Now that the immediate danger had passed, it felt strange to be standing in the Marquess' bedroom, here among people who, after all, she did not really know well. She stepped back to the doorway, thinking that perhaps she should go when the physician left.

"My lord?" A voice outside the door made her turn and she opened it—the physician had closed it behind him—on Amy. She was standing there shyly, a glass of water in her hand, her gaze scared. "I brought the water, my lady." She handed it to Eleanor, who took it thankfully.

"Thank you, Amy," Eleanor said swiftly. "I..."

She was about to say she'd go downstairs with her, when the physician stepped over.

"May I go out?" he asked politely.

"Of course!" Eleanor stood back hastily to let him exit, and then followed him out. Someone grabbed her arm.

"Please stay," Sebastian said as she turned around, surprised at the gesture. "Please." He looked down at his fingers where they gripped her arm.

"Of course," she said at once.

They both walked back to his father.

"Sebastian?" The Marquess' voice was thin, the merest whisper. Sebastian dropped down to the bedside, kneeling on the floor by the bed.

"Yes, Papa?" he asked softly. His hand moved to the older man's dark-veined one, holding it tightly.

"I'm...I'm tired. Very weak."

"I can see that, Papa," Sebastian said quietly.

The Marquess made a noise. Eleanor realized belatedly he was chuckling. It was a small, hollow sound.

"I'm sure you can, young fellow. I'm certainyou can." He coughed and Eleanor picked up the glass of water she'd received earlier, passing it to Sebastian.

"Thank you," he murmured, taking it and holding it for his father. "Drink, Papa. Perhaps it will ease your coughing."

"No...no, son," the older man said, wheezing. "It's...it's my heart. Doctor said...apoplexy." He coughed again and Eleanor winced. Sebastian's hand tightened on his father's.

Eleanor, standing beside the bed, stiffened. She didn't belong sitting here with them, where Sebastian was close to tears and his father was holding his hand, as much for his own sake as his son's. She took a step towards the door, but the Marquess coughed, struggling to sit up.

"Miss Eleanor!" he called her. He always called her that. He coughed and she hurried to his bedside.

"Yes, my lord?" she murmured.

"Eleanor..." he whispered. He was struggling for breath, face still pale. "I...can I ask you...favour?" His words were halting as he barely had the breath to speak.

"Of course!" she answered at once.

"My head pains me," he said quietly. "And I fear sleep. But I'm tired. So...tired." He coughed again and she moved to raise his pillow, thinking that sitting up would ease his chest. "Could you sing for me?" he whispered.

"Sing?" She repeated, eyes round. "No, my lord. No, I cannot sing."

"Just one song?" he asked her, misunderstanding the reason for her hesitating.

"No. No. I cannot sing," she replied swiftly. "Or, mayhap I could, but you would not be pleased with the results." She chuckled.

She heard a gasp, and tensed, but realized he was laughing.

"I see," he replied, drawing a breath. "I see. But...you must learn," he whispered. "How else...will you...make your children sleep?"

Eleanor tensed. A strange, blossoming loveliness ran through her veins. He thought she would have children. He could imagine that she and his son would have a large family. She beamed and came and sat down in the chair by his bed, near where Sebastian sat.

"I cannot sing," she told him softly. "But I can tell stories. I always told my nephew stories when he was a baby. It helped a lot."

"A story," the Marquess breathed. "Could you tell me one? Just one. Just so I can sleep."

"Of course," she repeated. She drew a breath, closing her eyes. It felt awkward, sitting in the room with this man who she liked, but barely knew, and with Sebastian, who she feared and who confused her terribly. She imagined the house she grew up in, and the chestnut tree in the garden, and the sun on the lawns. Then the story started to form before her closed eyes.

"Once, long ago," she began, her voice lilting as it was when she spun stories for her little nieces, "there was a castle. And in the castle was a prince. But this was a very sad prince," she continued. She imagined it so plainly—a small boy, lonely and afraid, locked in a fortress by himself. The little boy had dark hair and brown eyes.

She continued, saying the prince one day climbed down out of the castle, and found a magic horse, who carried him all over the world. The horse came to be the creature he loved most of all, but that only made him sorrow more, because he had met no other creature who even could be trusted as she could. Then, sitting by an enchanted river, the horse began to speak. She explained that she was really a princess, enchanted into the form of a horse by an evil sorcerer. The waters of the lake could wash the curse away, and so the prince led her into the water and, suddenly, before him stood a beautiful princess. She was the love he'd been waiting for, and he'd known her all along, since he'd climbed onto her back. He just had not been able to see it.

She reached the closing of the tale and looked down at the Marquess. He was fast asleep, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, his hand loose in Sebastian's. She glanced up at Sebastian. He was watching her with a look of awe in his eyes.

"What?" Eleanor whispered, feeling her cheeks redden. She had no idea why he was staring at her.

"We should go and eat something," Sebastian said, not answering her question. His voice was tight, as if his throat was sore. "It's almost three o' clock."

"Oh." Eleanor blinked. As he said it, she realized how tired she was. She stood up, swaying as she stood, and he reached out, catching her hand before she fell.

"Take care," he said gently. "You'll fall over."

"I'm all right," she murmured, though she really was tired. She became aware of his hand gripping hers and looked down shyly.

"Thank you," Sebastian said softly. His voice was low, but intense, and when she looked up again, his gaze focused on her. "Thank you. Your prompt action may have saved my father. And thank you," he added, clearing his throat, "for...what you did for him. And me."

She swallowed hard. His stare was open and unguarded, pain mixing with gentle warmth. She found herself drowning in that beautiful, chocolate-colored gaze, his eyes so shy and guarded and yet filled with so much emotion.

"I did nothing," she said softly after a long moment of looking into his eyes. "I didn't even sing." She grinned at him. He laughed.

"Let us go and have some lunch," he said gently. "We can have it brought up to the drawing-room. Then we shan't be far away, should Papa need us."

"Good idea," Eleanor answered softly.

He looked into her eyes. She realized that he was still holding her hand. He looked down too, tightening his grip on her fingers for a moment.

"Thank you, Eleanor," he murmured. "Thank you, more than I can say."

He gazed into her eyes, and she looked back. Her throat tightened and she looked down. She could see something there—a tenderness, a warmth—that made her heart ache. She cleared her throat, the emotions that were blocking it almost felt painful.

"Come on," he said gently. "Let's go to the drawing-room. You need to sit down. And I do, too."

She nodded and followed him out of the bedchamber and into the drawing room.