Chapter 180

The thought sent a chill through her, and she forced herself to push it aside. She would not entertain such a possibility until she had seen him with her own eyes.

When Roland returned with the two men, Octavia stepped aside to give them room. They first attempted to force the door with their brute strength, but the lock held firm. Their second attempt shook the frame without yielding an inch. At Octavia’s insistence, they tried again, throwing their combined weight against the wood until the door finally splintered around the lock and burst open.

Octavia hurried into the chamber, only to stop abruptly at the sight that greeted her.

Simon lay sprawled across the floor, one arm trapped awkwardly beneath his body. A patch of vomit stained the floor beside him.

His shirt was soiled down the front, while an empty decanter lay on its side beside a fallen glass. The room reeked of spirits and the sour odour of sickness. His bedclothes had been dragged halfway to the floor, and various objects lay scattered across the chamber.

Simon barely looked alive. His skin had taken on a deathly pallor, his face glistened with sweat, and his lips had lost nearly all their colour. He did not stir as she rushed to his side and dropped to her knees beside him.

"Simon!"

She cupped his cheek, then gripped his shoulder and shook him gently, desperate to rouse him. His head shifted beneath her touch, but his eyes remained closed, and he gave no indication that he had heard her.

Then she noticed his chest.

It rose and fell so faintly that she could barely discern the movement.

Panic seized her. With trembling fingers, she pressed two fingertips against his neck, searching for a pulse. For one dreadful instant, she could not find it. Then, at last, she felt the faintest flutter beneath his skin.

It was there, but worryingly weak.

Octavia’s heart lurched. Her nephew was alive, but she had no idea how long he would remain so.

Fear swept through her so fiercely that she scarcely recognised her own voice when she called for help.

"Fetch the physician at once! And someone bring clean linen. Quickly!"

The coachman rushed to fetch a physician. As soon as he was gone, the footman knelt beside Octavia while Roland moved to clear the space around Simon.

Together they turned him carefully onto his side, keeping his face clear of the vomit. Octavia stayed close, watching carefully as if his condition might worsen if she looked away for even a second.

"Simon, can you hear me? Please, open your eyes."

He gave no indication that he heard her.

The coachman must have contacted the rest of the household because only a minute later, a maid showed up to open the windows and brought fresh water and linens.

They all worked in tandem. The footman helped remove Simon’s stained shirt, taking care not to jostle him unnecessarily, and the rest of them cleaned what they could without disturbing his position.

Octavia remained beside him, one hand resting against his face. His skin was clammy to the touch, and she could scarcely bear the sight of him like this.

What had he done to himself?

The question came with an ache of helplessness.

The physician arrived after what seemed an interminable wait. He examined Simon, checked his breathing and pulse and asked all the necessary questions.

The physician’s assessment was grave. Simon had consumed so much alcohol, it nearly killed him. It was a good thing that they got to him on time but the fact that he was still dangerously ill, and his prolonged unconsciousness was still a cause for serious concern.

He instructed them to keep Simon on his side, monitor his breathing, and summon him again immediately if his condition worsened. He would remain nearby until he was satisfied that Simon was out of immediate danger.

There was no simple remedy to administer, no draught that could instantly restore him. His body would need time to recover, and the physician made it clear that his condition required close observation.

Octavia didn’t say anything to that. Her attention remained entirely fixed upon Simon, whose face seemed unnaturally still against the pillow once the servants had settled him safely in bed.

Someone had cleaned his face and wiped him down but nothing could disguise how frail he looked.

She dismissed the servants once the physician left, retaining only the assistance she might need if Simon’s condition changed. Roland lingered near the doorway, visibly troubled.

"I shall remain with him," Octavia said.

"Of course, Your Grace." He replied.

"If there is any change, you will send for the physician immediately."

Roland bowed. He glanced once towards Simon before withdrawing, closing the door quietly behind him.

Octavia settled into the chair beside the bed.

As the hours wore on, Octavia found herself thinking of Simon as a child. He had once possessed a gentle innocence that, over the years, had been gradually eroded, giving way to cynicism and anger.

His mother had been the centre of his world, and her death had permanently changed him. Yet, if Octavia were honest with herself, his decline had begun long before that. It had started with the death of his grandfather, a loss from which he had never quite recovered.

She had tried to help him through it all, though her efforts had often been met with resistance. Simon could be cruel when he felt cornered, lashing out at those who came too close. He seemed determined to drive away anyone who dared to care for him, as though he would rather endure his suffering alone than risk being hurt again.

Yet Octavia had never mistaken his hostility for a lack of feeling. She knew there was more to him than the bitterness he so readily displayed. If anything, she suspected he fought so fiercely against tenderness because he feared what would happen if he allowed himself to need it.

Now he lay unconscious before her, unable to turn her away or demand that she leave him be.

She reached out and brushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead. Her eyes stung as she looked at his pale, drawn face, and she struggled to keep her emotions in check.

"Please, Simon," she whispered. "You must come back to us."

It was well into the night when Simon finally began to stir.

At first, the movement was so faint that Octavia wondered if she had imagined it. Then his fingers shifted against the bedclothes, and a crease appeared between his brows as he struggled to rouse himself from what seemed to be a deep, troubled sleep.

She leaned forward at once. "Simon?"

His eyelids fluttered, and a faint, pained groan escaped him. He turned his face away, attempting to shift beneath the covers, but his limbs felt unbearably heavy, as though his body had been weighed down with bricks. Even the smallest movement left him feeling weak and disoriented.

"Easy, darling. Don’t try to get up." Octavia placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, hoping to keep him from exerting himself.

Simon raised a hand to shield his eyes. The bedside lamp cast a harsh glow across his face, aggravating the persistent ache behind his forehead.

His mouth was parched, his stomach unsettled by lingering nausea. He could not recall how he had ended up in bed, much less why he felt as though he had been dragged through a terrible ordeal.

He slowly turned his head towards the voice. His vision took a moment to adjust before he made out the familiar figure seated beside him.

Octavia.

She was watching him with an expression of deep concern, her features drawn with worry. For a moment, Simon could only stare at her, struggling to understand why she was there and what had happened to him.