“The usual fever. Gannet’s with him. I sent for Gannet to go there, to satisfy you.”
“Nevil is not dead?”
“Lord! ma’am, my dear soul!”
“He is alive?”
“Quite: certainly alive; as much alive as I am; only going a little faster, as fellows do in the jumps of a fever. The best doctor in England is by his bed. He’s doing fairly. You should have let me know you were fretting, my Rosamund.”
“I did not wish to tempt you to lie, my dear lord.”
“Well, there are times when a woman... as you are: but you’re a brave woman, a strong heart, and my wife. You want some one to sit with you, don’t you? Louise Devereux is a pleasant person, but you want a man to amuse you. I’d have sent to Stukely, but you want a serious man, I fancy.”
So much had the earl been thrown out of his plan for protecting his wife, that he felt helpless, and hinted at the aids and comforts of religion. He had not rejected the official Church, and regarding it now as in alliance with great Houses, he considered that its ministers might also be useful to the troubled women of noble families. He offered, if she pleased, to call in the rector to sit with her—the bishop of the diocese, if she liked.
“But just as you like, my love,” he added. “You know you have to avoid fretting. I’ve heard my sisters talk of the parson doing them good off and on about the time of their being brought to bed. He elevated their minds, they said. I’m sure I’ve no objection. If he can doctor the minds of women he’s got a profession worth something.”
Rosamund smothered an outcry. “You mean that Nevil is past hope!”