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Benedict wrings a rag with chilled hands and water plips into the bowl of melting snow.
The wind whistles in its attempt to break in, bringing along the sharp scent of a storm, and it overwhelms the balmy heat from the fireplace, crackling and hissing where it struggles to survive.
He swipes the rag down Sophie’s burning neck, cleaning the sweat pooling in the hollow of her throat, in the sharp jut of her collarbones. She has lost weight in the week since she fell into the lake. It had been an accident. She has always enjoyed taking walks, especially during the winter, when the cold tickles her bones and gifts her new life, rosy cheeks and wonderment at the snow sitting in her hair. And now her skin is flush with fever, yet pale, losing colour and strength with each passing day. He smooths a thumb under her eye, in the shadows forming above her cheekbones.
This fever saps the life out of her. And it has dropped a heavy, heavy stone atop Benedict's heart, one that stretches into his throat and scrapes it dry.
Sophie shivers under his touch and he folds the cloth and sits it on her forehead before fixing the quilts around her. He pulls up the displaced sleeves of her sleeping gown and tucks a quilt under her arms softly, without disturbing her too much. Her hands have always ached easily. And the fever isn't alone in wrecking her. While she isn't coughing as much as before, her body hurts to move, and Benedict is loathe to cause her any more discomfort than necessary.
He kindles the fire, pokes at the logs when the flame grows, and returns to wet the rag again, to wring it again and warm it until it's not so cold that it troubles her instead.
Sophie's eyelashes flicker as he sits the cloth snug once again, wiping the droplets of water running into her hair with the sleeve of his nightgown.
“Benedict,” she whispers, her voice so small it's nearly drowned by the wind and the fire, but he knows when to search for her voice now, to catch even when it's about to disappear.
“Good evening, Sophie,” he says, soft and low. “Did you sleep well?”
The corners of her lips lift momentarily. Then she hums, scratchy as it is, and leans into his touch. Her clammy cheek nestles in his clammy palm.
“Rather well,” she says slowly. “All thanks to you.”
The stone in Benedict's chest shifts, warms. This is the first night in weeks that she’s waking entirely lucid, and without a coughing fit or irritation from incomplete rest.
“Are you feeling any better? Do you feel comfortable? Or is it too hot—”
“Benedict.”
She opens her eyes then and they find him, kind and grateful, and tired but loving. Always loving. He can't help but put on a smile for her.
“You should sleep some more,” he says, tucking damp strands of hair behind her ear.
He plucks the rag off her forehead and burrows between her pillow and neck, wipes the back of it, allows the coolness to soak up the sweat from her nape and she sighs, long and slow, pleased. She raises a hand to his wrist and rests her fingertips on his skin, bidding an unspoken thank you.
It has taken time for Sophie to do away with overt politeness. She has always spoken her mind around Benedict, but greetings, salutations, curtseys are ingrained in her. The many ‘you are welcome’s carrying ‘this is but my duty’ and the many ‘thank you’s underlined with ‘I don't deserve your kindness’. But in changing, she has found many other ways to let him know what she means, and it's a gift, he thinks, to learn a new language with her. A shared language of touch and glances.
He takes her fingers between his loosely and presses his lips together as he drops the rag into the bowl. She doesn't need to thank him for looking after her.
She had taken care of him in this very bed after they met at the Cavender's—a bitter memory best left in the past—and they hadn't even known each other then. Sitting with her is the least he can do. In caring for her, he cares for his own heart, and it is a little selfish, but he cannot live in a world where Sophie lays sick in bed by herself with no one to tend to her. And it tears something in him, to know that she must have spent bouts of illness by herself before they met. Never again, he promised to himself when they'd married. And never again, he promises now, finding the glint of worry in her eyes.
“You haven't slept,” she whispers.
“It is most kind of you to worry about me, but you should worry about yourself first. I slept earlier.”
She sets him with a knowing look.
“I did take a nap, and I will sleep soon,” he concedes. “I… I simply felt… uneasy. No, no—do not speak. Does your throat still hurt?”
“It is much better,” she says, then pats the bed. “Come here. Tell me what has you uneasy.”
He brings her hand to his lips.
What is he supposed to say? Admit that he wishes he could have taken ill instead? That he wishes it had been him who tripped and fell and not her? That he doesn't think he can sleep for more than a few hours at once, scared of what might have changed when he wakes up? Or that he doesn't know what to do without her sunny presence around My Cottage? That he has forgotten what it was like to live before he'd met her and he's afraid, so afraid of the time he's had to spend outside their bedroom this week, with the seams of his body threatening to rip apart? He can't.
Benedict kisses her hand again.
“It is this storm. It seems endless. Are you certain you don't need water first? Or tea? I brewed some a while ago, I believe it’s still warm.”
Sophie shakes her head, a short, nuzzling motion, digging her deeper into her large pillow. How adorable.
“I need you to hold me.”
Benedict rounds the bed and discards his nightgown carelessly, eager to have Sophie pressed into him, her being safe in his arms, where he can't battle fevers or illnesses, but can lay fluttering kisses to her nose, feel the weight of her, real and present. And he does, as she turns into his embrace the moment he slides close.
He guides her in, with one arm wrapping her waist and the other caressing her head, his blunt nails running circles on her scalp lazily, his fingers tangling with her hair. He decides he's going to help wash her head in the afternoon if she's feeling better. It might help her feel better if she isn't. She thoroughly enjoys it whenever he massages soap into her hair, even if she doesn't admit it easily.
The window panes rattle and the fire continues to crackle.
It is still cold. And it is warm, because Sophie’s fever has lowered but hasn't quite subsided, and though the doctor says she should recover within the month, every day she spends in bed weakens Benedict's resolve to leave her side, even for a moment, for if her condition were to take a turn for the worse…
“Was it me? Did I make you uneasy?” She asks, mouthing over his shoulder.
“Never you, Love. Your fever, yes. But the doctor said you will recover soon.”
“And yet, you are uneasy.”
“And yet, I am uneasy.” Benedict says. He closes his eyes for a long moment. “How can I not be? You have been suffering.”
“I will be alright,” she says and shifts to kiss his neck, to cradle his jaw in one trembling hand. Her breath tickles, heated but lovely. “I will be alright, I promise. Sleep. I will be right here in the morning.”
“You will be right here,” he repeats, pulling her even closer, so close they would melt into one body if it were possible.
“I will be. And tomorrow, as well as the day after, and I intend to stay for many more days than I can possibly count. So help me and fall asleep. I will recover easier if I have less to worry about.”
Benedict huffs a quiet laugh into her crown. “You are feeling much better, are you not?”
“Imagine how fast I might be up and about if my husband agrees to rest with me.”
He hears the smile in her voice, feels the sublime shape of it on his skin and suddenly, his limbs grow heavier, his head lighter, and the stone dislodges, shrinks, chiselled down by Sophie's sweet demand. He will do anything to see her smile.
“Hmm. I suppose we shall have to find out then.”