Plus Tea. “Does she do that a lot?” Camille asked as Francis held Cathy’s supine body in his arms and gently splashed water in her face. “She hasn’t been eating,” I replied. “Because of her broken heart.” I really wanted Francis to put her down, but he was holding her so gently and looked so concerned. “Make her food,” Camille commanded Kit. “Something reviving. I shall make more tea.” Tea making seemed to be Camille’s favorite domestic task. I hovered uselessly next to Cathy, wondering if I should call her mother and realizing that this would all be very difficult to explain. Please be okay, I begged her silently. I’d never seen Cathy faint before. She hardly ever got sick. She didn’t look it, but she was tough. She’d always been tough. Until she’d met Francis. Her eyelids fluttered. “Francis,” she murmured. “Cathy,” he murmured back. “Heathcliff,” muttered Kit, as he set about making sandwiches. I couldn’t help giggling again. Kit turned to me with a huge grin on his face.
