Fortune Said: A Valentine Haberdashers Tale

by Sue London

Dibbs crossed his arms and sighed, probably the most emotional reaction she had ever seen from him. “He’s very ill. The doctor recommended that we send him to the sanatorium to ensure the infection doesn’t spread but…” the butler cleared his throat. “But we don’t feel that would be the best course.”

  “Of course not,” she agreed.

  “The earl has had him moved to the red bedroom. Whoever cares for him will be essentially isolated there with him in an attempt to forestall anyone else contracting it. I was planning to do that myself.”

  “Oh. Have you had the fever before?”

  “No.”

  “Please,” she said, setting her hand on the butler’s arm. “Let me.” She gave him a sad smile. “You wouldn’t want to leave Grace a widow after only a month or two of marriage, would you?”

  She saw the muscles in his jaw clench and knew that it had been a low blow, but when it came to matters of life and death there were few things that were beyond the pale. She was fairly certain that she was now immune to the disease that had ravaged the Devonport family and staff.

  “If you’re sure?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Then I am in your debt, Miss Devonport.”

  Chapter Three

  Sissy settled into the red room with Mr. Whitman. She knew from experience that it would be at least a week or two before she would emerge. If he was lucky, and he survived. Otherwise it might be far shorter than that. The rash was still spreading and he was in and out of consciousness. Feeling his skin she knew that the actual fever itself was far from its height. All of the signs indicated that it was indeed typhus. The fear that came with that diagnosis was cloying, but she knew that she would need to be strong.

  She put some of the old starch of Miss Cicely in her tone before she addressed him. “Well, Mr. Whitman, let me tell you how we are going to get on. I shall do for you and you will fight this illness. You are far too fine a man to be lost to something so silly as a rash and a fever.”

  He mumbled something under his breath, but she knew it wasn’t a response to what she had said. She dipped a cloth in clean water and started what would be one of the many times she would cool his skin to keep the fever as low as possible.

  *

  The first few days passed as peaceably as one could hope. Mr. Whitman would at times thrash about and talk incoherently, but she had expected that. She made sure he drank water and broth to keep his strength up as much as possible, and plied him with teas and other brews sent up from the kitchen. Cups filled with willow bark, lemon, and a few other things that she didn’t recognize by scent. She passed much of her time embroidering, a hobby that she hadn’t indulged in since she had been a maid here. Dibbs had been happy to provide the supplies to her when that had been her only request for her own entertainment. She also asked for a few books from the library to read to Mr. Whitman.

  It was her belief that hearing a soft, comforting voice was elemental to healing. She certainly remembered her mother’s voice speaking to her when she had suffered the fever. Sissy had been the first in their family to contract it and had been almost recovered within a fortnight. Then her mother had been next. Then her father, brother, and sister had fallen ill almost at the same time. She really wasn’t sure when it had spread to the house staff. Within two months of her own recovery her family, and many of their retainers, were dead. She had been numb from grief when her uncle, her father’s brother, had explained that there was less than nothing left of her family’s estate, even after selling the townhouse and all their possessions. None of her relatives had been in the position to take on another mouth to feed. She was also fairly sure that they saw her as some Angel of Death, having been the first to face the disease and the only one to survive. Her uncle had used his contacts to get this position for her. Not even the grace of being a governess. She had been lowered from genteel poverty to domestic service.

  But no matter. She shook off her maudlin thoughts because today a special new book had been delivered for her to read to Mr. Whitman.

  “I’ll read the letter to you first, because I was quite impressed with it. Not the length, mind you, but you’ll see why in a moment. ‘Dear Whit, it is my hope that Byron’s tale will inspire your recovery. I have also enclosed an as yet unpublished poem of his that I thought you might particularly like. Regards, Quincy Telford, Duke of Beloin’.” She tapped the papers on the edge of his bed. “Did you hear that? A duke is wishing you a healthy recovery. Now you must get better, if only to thank him properly. Anything else would be unthinkably rude.”

  He was quiet and still, as he often was in the afternoons.

  “All right, then. We should start with this poem he thinks you will like.” She cleared her throat to begin.

  She walks in beauty, like the night

  Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

  And all that’s best of dark and bright

  Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

  Thus mellow’d to that tender light

  Which heaven to gaudy day denies

  One shade the more, one ray the less,

  Had half impaired the nameless grace

  Which waves in every raven tress,

  Or softly lightens o’er her face;

  Where thoughts serenely sweet express

  How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

  And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

  So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

  The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

  But tell of days in goodness spent,

  A mind at peace with all below,

  A heart whose love is innocent!

  She let the room fall silent for a few moments as she contemplated the effect of the poem. It made her unaccountably melancholy. She looked at Mr. Whitman. It hadn’t appeared to affect him at all.

  “I fear reporting to the duke that you had no particular remarks on this poem. Perhaps when you’re feeling better it will be more suited to your sensibilities. Now for the story. It is titled The Corsair. That sounds promising. There is likely to be adventure. Do you like adventures, Mr. Whitman? You strike me as the sort of man who might. Do you have a secret life? Spending your late nights climbing up to the balconies of your lady loves, perhaps your dawns in sword fights over their honor?”

  She looked at him, so still and flushed in the bed, his hair in disorder. Perhaps she should bathe his face before reading the story. Indeed she should. As she ran the cool cloth over his heated skin she studied him as she had not before. His impression as he went about the house was what she might call studied ease. His clothing was always perfect but not too perfect, as though by some calculation he had identified the essential piece to add or remove. His manner was one of practiced charm. Teasing and sweet with the ladies. Cutting and witty with the men. Much like his wardrobe, he peppered his formal speech with moments of casual disregard for formality. But now, in repose, he had none of those trappings. She would have assumed that a man who had so much artifice would somehow seem lesser without it. Oddly, he did not. He actually appeared to be… more. More masculine, with the bump of a broken nose and a small scar that slashed through one of his fair brows. More solid, with muscles she wouldn’t have guessed lurked beneath all those dandyish clothes. And more vulnerable, with long lashes and a soft mouth that didn’t look capable of some of the cynical remarks she had seen come out of it.

  Looking at him thus, without the glamour, made her think more deeply of what she had seen of him. The truth was he was actually quite nice. He remembered birthdays, played with children, and had always been solicitous and polite to her. It would indeed be a waste for the world to lose Mr. Whitman. A valet who received personal gifts from a duke. She resumed her seat and began to read aloud again.

  *

  A full week dragged past and Mr. Whitman’s condition had not improved. His fever burned day and night, only being slightly reduced in the afternoon hours on some internal cycle that Sissy couldn’t begin to fathom. His delirium
had become more pronounced and he had now taken to shouting for someone named Josh. When she reported that to the footman who came in response to her bell pull he disappeared, and shortly Dibbs was at the door. When Mr. Whitman called out for Josh again, Dibbs hastened to the bed.

  Sissy rose to her feet, holding out her hand to forestall him. “No! Sir, you can’t!”

  The look the butler turned on her brooked no argument. He sat on the side of the bed and grabbed Mr. Whitman’s hand. “I’m here, Whit.”

  “Josh!”

  “I’m here, Whit. It’s all right.”

  Mr. Whitman did, in fact, subside after hearing the butler’s voice. Dibbs had a look of tortured concern that Sissy recognized. It was the same expression that her mother had worn when Sissy had fallen ill. The first expression she had seen when she began to emerge from the horrible fog of the fever. The mother who had shortly afterwards died from the same disease.

  Sissy grabbed hold of the butler’s arm and pulled as hard as she could. “You must leave.”

  Her efforts only served to garner his annoyed attention. “I’ll not leave my cousin if he needs me.”

  “If he recovers and you succumb to the illness, he will never forgive himself.” She knew that she had tears in her eyes, but she needed him to understand. “He will never forgive himself.”

  Dibbs was frowning now. “I must do something.”

  She searched her mind desperately for a compromise. “In the evenings, come stand in the doorway and tell him about the goings on of the day. It will give him something to look forward to and provide the comfort of your voice. But please, you must leave now. Wash as thoroughly as you can.”

  “Miss Devonport, I don’t think-”

  “Don’t make me get cross with you,” she threatened. That gave the butler a ghost of a smile. He stood and her eyes were even with the top button of his coat. She barely threatened five feet tall, much less a man of the butler’s dimensions.

  “Thank you for taking care of him. I’ll… I’ll go now.”

  She nodded, relief flooding her.

  He stopped at the doorway. “Once we have all the chores done for the evening I’ll be back to tell him about our day.”

  “Perfect,” she said.

  Once Dibbs was gone she ruffled Mr. Whitman’s hair. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself. You’ve proven at least one person values you more than their own life.”

  Chapter Four

  Their routine was slightly modified by the addition of Dibbs’ nightly visits, but otherwise things continued on much as they had before. The only other change was that Dibbs started bringing baked goods that his wife made especially to entice Mr. Whitman to recover. Each night the room held a new sweet aroma to torture them, such as gingerbread, lemon cake, and chocolate crème. She would eat her portion and describe the flavor and her enjoyment in great detail to Mr. Whitman. Grace’s desserts really were extraordinary and if Mr. Whitman didn’t recover soon then Sissy would be letting out the seams of her dresses.

  Sissy lost track of the exact days, but about a fortnight after he succumbed, it seemed his fever had broken by dawn. All day she remained attentive and followed the usual schedule of cooling sponge baths and ensuring he was drinking water. She was hardly able to focus on her embroidery for the times she checked on him. She hoped that the reduced fever was a good sign, but her fear was that this was just another turn to something worse. She had never actually watched anyone recover from this illness; she had only seen them die. She was somewhat heartened to remember that none of them had experienced a reduction in fever at the end, so surely this was a good sign.

  When afternoon came she decided to read the Byron to him again. It would be at least the fifth time they had read it. She read the poem first and heard him sigh and shift in the bed. Was that a reaction? If so, what did it mean? She stood to look at him and ascertain his condition. He surprised her by opening his eyes and looking at her, confused.

  “Miss Devonport,” he said groggily, “you shouldn’t be here.”

  She couldn’t help but to smile. “Where else should I be?”

  “I couldn’t say, but certainly not standing over my bed.” He looked, for Mr. Whitman, quite foul-tempered. She didn’t know when she had been so pleased.

  “Stay awake for a moment,” she admonished, rushing over to the bell pull. She gave it some enthusiastic yanks, keeping her eyes on him. He was looking around the chamber, confused.

  “Where am I?”

  “The red bedroom.”

  “The red bedroom? At the townhouse?”

  “Yes.”

  He collapsed back against the pillows, seeming exhausted. “I’ve never been in it before.”

  “I’m usually only in it the first Thursday of the month.”

  “That seems oddly specific,” he murmured, closing his eyes for a moment.

  “Cleaning schedule.”

  “Ah. And why am I in it?”

  “You’ve been ill, Mr. Whitman. Very ill.”

  Mr. Whitman opened his eyes to look at her questioningly just as the door flung open and Dibbs was there, looking as though he had run up three flights of steps. “Is he-?”

  Sissy knew that the question that the nearly panicked Joshua Dibbs had been about to ask was whether his cousin was dead. But Mr. Whitman was now sitting up against the pillows, looking very much alive.

  “Naked?” Mr. Whitman finished for him, albeit a bit weakly. “I think I am under here. It’s a wonder you let a maid in the room.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Dibbs said, striding across the room and throwing himself on the foot of the bed. He held on to his cousin and sobbed. Sissy thought Mr. Whitman couldn’t have looked any more alarmed if a fire had started under his bottom.

  *

  Whit felt it had been a long, hard slog to consciousness. He had vague and partial memories of voices, of cool cloths pressed to his forehead, of water dribbled down his throat. But none of it was clear until just a few moments ago when he had awakened to a soft, feminine voice reading poetry to him. The poem seemed familiar somehow, as did the voice. Comforting. Soothing. He had almost been lulled back into a slumber but some part of his mind had been desperate to awaken. He was sore and stiff, torn between a desire to get up and a fear that he would immediately fall on his face. He felt weak. Even rising up on the pillows had been a chore.

  Then Josh had burst into the room looking as though the earl’s prize stallion had bolted and the butler was somehow to blame. Now the poor man was kneeling by the bed, his upper half sprawled over Whit’s legs, and crying as though he had witnessed the massacre of a thousand puppies. Josh didn’t cry. Josh never, ever, ever cried. When they were children Whit had been the sensitive one, the one prone to sniffling over finding a dead butterfly in the meadow. Josh was the stern one, the one with a stiff upper lip. Even back then he’d had a certain poise and reserve that Whit had envied.

  Not quite sure what to do, he awkwardly patted his cousin’s head. There was only one thing that Whit could think of that would send Josh into such an emotional state. “Is Grace all right?” he asked cautiously.

  That served to rouse the butler from his sobbing. “Yes, I should go find her. She’ll want to know you’re awake.” With that, his cousin arose from the floor, wiped his dripping nose on his sleeve, and set off across the house.

  He had wiped his nose on his sleeve. He had cried and then wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  Whit decided it was quite likely that all of this was a delirious dream.

  Miss Devonport was still standing off to the side of his bed, watching him. Yes, if he were to choose a woman to dream about, it might be her. She had some of that enviable poise, and skin as pale as cream, rosy lips in a cupid’s bow, and black hair that looked softer than mink. Perhaps his illness had addled his brains a bit, but she looked lovelier to him now than she ever had. And right now she had a serene, secretive smile that made him want to kiss her. He shook off the thought.

  “Mi
ss Devonport, how long have I been here?”

  She finally stopped staring at him and set to tidying, first the table beside the bed and his linens where Josh had been kneeling. “About a fortnight.”

  A fortnight! No wonder he was in such a state. He still wasn’t sure if he could stand. He thought for a moment, counting the days. “Well, then that makes it… St. Valentine’s day?”

  She laughed. “I suppose it does. I’m not sure of the exact date.”

  “Would you be my Valentine?” If he were going to have a delusional dream, it might as well be an enjoyable one.

  “Of course, Mr. Whitman.”

  For years he had wondered why men said they “admired” a woman. The term had never seemed quite right to him. But he did admire Miss Devonport. She had grace and an air of dignity. She never gossiped or drank or used foul language. She was, in short, far too good a woman for him. But if this was his delusional dream then she would be his Valentine.

  “You can call me Whit,” he said, giving her a reassuring smile. It had been some time since he had flirted with her and he was encouraged to see that she still blushed prettily at the attention.

  “Very well. Would you like for me to read The Corsair again, Whit?” She sat in a chair near the bed and picked up a small book.

  “I suppose so, as I don’t remember how that one goes.”

  She took out a folded paper that had been pressed between the pages and held it out to him. “I suggest you pay attention this time so that you can thank the gift giver appropriately.”

  He took the paper from her fingers and unfolded it. The contents made him smile. A gift from Quince. “Well, if we’ve been receiving gifts then where is the bottle of brandy from Gideon?”

  She gave a mock gasp of dismay. “You ungrateful man!”

  “Thirsty man,” he corrected.

  Setting the book aside she stood to pour a glass of water for him.

  He snorted. “Surely you don’t think water and a fine brandy are at all comparable.”

  She raised a brow at him and handed him the glass. “If you drink all of this then I might be inclined to inquire after some brandy for you.”