Alexandra

Chapter Seventeen

In the week after the ball, Richard's father's health showed a steady and sudden decline, leaving him in a state of great anxiety.

He paced outside George's door, attempting to gather up the courage to enter the chamber upon receiving the news that he had suddenly contracted a high fever, which only furthered his worryingly long list of ailments. Every time he had convinced himself that he would be able to do it, he lost all nerve at the thought of his father prostrated in bed with barely enough strength even to sit upright.

Finally, he steeled himself out of duty and opened the door. He was immediately met with the sight of the doctor checking the Duke's pulse, trying and failing to conceal his concern at his findings. His father, on the other hand, was chatting carelessly with the doctor and wore a resilient smile that only widened as his son entered his chamber. His father's strength amazed Richard more with each passing day, for he could not imagine himself remaining so full of life in the face of death.

"Hello, Father." Richard greeted, managing a pained smile that he could barely hold for a few seconds before it dropped.

"Hello, my boy." George said, but his words were punctuated by a booming, almost ceaseless dry cough that made Richard's heart clench painfully. "Oh, don't you dare look at me so pitifully, as if I were a kicked puppy. And, if you do insist on continuing to do so, you can do it at my bedside, while holding my hand and telling me a few of those horridly amusing stories of yours."

"I shall take my leave then, Your Grace." Dr. Foster said, with a humourless smile. His lightness of being was only an act, Richard was sure, and his theory was soon proved when the doctor halted briefly by him and whispered gravely, not loud enough to alarm his father, "It is only a matter of hours now. I am truly sorry, but I believe it is time for you to... say your goodbyes."

Richard nodded harshly, refusing to acknowledge the doctor any further as he cast his gaze to the candle burning nearest to him, glaring darkly at it in the hope that the exertion from his stare would prevent his tears from falling. He was sure his father knew, for there was no possibility at all that he did not know that the inevitable had nearly arrived.

When the door shut heavily behind Dr. Foster, George sighed and said in a voice that barely reached Richard, "I suppose he told you I shall die soon."

His tone was resigned, as if he had expected nothing less and Richard barely found it in him to nod as he tore his gaze from the flickering light of the candle and onto his father, his father's steely grey eyes meeting his own blue. It barely took a second for his resolve to collapse, as he fell into the chair at his father's bedside and took his hand pleadingly, like a beggar, squeezing so hard his knuckles were white. His heart had been rent and torn to pieces, his mind so disturbed by impending grief as his eyes searched everywhere for a meaning he was sure never to see.

"Tell me he is lying." Richard begged, well aware that he appeared the perfect picture of a madman, with his dishevelled clothing, glassy, searching eyes, and unshaved jaw. "Please tell me he is lying or mistaken and you are not going to die. That you will fight because you cannot leave, because I do not want you to leave me. Fight because I do not want to live without you. Please."

His voice broke as he uttered this last plea, his tears falling fast now as one sob after another began to wrack his frame. He was not prepared for a loss so great as the one fate was now dealing to him, and knew not what he would do. George raised a shaky hand to his son's cheek, cupping it as tears of his own beggared their own release, which he allowed.

"Oh, my dear, darling boy." He breathed, lip quivering as he struggled to keep his cries at bay, "You must know that the last thing I wish to do is leave you. If I could, I would live all your life with you."