Impoverished Miss, Convenient Wife. Michelle Styles

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      Ten minutes to get Robert to trust her enough to take his medicine quietly. She had made a bargain with the devil. But it did give her a slim chance. Phoebe pushed open the bedroom door as the wails started again. Her legs threatened to give way and her stomach knotted. Her easy words to Mr Clare echoed in her head. She could get this frightened child to take his medicine. She ` gave a half-smile and wondered why it was so easy to say things, but so difficult to actually achieve them.

      She placed the wicker basket down at the entrance and willed the kitten to stay there. She would not need the ropes. All she had to do was to believe. A calm firm voice and slow movements—the same way she had captured the kitten earlier in the day. The same way she had nursed her stepbrothers.

      At her approach, Robert stopped crying and regarded her with eyes that were too large for his face. His entire body went still. Behind her, she was aware of Mr Clare’s looming presence, watching her every move, doubting her ability. It irritated her that she was intensely aware of every little movement he made—the fierceness in his eyes, the way his fingers curled into a fist, the warning hunch of his shoulders. She stopped, turned back and shut the door with a decisive click.

      ‘Who are you?’ Robert shouted. ‘Go away! I want my aunt!’

      ‘Robert, your Aunt Diana sent me in her place. I have a message for you.’

      ‘A message?’ Robert tilted his head to one side. ‘What sort of message?’

      A breath escaped Phoebe’s lips. She had his attention. Everything would turn out fine. She made her voice sound sing-song, unhurried, easy and light as if it did not matter that time was sliding through her fingers. ‘Your aunt is very sorry. She wanted to be at your side, but she can’t come.’

      ‘Who are you?’ His face was a reflection of his father’s except his eyes seemed to dominate his shrunken face.

      ‘Phoebe Benedict. I am to look after you until you get well. I have come all the way from London at your aunt’s request.’

      ‘I want my aunt! I miss her.’ A small hand scrubbed at his eyes. He looked all of about six, instead of the ten that Lady Coltonby had said he was.

      ‘She is…going to have a baby. Soon you will have a little cousin to love and cherish.’ Phoebe looked directly at the boy. Her entire being tensed. Would he go into another fit? And then what would happen? Why had she made such a rash promise? ‘They would not let her come. She wanted to, very much. You must believe that, Robert. She told me to tell you that she loves you and wants you to get well.’

      ‘I miss her.’

      ‘And she misses you too. It is why you must be a good boy and get well.’

      Phoebe pressed her hands together and willed him to stay quiet and to trust her. She resisted the temptation to brush the sweat from the back of her neck and simply stood there, hands outstretched.

      ‘Are you going to tie me up?’

      ‘No ropes.’ She held out her hands and showed him they were empty. She bent down so her face was level with his. ‘I don’t believe in tying boys up.’

      ‘Me either.’ Robert gave a decided nod as his limbs began to convulse again. ‘But I don’t like this either.’

      ‘You need to relax and the spasms will ease.’

      ‘What is happening to me?’

      ‘You are ill. You need to rest. Your body wants to get well.’ Phoebe kept her voice soothing. ‘Take a deep breath, Robert. In. Out.’

      ‘I can’t catch my breath. It frightens me. Really frightens me.’ His eyes swam with tears. ‘I want to live and not go to hell like Mrs Smith said I would.’

      ‘Your body will find it easier if you are quiet.’ Phoebe cast her eyes upwards and wished she could throttle the nurse. What was Mr Clare thinking when he hired her?

      Robert closed his eyes. The trembling and jerking in his limbs subsided slightly. Phoebe risked another step towards the bed, willed him to keep calm. She touched his forehead and breathed a sigh of relief. Cool and without fever. The worst had passed, but Robert would need a long time before he recovered his strength. Phoebe lifted her hand from his forehead and stared at the wallpaper. A mixture of anticipation and misgiving filled her.

      She had written to her stepmother that it would be for a few weeks at most. She had never considered that the time might run into months. Months. Maybe her presence would be missed. Maybe they would realise they missed her and how much she tried. She wanted them to be proud of her, to feel that she was part of their family, instead of part of the furniture. She had given her promise and she would see that this boy became well. She paused. As long as she could get him to take his medicine.

      ‘Why did you do that?’ Robert asked, bringing her back to the present.

      ‘Because I wanted to see if you had a fever.’

      ‘And do I?’ Robert screwed up his face. ‘I have had such strange dreams. I want them to go away. They frighten me.’

      ‘The doctor has left something to keep the fever and the dreams away.’ Phoebe reached for the medicine bottle.

      ‘What are you going to do?’ Robert rubbed his shaking hand across his eyes.

      ‘I am going to give you something to drink. It will make you feel better. A little sleepy, but better.’

      ‘I don’t want any medicine. Nasty.’ Robert pulled a face. ‘I won’t take it. I won’t!’

      ‘Robert!’ Mr Clare’s voice echoed throughout the room as the door came open. His footsteps resounded on the floor and Robert’s eyes grew wide again.

      Inwardly, Phoebe cursed and willed Mr Clare to the devil. She had gone too quickly, she knew that, but little time remained. She could get Robert to take his medicine if only Mr Clare would be quiet. ‘It will help. I promise you that. It helped my youngest brother when he was ill like you.’ Her tongue flicked over her lips. ‘Shall I tell you about Edmund? I started looking after him when he was a boy about your age.’

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