“Fever,” Mrs. Osbourne said, shaking her head. “I know fevers, I do. Little Lemon, that’s what I always called him when he was a boy cause his skin was this pale yellow color; did that boy ever have the fevers, one right after the other.”

“Did you say Little Lemon was alive, Mrs. Osbourne?”

“Oh aye, his name is Benjie and he’s got three young-uns of his own now.”

“Then tell me what to do.”

“Funny this is, I always use lemons for fevers. It’s a jest, you see? Little Lemon and lemons for fevers.”

Corrie swallowed hard. “You will make a drink for him, ma’am? Made of lemons?”

“Aye, that’s it. While I’m doing that, you keep an eye on him. If he starts burning up from the inside out, you wash him down with cold cloths.”

“Yes, yes, I can do that.”

Mrs. Osbourne stood there a moment, staring down at James’s still face. “I’ve never seen a more beautiful face on any living soul. That face shouldn’t go to God just yet.”

Corrie could only nod.

The hours blurred, but they did march on, very slowly. James was still alive, so hot that soon both she and Mrs. Osbourne began wiping him down with wet cloths dipped in the coldest water Mr. Osbourne could find. Corrie’s hands cramped, but she didn’t slow. She saw that Mrs. Osbourne was slowing down, and no wonder. “I’ll keep doing it, ma’am. Please, you must rest now.”

But the old woman kept stroking down James’s chest, then when they managed to turn him onto his stomach, she stroked those cloths down his back.

He was so still, so deathly still Corrie couldn’t stand it. Finally, when he was on his back again, he opened his eyes and looked directly into her face.

“Corrie? What’s wrong? You’re not sick, are you?”

“No,” she said, her warm breath on his cheek. “I’m not, but you are.”

“No, that can’t be right-” And then he was gone, eyes closed, his head lolling to the side.

Corrie’s world stopped. She put her face right into his. “James, come back to me, please, come back. I can’t bear this.”

He began twisting and throwing away the covers, then suddenly, he was shivering, his teeth chattering. They piled blankets on top of him, but still it wasn’t enough. The three of them managed to carry him out into the sitting room, and lay him right in front of the fireplace. Within moments, the room was so hot sweat was beading on James’s forehead. Time passed. He calmed. The fever was down, thank God.

Dr. Flimmy arrived with Freddie in the early afternoon. An old man, but if his brain was still working he must know how to save the life of a young man who’d spent the night walking in the cold rain.

She watched Dr. Flimmy ease down on his crickety knees beside James. He lifted his eyelids, peered into his ears. He pulled the blankets down and listened to his chest. He put his ear against James’s throat. He pulled the blankets down to his ankles, unaware that Corrie, who’d never seen a naked man in her life, was standing there, gawking. He hummed while he looked over every inch of James.

“Lawks,” Mrs. Osbourne said, blinking, staring down at James. “Mr. Osbourne never looked like that even when he was a young sprite. Maybe ye’d best not be staring at him, Miss Corrie. Unless you’re his sister, and I know ye’re not. And ye’re not his wife neither, else ye’d have a big sparkler on yer finger, given that he’s a lordship. Ye haven’t told me what ye are and how the two of ye are together. No, I don’t want to know. Now, ye turn yer back and let Dr. Flimmy look behind his knees. That’s what he always did to Little Lemon.”

Corrie didn’t want to turn around. She wanted to stand there and look at James until it became so dark she couldn’t see him, not even his shadow. She supposed that meant the fire would have to go out as well because she knew she could see him if there were embers in the grate. Mrs. Osbourne was frowning at her, hands on her hips. Sighing, Corrie turned around.

“Is he going to be all right, Dr. Flimmy?” When the old man didn’t answer, she turned her head to look at him. He was kneeling close to James, James’s arm was raised, and he was kneading his armpit. She watched him poke and prod, then he leaned over James’s chest and raised his other arm, and the kneading continued. At least he’d pulled the blankets back up to James’s waist, and that was a pity. Dr. Flimmy finally came up onto his knees, calling out, “Mrs. Osbourne, fetch your lemonade. Make it nice and hot. And add some barley water to it. That’s what he needs right now.”

Dr. Flimmy managed to haul himself to his feet, waving Corrie off when she moved to help him. When he was finally standing again, breathing heavily with the effort, he said to her, even though he was looking down at James, “His lordship is very ill. Luckily he’s also young and strong. You and Mrs. Osbourne keep him warm, and when the fever comes again, continue washing him down with the coldest cloths you can stand. Pour lemonade down his throat or he’ll wither up and die. Don’t want that lad to die, I really don’t.”

“I don’t want him to die either,” Corrie said, swallowing hard. “I must get him back to London. There’s trouble, you see, and he needs to be home.”

Dr. Flimmy began rubbing his neck. “You move him and he’ll likely not make it. Keep him here and keep him quiet and warm.”

Corrie’s brain simply seized up. “But Mrs. Osbourne-”

“Aye, Corrie, we’ll see to him. Now, let’s get some of my special lemonade down his throat.”

Surprisingly, at least to Corrie, James drank when they put the cup to his mouth. It took a long time, but she managed to get most of it down him.

He slept, unmoving, the fever gone, until that evening. Corrie was reading a tract on animal husbandry by the light of a single candle. Mr. and Mrs. Osbourne were long in bed, but not Corrie. Sleep was far away for her. Every few minutes, she looked at James. He was still quiet. They’d gotten some chicken broth down his throat. The fire was going strong. He had four blankets tucked in around him.

Suddenly, he moaned, his eyes opened. He looked straight at her. “I was relieving myself and you were watching. I was never so mortified in my life.”

The memory flashed in her mind and she smiled. “I was only eight years old, James, and I really didn’t understand what I was seeing. You scared the devil out of me when you dashed away and got yourself thrown. I thought it was my fault. I felt guilty for years.”

“How did you know about my accident?”

“Your father told me. He said he wasn’t clear on exactly how all that had come about, so I told him everything that had happened.”

James groaned. “What did he say?”

“He was quiet for a moment, then he patted me on the head, told me he’d said exactly the right thing to you. It had calmed you.”

“Am I the only man you’ve seen relieving himself?”

“Yes. Forgive me, James, but I was so very young and I worshipped you to the point of idiocy. I thought the way you did it was quite remarkable and ever so much easier than it was for me.”

He laughed. He actually laughed, low and scratchy that laugh, then his eyes closed and his head fell to the side.

“James!”

She was on her knees over him, her palm on his forehead. No fever, thank God. She sat back on her heels and stared down at him. When he began muttering, she nearly fell over.

It didn’t make much sense, but she knew he was worried. He muttered about his father and the man who’d called himself Douglas Sherbrooke. Then he spoke of the Andromeda constellation in the northern sky, of the accident Jason had had when he was ten years old, falling from the hayloft. Then he mentioned her name, and how she wouldn’t leave him alone, how she was always there underfoot, and it was true, she was cute as a button, like his father said. The only time he muttered about wanting her in another galaxy was when he turned twelve and wanted to kiss girls. Corrie remembered he’d became quite good at escaping her.