Chapter 6

Austin’s condition didn’t improve. After nightfall, it worsened instead. His body burned with fever, and his speech became slurred. I half-carried him, letting him lie in my arms, and brought slightly cold food to his lips.

“My lord, eat something.”

“I don’t want to. I’ll vomit,” he said.

“Then drink some water.”

“I won’t. Take it away.”

“Drink, just a little.” I insisted, holding a spoon to his mouth, then placed food near his lips. “Eat something too. Even if you vomit it later, it’s better than eating nothing.”

“Take it away! Can’t you understand?” he snapped angrily.

Helpless, I set aside the food and water and helped him lie flat. Moments later, he looked into my eyes and said slowly, “I’ll die here.”

“You’re overthinking. You’ll be fine. Trust me,” I hurriedly comforted him.

“If I die, this family will inherit all my wealth. How ironic. I came here to discuss inheritance rights with them, and now it’s the other way around. They must be delighted,” he said with a sarcastic tone.

I froze for a moment, not answering.

“Where are my attendants? Are they sick or refusing to come?” Austin asked.

“One is sick,” I replied.

“Is that so? Hmph!” He looked like a cynical protester, his face slightly twisted. Then, staring at me, he asked, “Even they won’t come here. Why did you? Aren’t you afraid of death?”

“We won’t die,” I said.

“Where does this confidence come from? How ridiculous. You, a lowly servant…” Before he could finish, he started coughing violently, his face turning red from the strain.

“Rest well. You’ll recover soon,” I said softly.

Clutching the sheets, his whole body trembling, his face and lips as pale as paper, he said, “I have no strength left. I’m so cold. The Lord is calling me. I’ll see my father soon.”

I touched his forehead—still feverish, no wonder he felt cold. He gazed at me, his eyes weak, his expression despairing. I almost laughed, unable to believe this cowardly man was the composed and decisive Baron Lloyd. Facing death, even the strongest men feel fear.

I sighed, sat by the bed, took off my shoes, and slipped under his covers.

“What are you doing?” He frowned, as if offended.

I shook my head, signaling him not to speak, then wrapped my arms around him. “Still cold? Sleep. I’ll stay with you.”

Seeming to sense my body heat, he hesitated slightly before obediently lying in my arms. Before long, he fell asleep.

Gazing at his sleeping face, I let out a long sigh.

I deeply regretted everything I had done to him. If I could make it up to him, I would try my best. Unlike last time when the butler forced me to care for him, this time I came willingly. Back then, trembling with fear of smallpox infection, I didn’t properly tend to him, only wanting to escape quickly. But this time, though it was our first meeting, we spoke extensively with each other.

Snow fell outside again, the howling wind rattling the window frames with banging sounds. In this silent night, I lay awake. Memories of my past life flooded my mind like a tide, and I could only hold the man in my arms tightly, trying to forget it all.

Every day I toiled hard, hoping to wake up naturally someday. Today, I truly did. The morning sun shone directly on my eyelids, and I felt faint breaths brushing my earlobe. Opening my eyes, I saw a pair of deep brown eyes. We maintained last night’s position, my arms still tightly wrapped around him.

Two men sleeping embraced was a very strange thing. The baron’s face immediately showed embarrassment. He said, “Could you leave my bed now?”

Feeling even more awkward, I hurriedly got up, straightened my clothes. “I feel much better, even somewhat hungry. This shouldn’t be smallpox—smallpox would be far worse. Go inform the viscount to call a doctor for me,” he said coldly.

“Yes, my lord, I’ll go at once.” I bowed and turned to leave.

“Wait,” he called after me.

Turning back, I asked, “Do you have further instructions?”

“Your wig is crooked,” he pointed out.

Flustered, I touched it and found the wig hanging by my ear, instantly mortified. “Please wait a moment,” I said before quickly heading to the butler’s room.

The butler looked alarmed at my appearance: “Why are you out? What happened? Is the baron unwell?”

“The baron is better—likely not smallpox. He requested a doctor,” I replied.

“Are you sure it’s not smallpox? How do you know he’s better?” the butler questioned.

“This morning his fever broke, and it looks more like a rash,” I explained.

“A rash? Nonsense! The baron is 26—how could he get child’s rashes?” the butler retorted.

“But his fever truly subsided,” I insisted.

The butler hesitated: “Fine, I’ll inform the viscount and send for a doctor. You’re brave, boy—deserving reward. I’ll report your conduct to the viscount.”

After examination, the doctor said: “Indeed not smallpox, but a contagious rash of little danger. Perhaps high fever caused the rash to redden, resembling smallpox blisters. Avoid drafts—recovery in days.”

The valet who initially refused to tend the baron resigned in shame. The butler assigned me temporarily until a new servant arrived.

The masters of Baker Manor came to visit, especially third miss Lauren, who came daily, heedless of infection risk.

The baron regained his usual reticence, appearing composed and authoritative. His orders were crisp, as if the frail man from days prior had vanished. Our exchanges were minimal: fetching books, dinner arrangements, adjusting lamps, stoking fires.

Lizbeth excitedly told me: “Congratulations, Toker! You’re now the baron’s valet!”

Rhodes interjected coldly: “Hardly—just temporary. Haven’t you heard the baron’s new servant is coming?”

Lizbeth questioned, “Are you jealous of Toker?”

Rhodes chuckled, “Ha, jealous of him? Don’t joke around. I just want to remind him not to let joy cloud his judgment.”

“But Toker will be promoted to senior footman, right?” Lizbeth looked at me expectantly.

I nodded and replied, “Though it’s not certain, butler Pod praised me, so it should happen.”

“That’s really wonderful,” Lizbeth said happily.

I recalled last time, it was precisely because I cared for the baron, who was mistakenly thought to have smallpox, that I was promoted to senior footman. This time shouldn’t be much different.

Just then, the bell on the wall rang.

“Oh, the baron is calling you,” Lizbeth said. “You’ve been in his room all day, and he’s calling you again after just a short while outside.”

I explained, “The baron is afraid of the cold and needs the fire stoked from time to time.” With that, I picked up the tray and headed to the guest room.

On the tray was a glass bottle filled with lime liqueur. I knocked twice on the door, entered, placed the tray on the coffee table, poured a small glass, and brought it to the baron: “My lord, your drink, though the doctor advised against it.”

The baron stared at me for a long time without touching the glass, then said, “You took too long. I’ve finished my book. Fetch a new one. Why hasn’t today’s newspaper arrived?”

“Apologies, my lord. Due to the snow, today’s newspaper may be delayed. What book would you like? I’ll fetch it now,” I replied.

“What books could this old house possibly have?” the baron said hoarsely. “Find me two travelogues.”

I hurried downstairs to the hall study and randomly picked two travelogues. When I returned with the books, the baron flipped through a few pages and frowned. He tossed them aside, clearly dissatisfied with my selection.