A Fiery Dalliance

XXXI

"Life becomes easier when you learn to accept an apology you never got." Robert Brault

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XXXI.

Joe was immediately startled by the sound of the bedroom door opening abruptly. His father promptly entered and slammed it behind him.

"Viscount!" remarked Adam, equally as surprised at John Parish's rough entrance into the bedroom.

John's eyes flicked between his two sons, eyeing Ed first as he sat on the trunk at the end of Joe's bed, before his attention settled on Joe, who was laying atop the bed linens being attended to by the Beresfords' London doctor, Doctor Winfield.

Joe was certain that there was an element of relief in his father's cold eyes when he saw which son it was in the bed being attended to. The way that his eyes had flicked between them indicated to Joe that there had been an element of doubt. John was clearly pleased that it was not Ed afflicted by the mysterious ailment.

"What is the meaning of this?" John demanded to know, rudely marching towards the bed and standing before the doctor. "What is wrong with him?"

Doctor Winfield had just been listening to Joe's heartbeat, and so was stowing his medical instruments back in the leather bag he had brought with him. "Are you this boy's father, sir?"

John's jaw tensed, before he gave a stiff nod.

"You have nothing dangerous to worry about, but rest is required in order for Mr Parish to return to full health. My diagnosis is exhaustion and dehydration. That is the reason for his collapse."

"Tired?" John's brows rose quizzically. "He is tired? And ... and thirsty?"

Joe felt a tremor travel down his body at the tone his father was using. He could not help but feel that there was something else contributing to the clearly foul mood he was in. Though, Joe could have been correct in assuming that it was the very fact he had not been diagnosed with a deadly bout of smallpox that was afflicting his father so. 'Twas a pity that Joe would live, it seemed.

The doctor nodded. "Yes. Both are contributing symptoms to a man losing consciousness. I prescribe plenty of rest and fluids. Water, wine, whatever you fancy, young man."

"Thank you, Doctor," Adam said gratefully, before he produced his money purse from the inside of his coat. He walked around the bed and paid the doctor, before ushering him to the door.

"That brat needs to be thrashed so hard, she ought not to be able to sit down for a week," John hissed under his breath. He eyed Adam, before uttering to Ed, "You will teach her respect when you are married, do you hear me? In my day, if a woman, a girl, spoke to a gentleman like that, she would have been slapped around her ears. That girl needs to be beaten into submission."

Joe was well used to his father's vicious words, but this time, they were not for him. It was not until John had directed his loathsome comments at Ed did Joe realised that his father was referring to Perrie.

The image of Perrie, black and blue, covered in bruises, whimpering, crying, suddenly filled his mind, and it turned Joe's stomach inside out. The first thing he had heard as he had drifted back into consciousness was Perrie's threat, her threat spoken in a voice that was filled with fear for him. Joe was only allowed to die by Perrie's hand.

Well, any man who so dared strike her would die by his hand.

Another image suddenly struck Joe, and it seemed rather obvious now that the thought had come to him. What was the meaning of this vitriol? John was clearly furious with Perrie, but what had she said or done to provoke this sort of reaction?