by Sue London
She stopped sewing. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged, but his jaw was tense. “We were never particularly close.”
“Your mother?” she asked.
“Still living,” he confirmed, taking another sip. What he didn’t say served to speak more loudly than anything he could have said. Apparently he wasn’t close to her, either.
“No brothers or sisters?”
She saw his fingers tapping on the counterpane. Not his favorite subject, apparently. “No. You?” he asked politely.
“Not anymore.”
His tapping stopped. “You didn’t lose them to the fever as well?”
She didn’t trust herself to speak so she simply nodded.
“Miss Devonport, I am so sorry. It must have been quite a trial for you to care for me.”
She set her sewing aside as she could no longer see through the unshed tears in her eyes. “No it wasn’t, Mr. Whitman. Because you lived.”
Chapter Seven
Whit stared at Miss Devonport, aghast at the terrible tragedies of her life that he had unwittingly revealed. And bothered that somehow he had pleased an inordinate number of people by simply continuing to live. She began to cry in earnest, the tears running down her face, and was twisting the fabric of her skirt between her fingers.
He was desperate to find something to console her. “I’ll gladly share my cousin with you. I think he likes you better than he does me anyway.”
She looked up at him with a furrowed brow. “Dibbs loves you. He was willing to risk his own life to ensure your care.” She bit her lip and looked away. “My own cousins couldn’t be bothered with me at all.”
Excellent, he had misstepped with that statement as well. Perhaps he would be better off not saying anything at all.
When her eyes returned to his she was still anguished and tearful. “I loved my family, Mr. Whitman. I loved them very much and had to watch them all die. When I turned to my uncle and cousins for help they simply asked me why, at six and twenty, I still wasn’t married. As though that were something I could control.” Her wavering, tearful voice broke off in a sob. “I didn’t just lose my family, I lost everything. I have nothing left. Nothing but what I’m willing to give of myself. So I was glad, very glad, to finally be able to nurse someone back to health from this horrid fever.”
Whit felt desperate to comfort her. “You have slightly more than nothing, Miss Devonport. You have me. Certainly you know that I will never consider my debt to you repaid. My life is now yours to ask of what you wish.” Rather than console her, his words seemed to make her sob harder still. He struggled to sit up further on the pillows. Her tears were breaking his heart and he might do something rash soon. “Tell me what I can do, Miss Devonport. What can I do to make your feel better?”
At that she looked at him as though he had asked if she kept zoo animals in her reticule. When she stood he thought that perhaps she was going to leave, then she flung herself onto the bed beside him and buried her face against his shoulder to weep in earnest. He’d never held a weeping woman and it was a bit unnerving, honestly. Her tiny frame shook with her sobs. He ran his hand over her back in what he hoped was a comforting caress. After a few moments, when his panic subsided, he was able to appreciate how perfect she felt in his arms. Delicate and warm. Her hair was indeed soft as mink and smelled like wildflowers. He felt like an ass appraising her finer qualities while she grieved, but it was impossible to ignore the intense attraction he had for her.
He held her and let her cry, wishing he was a good enough man for her.
*
Sissy had cried for her family before, but perhaps she had never grieved. Now, with Mr. Whitman, it felt as though her heart had cracked open and every bit of misery had poured out. He held her as though she were special, treasured. and that had brought another layer of grieving. She wasn’t special to anyone anymore. He’d said that she could ask anything of him and what she wanted foremost to ask was if he could just continue doing this. Holding her. Forever.
She fell asleep in his arms.
*
Whit awoke to the sound of a shocked gasp. His cousin’s shocked gasp, if he wasn’t mistaken. And he was sure he wasn’t mistaken, because he would know that sound anywhere. He deviled Josh at times just to hear it. But he was fairly sure he hadn’t been trying to devil Josh just now because he otherwise felt warm and content. The aching of his muscles had lessened and… Sweet mercy, Miss Devonport was in his bed.
“What on earth are you doing?” Josh sounded outraged. Furious, in fact.
Miss Devonport scrambled up immediately. “Dibbs, sir, it’s not what it looks like.”
“Go to your room, I’ll deal with you later.”
The poor girl paled and fled through the door.
“Don’t be harsh with Miss Devonport,” Whit warned.
“What were you thinking! You are literally on what was almost your death bed.”
“Based on how you’re looking at me, I’m wondering if it still will be.”
“How can you be flip? Do you have no shame? Dammit, Whit, why do you always have to take things and take advantage?”
Whit felt a cold ball take up residence in his chest. “Why do I always have to take? It’s the province of those who have nothing and are given nothing.”
“That’s a ridiculous way to justify your actions.”
“What would you know of it, Josh? The treasured son of attentive parents. Tell me, did my mother write to ask after my health once my illness was known at Kellington?”
Josh shifted on his feet. “That’s not the point here.”
“Just answer the question.”
“No.”
“Did your mother?”
“Yes, but I don’t see-”
“No, you don’t see, Josh. You never have. You grew up loved and I grew up on scraps. Your mother was the closest thing I had to a real mother. I could always count on Aunt Lucy to sneak a biscuit for me, to kiss my cuts, or hold me while I cried. But she wasn’t my mother, Josh, she was yours. That was always clear.”
Dibbs stared for a moment, thrown by the turn their conversation had taken. His voice, when he spoke again, was more temperate. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Whit, but what does that have to do with what you’ve done to Miss Devonport?”
Whit sighed. He felt like he’d already used up all of his energy for the day. He closed his eyes. “I haven’t done anything to Miss Devonport.”
“Even if you don’t want to admit it, you have.” Dibbs lowered his voice. “She’s not just a maid, Whit. This was very poorly done.”
Whit opened his eyes again. “No, she’s not just a maid. She’s a living, breathing person with feelings and opinions and talents. I’m not the one who sent her out of the room like a naughty child.”
“You’re not understanding me, Whit. You must marry her.”
Whit chuckled. “Why would you do that to her?”
Josh drew close enough to speak in a hushed tone. “She’s not just a maid. She was born of minor gentry. The earl agreed to accept her into service as the family had fallen on hard times, but his agreement was to protect her.”
Whit experienced a moment of panic. “Well, you shouting when you came in here certainly wasn’t helpful. We might have kept this among the three of us.”
“You’re right, me shouting was the crux of the problem. Not you seducing her into your bed.”
“Dammit, Josh, why do you always assume the worst of me?”
“Experience?”
Whit plucked at the counterpane for a moment. “I just want you to know that I did not seduce her. I did not compromise her. Everything about our evening was completely innocent.”
“Then why were you in bed together?”
“She was grieving her family, Josh. Facing the feeling of having nothing, a feeling I can identify with all too well.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic, Whit. You have plenty.”
“Of the things that matter?
No. I survive on your mother’s leftover affection and your approval.”
“My approval? What do you mean my approval?”
“Who do you think raised me, Josh?”
The butler’s mouth opened but no sound came out. He finally closed it as though realizing he might gather flies.
Whit rubbed his hand over his face, feeling a headache coming on. “As I can’t storm out of the room in a huff I would appreciate it if you could remove yourself instead. Come back to pester me later if you like, but I would like some time alone.”
He heard the door close with a soft click.
*
Sissy paced around the small room that served as her quarters. The earl’s wealth was such that even his servants had luxuries, such as having their own bedrooms rather than sharing. She wished that she could find it in her heart to appreciate that as she should. If she lost her position here she didn’t know what she would do.
On the other hand, in the middle of everything else going on, she had experienced a moment of pure bliss. When she had awakened, she and Mr. Whitman had been in a completely relaxed, warm embrace. Nothing in the world had ever felt better than that moment.
When she had paused to straighten her gown outside the door of the red bedroom she heard something of the exchange between Mr. Whitman and his cousin. Enough to hear Whit defend her. Enough to know that he felt he had nothing. Hearing him say that, hearing his voice so raw with emotion, had made her feel oddly bereft.
*
Dibbs found his wife in their quarters. Her pleased surprise at seeing him quickly turned to concern.
“What’s wrong?”
He shook his head, not able to explain in words just yet. He enfolded her in a hug that she returned. Then he sank to his knees and lay his head against her belly, leaning into her.
“What’s wrong, Josh? You’re scaring me.”
When he answered her his voice was barely above a whisper. “I’ve done a terrible thing. I’ve done a terrible disservice to my cousin.”
“What do you mean?”
“I became so used to watching out for his antics, to correcting him, that I fell into the habit of thinking that’s what always needed to be done.”
She ran her fingers through his hair. “Sometimes I think he relishes teasing you.”
“Of course he does. He’s always been clever and I’ve always been… stern.”
“You’re not stern. Not really.”
He looked up at her. “You’ve always seen the best in me, Grace. It’s time I let other people I love see it as well.”
“Oh really?” She smiled. “Try not to give Whit too big of a shock. He’s still recovering from a significant illness, you know.”
“Can you do a favor for me?”
“Does it involve dusting?”
“No.”
“Then yes.”
“Miss Devonport is in her room. Can you find some private place to chat with her and ask her about last night?”
“Oh my. They didn’t…?”
“That’s what I’m trying to ascertain. I assumed the worst and Whit has said some things - well, he’s said some things that have made me reexamine my treatment of him.”
“Of course I’ll talk to Sissy.”
“Sissy?”
“You didn’t know her name? It’s Cicely, really, but she goes by Sissy.”
“Thank you, love.”
“You know you can count on me.”
Chapter Eight
Whit discovered that the pain behind his eyes hadn’t been a headache per se, but incipient tears that started to fall as soon as his cousin left the room. He burrowed under the blankets and cursed this place. Obviously, it was the bloody red room that was the source of their problems. When he escaped it he would never return here again.
Fortunately he had mastered himself and picked up Miss Devonport’s embroidery to contemplate by the time he heard a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
Ah, his cousin had returned. However, rather than loom and lecture, as Josh was often wont to do, the butler settled at the foot of the bed with his back to the post, facing Whit.
“I’m sorry about earlier.”
That was almost like hearing Josh speak a foreign language. What was the proper response? Sarcasm? Dismissal of the concern? Lord, please don’t let it be earnest conversation.
Apparently no response was required because the butler began speaking again. “Have you taken up embroidery?”
“No, but I might. Miss Devonport’s work is lovely. If I’d been clearer of mind I might have realized what her exceptional embroidery skills suggested about her history.”
“True.”
Whit paused, unable to look at his cousin. “Gideon will be furious if he finds out about this morning, won’t he?”
“He does tend to be rather proper about certain things.”
Whit nodded. He hadn’t had any intention to get married. Ever. And Miss Devonport really was far too good a woman for him, not only in temperament but also by birth. However, Fortune was playing fast and loose with both he and Miss Devonport. Even without the virtue of a love match like Josh and Grace, Whit promised himself he would be devoted to her comfort and happiness. She deserved no less, especially from him. There was no way to repay her for caring for him as she had, but he could commit his life to the attempt.
Girding himself for what lay ahead, Whit finally looked at Josh. “I need a bath and someone to help me dress.”
“Oh?”
“No man should propose to his wife wearing a sleeping shirt and trews.”
“I wish I could reassure you that there were better alternatives.”
“It’s all right. I’ve accepted it now.”
“Then I’ll go order that bath.”
*
Grace dragged Sissy out of the house on the pretense that the poor girl had been cooped up for weeks on end and would welcome even a frosty turn outside. Since it was almost impossible to have a truly private moment in the house, at least in the areas that the staff confined themselves to, it seemed prudent to take a walk.
Once they were away from the house Grace said, “I’m not one to mince words or dance around a subject, so I’m just going to come out and ask. What happened between you and Whit last night?”
“I told him how my family died and he comforted me.”
“Simply that?”
“Simply that. I cried until I fell asleep in his arms.”
“My husband takes his responsibility to the household and the staff very seriously.”
“I had noticed.”
“If anything ever makes you uncomfortable you should tell him. Or tell me and I will tell him.”
“Mr. Whitman has never made me uncomfortable.”
“I assume there was something of a scene this morning because Dibbs sought me out, very upset.”
“I’m sorry for that, but I believe he overreacted.”
“Hmm,” Grace murmured noncommittally. “Do you like Mr. Whitman?”
Sissy blushed. “How do you mean?”
Grace laughed and hugged the other woman’s shoulders. “That’s enough of a response.”
“What?” Sissy sounded alarmed.
“A woman who didn’t really care would say ‘Oh, of course I like Mr. Whitman.’ A woman who had ulterior motives would be coy and say something like ‘Doesn’t everyone?’ But a woman who truly likes a man doesn’t want to answer the question at all. She just flushes up and wants a more specific question so that she can dance around it.”
Sissy’s cheeks turned bright red.
*
Once they returned from their walk, Sissy helped with some polishing in the kitchen. No one had made a comment about the morning yet and she still seemed to be a bit of a minor celebrity for her role in Mr. Whitman’s return to health. In the early afternoon Dibbs sought her out.
“Mr. Whitman would like to speak with you.”
She kept her eyes trained on th
e floor. “If that would be all right with you, sir?”
“Yes, Miss Devonport. Would you feel more comfortable if I accompanied you?”
“That’s not necessary, sir.” Even if Dibbs did not trust Mr. Whitman, she did.
She trudged up the stairs and down the hall to the red room. The butler was making his cousin apologize for the morning, no doubt. Sometimes everything was so formal and reserved that it was stifling. She tapped lightly on the door and waited for Mr. Whitman’s summons. When she entered he was lying atop the covers, fully dressed. She had almost forgotten how resplendent he could be. He was sitting up against the headboard and pillows, his hair damp and curling at the ends. His color was better than it had been yesterday, but he looked quite exhausted.
She moved to the side of the bed, but kept a respectful distance. She had also left the door open, in case Dibbs haunted the hallway to check on them. “You wanted to see me, Mr. Whitman?”
“I always want to see you, my Valentine. You’re lovely to see.”
She looked down at her clasped hands and smiled. Hopefully he would apologize soon and she could gather up her sewing projects and leave. It made her unaccountably sad to think that they would no longer be spending all their days and nights together. Ridiculous, really, considering he hadn’t even been awake through most of it.
He started to rise from the bed and she quickly put her hands out to halt him. “Oh no, Mr. Whitman, you can’t be feeling well.” She remembered how she had felt the second day after awakening. Her mind was still clouded from the fever and every muscle and joint ached as though someone had taken a hammer to her.
He put his own hand out to forestall her fussing. “If you please, Miss Devonport. I only plan to do this once, so I plan to do it correctly.”
She took a step back and allowed him to rise. Why an apology required such a display of formality, she had no idea. Then he took her hand and very carefully lowered himself to one knee. She stopped breathing.
“As you so easily accepted my request to be my Valentine, I am hopeful we can extend that to a more permanent arrangement. Would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”
Sissy was fairly certain she had no blood left in her head. Her voice sounded tiny and far away to her own ears. “Dibbs put you up to this, didn’t he?”