Chapter 20

Michael was living a nightmare, he must be; there was no other explanation for it. When he received the letter from his mother asking him to come home urgently, his legs had buckled. His beloved father, the man who had taught him all that he knew, was at death's door. All he had wanted was to turn to someone who cared, but there was no one. Arabella had made it quite plain that he was a servant and nothing more.

Aching that he would never see her again, he had set off for home, thankful to have Mr Betez's blessing. Many employers would have allowed him to go, but there would not be a guaranteed position when he returned. Not only had Mr Betez promised him work, he had instructed him to take as long as was needed. That had meant so much to Michael, but he was sure he had not expressed his thanks coherently, his mind racing as to what could be done to help his father.

As the carriage hurried through the countryside, he had leaned on the squabs, closed his eyes and thought of Arabella. He wondered if he would ever stop thinking about her because she was always in his mind; even when he was worried about his father, she was at the forefront. All he could do was hope that she was well and relatively happy; he did not think he would ever feel complete, knowing that he would never see her again. As she had pointed out, they moved in completely different circles. He had been a fool to let his imagination and hope take a hold of him.

Getting home had redirected his thoughts. His father had suffered a severe fever after cutting himself while working. He was alive but so much weakened and frail that Michael hardly recognised him.

"The doctor said the cut was badly infected because your father had dismissed the wound as only a scratch, so the infection had time to develop. There is a chance that he could have a relapse at any moment; the doctor has said to expect the worst," Mrs Follett said after embracing her son as if she would never let him go. "I know it sounds selfish of me, but what happens if he does not survive? I will be cast out of the cottage."

"Do not concern yourself with that. You would come to me," Michael said quickly, holding her close.

"You are a good boy, but one day you will have a wife and children. You don't want your mother hanging around."

"I will not be marrying, so you can stop with that thought, and I am insulted that you would think I would abandon you. Of course I will take care of you, both of you, just as you have always taken care of me."

On entering his father's bedchamber, Michael was thankful that his father had his eyes closed, for he could collect himself and face him with a bland expression rather than the one of horror that he was sure he had betrayed when first entering the room.

"Now then, why are you running here? I told Ma that there was no need to tell you. Just a scratch." His father wheezed as if he could hardly take in a breath, and after speaking those few words, he closed his eyes in exhaustion.

"A scratch? You must be getting old if a mere scratch can lay you up like this. I thought you were as strong as an ox. Perhaps it is time to retire, old man." Michael was trying his hardest to make his tone light, but his voice broke at the end.

Mr Follett chuckled, but it was barely more than a whisper. "You always were too smart for your own good."

"I take after my father," Michael said. "Now, I am home, I am going nowhere until you are running about these fields again, and I will have no arguments about it. For once in your life, you are going to let us look after you and be spoiled."

"I am bored."

Michael laughed, the comment was so typical of his father. It was a relief to know the man was still there, though he looked like death. "In that case, I will bring you some novels to keep you entertained."

"I would never live it down if any of my friends found out," Mr Follett groaned, but there was a slight tilt to his lips.

"In that case, it will be our secret as long as you do as you are told. Now rest, I can see I have tired you out, just know that Ma and I will do everything we can to make you comfortable and improve."

"Thank you," came the quiet response.

Michael waited until his father was asleep before he stood up. He looked at the man in the bed, still unable to believe there could be so much of a change in a few months. "Don't leave me, Pa," he whispered before leaving his father to sleep.

***

"Michael, you have visitors," Mrs Follett said from the bedchamber door.

He had been helping his father to eat but had only managed to persuade him to accept the tiniest amount of broth. The days had been hard, but the nights had been longer, on alert all the time, expecting the worst but praying for the best.

"Who is it?"

"Some friends," Mrs Follett said enigmatically.

"Now is not convenient."

"I have had enough," Mr Follett croaked, leaning back on Michael's arm.

"Pa, you have to eat more."

"No."

Michael sighed, placed his father's frail body on the pillows, and moved to put the almost untouched bowl of broth onto a chest of drawers. He looked in appeal to his mother. "I cannot persuade, bully or threaten him into eating, but he desperately needs to if his body is to fight the infection."

"We are doing everything the doctor instructs," Mrs Follett responded. "He has suggested bleeding him again."

Michael shook his head. "No, he is too weak."

"But the blood-letting will release the poison."

"And weaken him at the same time." Michael looked at his father, who seemed barely conscious, not acknowledging anything they had said.

"Come, you need a break," Mrs Follett said. "I will join you briefly but then will return and sit by him. You need some time away from this room, or I will have two of you to care for."

Michael submitted to his mother, knowing why she was worried about him as well as his father. He had never looked so pale and gaunt in his life, he was almost delirious with lack of sleep, and his stomach was in a constant state of churning.

Walking into the front parlour, he almost stumbled to a halt. "Miss Betez! Miss Holmes!"

Arabella stood and walked towards him as if unable to stop herself. "We had to come and offer our help."

Michael's mind was whirring, too tired to think straight. He just wanted to close his eyes to try and remove the stab of pain he felt at the sight of her. "B-but you do not travel. How did you get here?"

Arabella smiled. "Some journeys are important. We have brought supplies," she said, moving to show a large box placed next to where she had sat. "We were not fully aware of what was wrong with your father, so we might have overpacked."

There was a flicker of a smile from Michael, but his brain seemed unable to work. Mrs Follett stepped into the room. "That is very kind of you. My husband has a severe infection that he does not seem to be able to fight off. We are waiting for the doctor to discuss further bleeding."

Arabella turned to Michael, completely businesslike. "Is he continuing to weaken?"

"Yes." Michael had a moment of pure vanity when he hoped that he did not look as ill as he felt but then was ashamed that he would think of such a thing when his father was at death's door.

"Please…" Arabella looked at mother and son. "Forgive my interference, I have studied illness a lot, and you can ignore what I suggest, but please do not bleed him for now at least."

"Michael does not wish us to do it," Mrs Follett said.

"Your instinct is correct," Arabella said to Michael. "Can we use your kitchen? I know this is an imposition, but he needs ginger and clove tea, which he will not like, but mixing the two together will be the quickest way to get it into his body. I am presuming he is not eating?"

"Barely," Michael replied. Stunned that Arabella seemed so capable, in control and not the usual reserved way she was with strangers.

"Then we will sweeten the tea with honey. Is the wound still raw?"

"Yes," Mrs Follett said, beginning to look hopeful.

"Then that needs a good dollop of honey too." Arabella turned to Grace. "I am glad I brought so much after all. Are you ready to help?"

"Of course," Grace said before turning to Michael and Mrs Follett. "She has studied the healing properties of most things."

"I did everything I could to try and fade my scars," Arabella said, for once unconcerned at mentioning her disfigurement. "If you would be good enough to show us the way to the kitchen, Mrs Follett."

Mrs Follett led the ladies out of the room, and Michael lifted the heavy box from the floor and followed them into the room at the back of the house. It was a small space, nowhere near the grand size of the kitchen Mrs Johnson ruled over. Michael felt a pang that, once again, the difference between them was so marked, but he was soon distracted as Arabella looked around, nodded in approval and shrugged out of her pelisse, throwing it over a chair as if it was something she did every day.

As he placed the box on the side table, Arabella came to it, flung open the lid, took out an apron and wrapped it around her middle. "I promise to do my best to at least make him more comfortable," she said quietly, touching Michael's arm before moving away with a handful of jars.

Michael wiped his hand over his face, wondering if he was in some sort of dream. This could not be happening. Arabella had left the estate for the first time since her accident. To help his family. It was too much.

Sinking into a chair near the small kitchen table they used for day-to-day meals, he rested his head in his hands. The sounds went on around him as he sat there, too exhausted and desolate to think, let alone move. He had sat up every night since he arrived home, determined that his mother could rest, no matter how much she argued against it. After seeing Arabella, the exhaustion he had been holding at bay hit him like a punch to the stomach.

Smelling the drink, rather than seeing it, he opened his eyes to see a steaming cup of hot chocolate and a plate full of biscuits.

"Eat these," Arabella said quietly. "You need something of a boost. I expect you have not been eating either."

Michael looked at her. "Why are you doing this?" He did not care that his words may be considered extremely rude; he had to know.

"I have always helped those I care for when needed, although I admit to getting a little lost over the last few years," Arabella said, touching his shoulder. "We can talk more when your father is improving, but for now, just trust me."

Michael nodded, comforted by the fact she had squeezed his shoulder before releasing it and her eyes were filled with nothing but compassion. Picking up the sweetened hot chocolate, he closed his eyes, letting the warming liquid ease the deathly chill of his insides.