- Shannon L. Alder

October 10, 1856

Dear God, Rhea thought, as another wave of sickness rolled over her. She was bloody tired of this flu, it was weakening her and wringing her dry. It had been nearly a month since the Brighton’s had stepped into their home. Since then, Hadrian and Rhea experienced no attacks nor animosity – other than the occasional glare from one of the Brighton’s at an event – and Rhea had become relieved, glad that all and any hardships were over.

Unfortunately, this was not the case, nearly two weeks after their visit, Rhea’s sickness renewed once more, creating chaos in their home as Hadrian desperately tried to reveal the nature of her illness. Though Rhea felt fine most times, other times were hard and tiresome. They left her so weak that she was bedridden for nearly two days.

Rhea felt despair, not for her illness, but for Hadrian, who was anxious and alarmed at the drastic change in her health. She did not care for his troubled feelings. If she could, she would have hid this from him to keep him from hurting. Alas, she could not and struggled to maintain the façade that she was fine when she was not.

Hadrian had called in a doctor but the doctor did not know what was wrong. This left him antsy and brooding, not a good combination for him.

She could tell everyone in their household was afraid, for they had never seen such a thing but Rhea doubted it was as significant as they made it seem.

Rhea felt the sickness pass as she finally emptied her stomach a third time in the last hour. A knock sounded at the door just as she straightened herself, moving the bucket away tiredly.

“Yes?” she croaked.

The door opened and Hadrian walked in, bound straight for her with a frown marring his face. He looked at the bucket beside her bed and the lines on his mouth tightened. She still could not believe how beautiful he was, even as she laid there, feeling as if she were dying.

“Rhea, my love, how do you fare?” he questioned, standing to the right of the bed. He braced a hand to the side of her head and briefly kissed her forehead.

“Better. Truly Hadrian, I am,” she assured, noting the disbelieved look on his face.

The line on his mouth tightened further, but he did not say anything to her. She sighed, she would never be able to please this man with this situation, though she wanted to.

“Have you been fed?” he inquired.

Rhea shook her head, “Not since this morn. I have not been able to even look at since then.”

Hadrian sighed, “I know but you must eat. You must gain your strength so that you may feel better, my love.”

Rhea dreaded eating again for fear of becoming sick. She’d eaten oats and warm milk earlier but that had not remained down long. She couldn’t imagine eating again. The mere mention of food made her ill.

“I cannot,” she shook her head.

“You need to, I cannot stand this. You must get better; I command it.”

The fear she had once seen on his face returned and she immediately felt guilty. After a few moments, she finally gave up.

“Alright, just a bite,” she agreed wearily.

Hadrian stared at her for a long moment and then nodded, relief flooding his face. He stalked to the door and opened it slightly, speaking to someone, most likely Clarke.

A few minutes later a maid entered carrying a tray and Rhea became queasy thinking of the food she would have to consume. Hadrian noticed her expression and quickly reassured her.

“’Tis only broth, I was unsure if you could consume anything else.”

Rhea puffed out a breath of air, relief flooding her system. This she could eat, broth seemed to be the only thing she could eat.

Hadrian took the tray from the maid and sat on the edge of the bed, laying the tray on her lap. She let the heat gently seep out and then began to eat her fare.

Not only a few minutes and she was done with her entire meal. Hadrian noticed her brightened face and healthy flush on her cheeks and, at that moment, he was satisfied.

When the maid had taken away her tray, Hadrian assisted Rhea back down in bed and pulled the coverlets around her. Rhea tiredly gazed up at him.

“I am fine.” She persisted. “I am not,” she then proceeded to yawn, “tired.”

Hadrian smiled reassuringly into her eyes. “Of course, my love.” He watched as she slowly settled into sleep. Her eyes occasionally struggling to stay open before she finally succumbed to a peaceful slumber.

The last thing she saw was Hadrian’s frown and his terrified expression.

Hadrian sat back against his seat pondering over the last few days. He could not believe how quickly her health deteriorated from near perfection a mere two nights ago.

He dragged a hand over his bedraggled face, feeling upset and weary. He did not care for this drastic change in his wife’s health. He hated the distress she felt when she was ill.

Most of all, he despised the way she continually put up a counterfeit amount of strength. She was brave and courageous in this act alone. He knew she did not wish him to see her distress, but as her husband he would shoulder her pain as his.

He felt bloody helpless and inadequate as he tried to care for her to the best of his ability. He needed to find a way to remedy this damned sickness.

A knock startled him out of his stupor. He raised his head and called out a greeting. Clarke entered, “My lord, Mr. Lucien Charles has requested your presence.”

Hadrian sighed and sat up. He had called in a favor from one of his friends, a bow street runner, to aide him on the hunt for Lord Utteridge. The task had been tedious and gruesome. Hadrian dreaded hearing more bad reports, but he was willing to accept a few moments to distract him from other matters.

“Send him in, Clarke.” Hadrian nodded his head to the door. Clarke stepped away from the study entrance to allow a tall handsome fellow in.

Hadrian studied his companion, noticing the man looked more rugged than usual. He nodded at the older man and beckoned him to sit down.

“Hadrian, my friend, I have heard of your wife’s sickness. My prayers are with her,” Lucien stated quietly.

Hadrian nodded his thanks and steered the subject to the purpose of Charles’ visit.

“Have you found anything?” Hadrian demanded.

Lucien’s expression grew solemn, “I have.”

“What is it?” Hadrian inquired. He was eager to get the bastard, this game had gone on long enough.

“Lord Utteridge isn’t who he really is. Lord Utteridge is John Beckham. The true Lord Utteridge is his master who had died recently – mysterious causes, they say.”

“Dear God,” Hadrian uttered, his eyes growing wide.

“How is he of any relation to my wife? What about the pup? Ashwin?”

“He, too, has disappeared it seems. His father cannot find him. Unfortunately, we have not found any other relation to your wife other than Ashwin. I shall endeavor to do more research.”

“Do that. My wife is in harm’s way, Lucien. I will not stop until it is terminated.”

“Of course, Hadrian,” Lucien nodded, understanding his friend’s sentiment. He stood up and bid Hadrian farewell, leaving Hadrian to wonder about Lord Utteridge, Ashwin, and his wife, until finally, he joined her above stairs and slumbered.