Work Text:
:
The storm had passed.
But the house still carried its echo.
The windows no longer rattled, yet the air felt hollow, scraped thin by fever and fear alike. Rain-washed light crept weakly through the curtains, touching the remnants of long days: basins left by the hearth, folded cloths stiff with use, half-empty cups of broth abandoned where exhaustion had claimed their drinker.
The children were mending.
Charlie sat upright at breakfast that morning, pale but indignant enough to demand toast “properly buttered this time.” Alex insisted he felt heroic. William’s cough had softened into something manageable, no longer clawing at his small chest. Even little Violet’s fever had broken at last, her breathing steady as she rested in her nursemaid’s careful arms.
Relief should have followed.
It did not.
Because Sophie had not risen from their bed.
At first, Benedict told himself she was simply exhausted. Of course she was. She had sat vigil for three nights running. She had carried one child in her arms and soothed three more with what little strength remained.
But by the second evening, her skin was too warm.
By the third, she did not wake fully when he said her name.
The terror came back all at once.
Not the storm.
Not the fever.
The memory.
White sheets stained red. A midwife’s tight mouth. A physician refusing to meet his eyes. Violet’s first cry tangled with the possibility of Sophie’s last breath.
He had nearly lost her then.
He would not survive it twice.
It was just before dawn when he understood he could not divide himself any longer.
Sophie lay motionless beneath the quilts, her breathing shallow and uneven, curls damp against her temples. He pressed his knuckles gently to her brow.
Burning.
“You are not permitted to do this,” he whispered. “I have only just recovered from the last time you tried to leave me.”
Her lashes fluttered faintly, but she did not wake.
He rose abruptly and crossed to her writing desk.
The candle flame wavered as his hand did.
Eloise,
I would not trouble you if there were any other way.
The children are recovering, thank God, but Sophie is not. I cannot leave her bedside and they must not remain in a house shadowed by illness.
I beg you, take them into Romney Hall for a short while. Hazel, Irma, and John will accompany them. The nursemaid will remain with Violet.
I know I ask much but I trust you and Phillip to care for them.
B.
He hesitated.
Then, quietly he added
She nearly died once before. I cannot watch it happen again.
He sealed it before he could reconsider
The household moved before the sun had properly risen.
Hazel’s composure did not falter, though her eyes shone with worry. Irma gathered boots and shawls with brisk efficiency. John, despite being a Valet, now oversaw the carriage himself.
The children sensed something was wrong.
Charlie tried not to show it.
Alex asked too many questions.
William cried outright.
Violet, pale but improving, blinked sleepily from her nursemaid’s arms, unaware of the shift about her.
Benedict knelt before them in the nursery, steady where it mattered.
“You are going to Aunt Eloise’s for a small adventure,” he said. “Romney Hall is far less dreary than this house at present.”
Charlie searched his face. “Mama’s worse?”
He did not lie.
“She is tired. She has been strong for too long. I am going to ensure she rests.”
“You’ll stay with her?” Alex asked.
“All the time.”
William flung himself into Benedict’s arms. He held him tightly, longer than he meant to, before gently passing him back to Hazel.
He kissed each child’s brow.
And then he walked upstairs without watching the carriage depart.
He could not bear it.
The house was too quiet after.
Benedict dismissed the Crabtrees firmly, sending them back to bed as they had barely recovered themselves, as rolled up his sleeves, and carried a basin upstairs himself.
He did not leave her room.
Not truly.
Curtains were drawn and opened with the rhythm of the sun. Fires banked and coaxed. Cool cloths replaced the moment they warmed. Broth and water were coaxed gently between her lips when she roused enough to swallow.
Alfie, slept in a chair outside the door, rising when summoned. Hazel and Irma sent notes from Romney Hall twice daily. Eloise’s letters were practical and sharp and threaded through with reassurance that she would care for her niece and nephews for as long as he required and had sent a large stash of Phillip’s willow bark with the letter and a promise of more should he require it.
Benedict read them only enough to know the children laughed and were okay.
He returned always to watching Sophie breathe.
On the fourth night, the fever climbed again.
Her hand jerked weakly in his.
“Ben…” she murmured, unfocused, her mind reliving the birth. “The baby…”
“The baby is well,” he answered at once, leaning close. “All of them are well. Romney Hall. Safe. Irritating your sister, no doubt.”
Her brow creased faintly.
“I promised… I would be strong…”
His composure fractured.
“You have been strong enough for ten lifetimes,” he said, voice breaking. “You held this house together alone. You do not need to prove anything more.”
Her fingers twitched weakly in his before she once again succumbed to sleep.
The following night his strength and hope were at their wits end.
He bowed his head over her hand.
“I cannot lose you,” he whispered. “Do you hear me? I cannot. You cannot do this to me. I cannot raise our children alone. I’m not yet forty Sophie. I cannot be a widower. I cannot do this without you. Please do not leave me”
For a terrible moment, there was nothing.
Then…
“Dramatic… as ever…”
The sound was barely a breath.
He lifted his head sharply.
Her eyes were clearer now. Still glassy with illness, but aware.
“There you are,” he breathed relief flooding his entire being.
“You look dreadful.”
“I have not slept.”
“Idiot.”
A broken laugh escaped him.
“You married an artist. You knew the risks.”
Her gaze shifted slowly, memory assembling.
“The children? You sent them away?”
“Yes. Eloise has them.”
She studied him.
“You didn’t leave.”
“No,” he said quietly. “I will never choose elsewhere when you are in danger.”
Her fingers brushed his cheek.
“You’re shaking.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“I thought I was about to lose you again.”
The admission sat raw between them.
Sophie’s expression softened, not with apology, but with understanding.
“I’m not so easy to be rid of,” she whispered.
“No,” he agreed, voice unsteady. “You are astonishingly stubborn.”
Carefully, reverently, he climbed onto the bed beside her and gathered her into his arms, not to burden, but to steady. One hand cradled the back of her head; the other rested over her heart as though to confirm its rhythm.
“You rest now,” he murmured into her hair. “I have you.”
For the first time in days, her body truly relaxed.
Outside, winter sunlight touched the quiet fields. The storm inside was gone.
As Benedict kept watch, not as a gentleman, not as a brother, not as a son.
But as a husband who had once again nearly lost everything.
And would sit vigil as long as it took to ensure he never had to go through this again.