Chapter Text
If there was one thing that Viscount Anthony Bridgerton refused to be … (other than in love with his wife, of course) it was sick.
Headaches after a night in his cups hardly counted. The constant tension headache that he had carried in his skull since the morning his father had died? That was merely a fact of life at this point, not true illness. Cuts and bruises from the cathartic boxing matches could hardly be called sickness.
This? He curled his lip in disgust, swallowing against the rough ache of his inflamed throat. This too would be overcome. He blinked his bleary eyes and tried fruitlessly to inhale through his stuffed nostrils, desperately fixing his gaze on the account books even as the numbers swam and his head pounded.
“This is ridiculous,” He groaned, lolling back in his desk chair. His whole body was throbbing dully and his brain had seemingly been replaced by so much cotton wool. “Focus,” He chastised himself, shaking his head to dislodge the cobwebs. It did not work, he noted grumpily, putting his head in his hands.
Tea. That’s what he needed. His parched, aching throat would surely be slaked by a hot cup of tea. Now… he narrowed his eyes, looking accusingly at the bell-pull across the room as if to reprimand it for being so far away. God, he thought dazedly, it may as well be a mile distant.
He planted his hands on the arms of his chair with determination, meaning to shove himself up on his trembling legs and cross the room. Just as the moment of his grand adventure, the door swung open, and he landed heavily back in his seat. Kate breezed into the room, seeming to his delirious senses an angel bathed in the golden morning light, followed swiftly by a maid with a laden tea-tray. That tray absolutely compounded his confused belief that she was - must be - divine.
“I thought you would like-” She began in her usual brisk way, her fine blue day dress unfairly becoming against her rich brown skin and thick, dark hair. She had it swept up into some coiffure that would have baffled him, even if his brain was not currently soup, but one curl had come loose - whether by design or accident he did not know - and was nestled hypnotically in her collarbone. He could not take his eyes off of it. “Anthony? Are you well?”
He blinked slowly at her, realising belatedly that he had extended his limp hand towards her, vaguely aware of his fuzzy desperation to touch her, to hold her and be comforted. Kate’s brow creased adorably in concern and she caught her lower lip between her teeth, yet another hypnotic derailment to his confused train of thought.
“Thank you, Sarah,” Kate nodded towards the desk and the maid, instantly and obediently, placed the tray down. His viscountess skirted around the desk, placing her small, soft palm against his forehead. Anthony leaned helplessly into her touch, her cool hand soothing against his scorched flesh. “Please ask cook to prepare something edifying for a fever. Perhaps a broth,” Kate mused for a moment, rubbing her thumb across his forehead as she frowned thoughtfully. He reached for her hand, and she started at how his fingers shook against hers.
She moved away from him to speak confidentially with the unnerved young maid. He groaned petulantly as she moved away.
“Kaaate-” He whined softly, catching her hand. All pretense of pushing through his illness had abandoned him at the sight of her, so lovely and concerned for him. She had been strong-armed into a visit to an upholsterer his mother favoured in some obscure fashionable hole that took an age to get to from his bachelor lodgings, so she had left early that morning.
She should have known, in hindsight, that her usually restless husband’s uncharacteristic sleepiness, as she slid out of bed, dressed, and left him with a kiss to his brow, was a bad sign. He had woken feeling foul and grumpy, and the cold emptiness of her side of the bed had done nothing to help.
“A moment, my darling,” she whispered, squeezing his hand. He slumped back in his chair but a small, self-satisfied smirk lifted his lips. She was shy with such endearments - he could hardly blame her, given his insistence that their marriage would be a loveless one - and for the same reason he would never tell her how they thrilled him. But, he thought, closing his weary eyes, he could bask in them privately. My darling...
“Sarah… on second thought, have these sent as soon as possible,,” she muttered briskly to the timid maid, her eyes scanning Anthony’s desk for a loose leaf of paper and a pen. She took two sheets of the idiotically expensive paper - she took a moment to roll her eyes at her husband’s simple extravagances - and scribbled two notes. One she addressed to the doctor that Anthony preferred, asking if there was anything to be done besides rest, the other, she addressed to her mother in law.
“Here, Sarah,” Kate folded and addressed the notes, “Have this sent to Dr Branson on Harley Street, and send this to the viscou- Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton. They must be delivered with haste, and have the messenger wait for replies from both before returning. Once this is done, inform the household that the viscount has taken ill and I will be nursing him to avoid passing it to anyone else. If I were to get it, I surely would have by now-” Kate trailed off, the young housemaid blushing at the oblique reference to their frequent kisses and scandalously shared bed, the viscountesses rooms kept in tidy disuse.
“Y-yes, milady,” The maid bobbed a curtsey, taking the two notes and scurrying off down the hall.
Kate rounded on her husband, his shirt and hair soaked with sweat and his chest wheezing with every inhale and exhale. She thought he had dozed off, reaching out to brush his damp curls from his eyes, loathe to wake him but keen to get him somewhere more comfortable.
She had cared for Mary on the rare occasions she fell ill and cared for Edwina during her various childhood illnesses. Kate’s own health had always been more robust in the face of such maladies than her sister and step-mother, keeping the house running while they convalesced.
Her abiding memory of the sickbed, though, was the hazy recollection of her mother, Kate’s infant head resting against the soft, well-worn linen of her nightdress. Kate could not remember the sound of her voice or the shape of her face, but she could remember the rattle of her chest under her daughter’s small ear, each breath like drawing water from a deep well. Her scent, Kate remembered, had been a combination of lavender and the sickly, sharp sweetness she would later learn was laudanum.
Then, of course, there was the crystal clear remembrance of her father’s sickbed. Miles Sharma had been a bright, wickedly sarcastic, stubborn man to the very last, showering his wife and children with gruff affection. He insisted that he was well, every morning, though his tired eyes betrayed him. My darling girl, he would smile warmly at her as she poured his water each morning, I declare I am better today. I dare to say I feel almost… well. Perhaps we shall take a turn about the garden tomorrow, if my recovery continues!
“You look thoughtful, Lady Bridgerton,” her husband croaked, tugging her down into his lap.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, nestling his warm forehead into the crook of her neck. “Worried for my foolhardy, stubborn husband,” She groused softly, enjoying his soft chuckle against her neck, “Why did you not send for me sooner? In fact,” She shoved him lightly, “Why did you not send for me at all ?”
He groaned, tightening his trembling arms around her, “I do not get sick,” he growled, “I just needed a moment to clear my head, and some tea… then I can get back to work,” Kate rolled her eyes at him, “And kissing my furious wife would also make me feel much better…”
“An admirable attempt, my darling,” She grinned, pulling herself out of his grasp. “Hmm, I have you physically incapacitated. How refreshing,” she teased, enjoying his scowl.
“ Not physically incapacitated,” He growled, his words catching on a violent cough.
“Anthony!” Kate’s face immediately drained of humour. He waved away her concern so she hastily poured him a cup of lukewarm tea. “Here,”
She toyed with the tendrils at the back of his head as she lifted the cup to his lips. He rankled a little at being fed tea like a child, but her hand at the back of his neck and the look of soft concern and concentration soothed his prickled pride.
“Thank you… darling,” he tested the words in his scratchy voice. Her pulse thudded at the endearment and he enjoyed the soft, shy smile on her face.
“Now,” She cleared her throat, trying to will away the blood rushing to her cheeks, “You have distracted me long enough, my lord. Time for you to join me in our chamber,”
“I do not think I am quite up to it,” He smirked, a sickly shadow of his usual rakish grin (she would not admit it but it still made her heart race). “But I would be willing to try… ”
Kate rolled her eyes, taking both of his hands in hers and hauling him to his unsteady feet. He stumbled forward, clinging to her a bit more closely than was strictly necessary to keep him upright. “Head out of the gutter, husband,” She kissed him chastely, laughing softly as he tried to chase her retreating lips, “upstairs, now. No arguments,” He had opened his mouth to protest and she narrowed her eyes at him until he clamped it shut. “Good. Come with me,”
He sighed a restless, agitated sigh as she led him from the room. He had been so determined not to indulge this silly weakness and then she’d walked in and he’d crumbled. He would let her coddle him for a little while, he decided, it couldn’t hurt to let her feel useful. Women needed this sort of thing, after all, and what kind of husband would he be if he did not indulge her.
***
Dear Violet,
Anthony is ill with some manner of fever. Please do not be alarmed, I have sent for the doctor and he does not appear to be seriously nor dangerously unwell. Still, I cannot help but worry.
I am rarely ill, so I will nurse him myself and keep the household away as much as possible. I feel it is best to keep our family away, too, as I know he would be furious if he made any of you sick, but I do not wish to bar you from his sickroom either. I will send news as soon as I can.
Is there something that particularly soothes Anthony when he is unwell? I thought broth, perhaps? It is what my father favoured when he was confined to his bed. Your advice is most welcome here, I will have the messenger wait to receive your reply.
Do not worry. I will take care of him!
With affection,
Kate
Violet covered her mouth, a heady blend of worry (her eldest son truly never fell ill) and utter, soul-deep contentment. She recognised in the panicked spidery scrawl the uncertainty of a new bride. Daphne had sent her a similar note the first time Simon had come home with bruises from a spirited training session with Will Mondrich.
Simon, similarly, had sent her a brief note a few weeks before when Daphne - unbeknownst to both of them - was very early in her pregnancy and prone to weeping, rage, and capriciously rejecting every item of food they dared to put in front of her. Violet had sent him a small parcel of recipes, a combination of things Daphne had been soothed by as a child and treats and beverages that had calmed Violet’s own morning sickness each of the eight times it had visited her.
Violet breathed in deeply, holding the hasty note to her chest, and began to scribble her reply.
Do not worry. I will take care of him!
Oh, Kate,
she thought,
I know you will!