“Is there something wrong, my lord?”
“Hmmmm? Your pardon—I wasn’t attending.”
“I asked if something is the matter.”
“No, of course not. Why?”
“Then I wish you would not stare at me. It makes me feel as though I look the veriest fright.”
He managed a brief smile. “Is that how I am looking at you? If so, I must beg your pardon, for I can assure you that such was not my thought at all.” He rose and stretched restlessly with his back to her. “I think I’ll take a walk.”
She was about to protest that they’d just come back from one and then thought better of it. If he were blue-deviled, it would be better to leave him alone until he came out of it. Instead, she picked up a cloth and began dusting the shelves and books in a corner cabinet. She could hear the door close behind her, and when she looked out the window, she could see him making his way to the Bratchers’ cottage. Well, whatever had lowered his spirits was something he did not want to share with her.
There was not much to do in the box, but she managed to keep busy by making the beds, dusting, airing the curtains, scrubbing the small kitchen, and mopping the floors where they had tracked in the storm’s mud. It was not what she was used to doing by any means, but she had watched the Marling maids often enough to know how it ought to be done. By the time Trent returned, she was up on a stool rehanging the curtains.
“Very housewifely, my dear,” he murmured from the doorway behind her.
She was suddenly conscious of the picture she must present with her hair tied up in a rag and a sheet folded into an apron around her waist, and she felt almost foolish.
“Well, I had to do something, my lord,” she snapped, and then shook her head. “I am sorry, it is not your fault that I was bored.”
“Here, let me help you,” he offered. “You are not quite tall enough to get that without risking a fall.”
“I got it down.”
“Then allow me to put it up.” He took the rod and fastened it back into place above her. When she half-turned to look at him, he began to chuckle.
“I know.” She made a wry face and began taking the rag out of her hair. “It looks ridiculous, but it would not stay out of my eyes when I was mopping the floor:”
“No.” He laughed. “I was thinking that we both look ridiculous, and that neither of us really cares.”
“Speak for yourself, my lord. I was taught that ladies must go to great lengths to look presentable at all times,” she told him primly, but she could not control the twitch at the corner of her mouth or the humorous sparkle in her eyes.
“Well, I am glad that you were a poor pupil in that,” he teased, “for I find you ever so much more comfortable this way. Here, let me get you down before you fall and sprain your ankle or something.”
“You seem to have an uncommon interest in the health of my ankles.”
“Well, I am a miserable nurse, so it is in my best interests to keep you healthy. Put your hand on my shoulder and lean down.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he simply caught her at the waist and lifted her. “You know, Miss Marling, you are far too independent for a female. You are supposed to take every opportunity to appear helpless, and you are supposed to exert every feminine wile at your disposal to entrap me.”
“How very absurd! If I thought of you like that, we could not go on as we have, and it would ruin everything. Besides,” she added sweetly, “whatever would I do about Brockhaven? No, my lord. I am far too aware of both your’ reputation and my circumstances to even entertain the notion of flirting with you. I suspect you could be quite a dangerous player of that game.”
“The sensible Miss Marling.”
“My lord, both my feet are on the floor now, and there is no danger to my ankles or anything else. You may safely unhand me.”
He dropped his hands and stepped back to pick up the basket he’d set by the door. “I have been to Mrs. Bratcher’s and have brought back our supper. If you can get the plates, I can set out the food.”
They shared a simple but substantial meal of cold chicken and roast beef, buttered potatoes and carrots, and bread. And packed in the bottom of the basket, Mrs. Bratcher had sent a freshly baked apple pie with cheese wedges.
When Ellen would have cut Trent a piece, he shook his head. “Not for me—I have had enough. Besides, I think I feel the beginning of a sore throat.”
“I thought the Deveraux never suffered any illness.”
“We don’t. I daresay it will be gone by morning.”
“And I had hoped we could play cards again. I think I was beginning to understand the game.”
“If you understood it much better, we could open a gambling establishment, my dear.” He caught her hopeful expression and shook his head. “But we won’t. Really, I think I would just go to bed. You do not mind too much, do you?”
“No—not if you are unwell. I shall just read one of Mr. Chudleigh’s books until I am ready to retire,” she told him to hide her disappointment.
After he left, she cleared away the dishes and washed them before taking the lantern into the main room. A search of Chudleigh’s bookshelves revealed absolutely nothing of interest, but she chose one anyway and drew close to the fire. In less than half an hour, she could hear his door open and his footsteps behind her. Resolutely she turned the page.
He reached over her shoulder and plucked the book out of her hands. “Bingham’s Treatise on the Merits of Merino Sheep,” he read aloud. “Fascinating, I am sure, but I cannot sleep, after all. Do you think you might be able to tear yourself away from this and entertain me with a hand or two of faro?”
“Well …”
“Good. And if you could brew us some tea, it might help my throat.”
7
SUNLIGHT STREAMED THROUGH her bedroom window as Ellen stretched lazily and then came awake. Sitting up, she realized that it must be midday and the marquess had not awakened her for breakfast, an odd circumstance, given his seeming attachment to regular meals. She kicked back her covers and slid her feet to the floor, still expecting to hear some sound of him coming from the main room. Yet when she opened the door a crack to look, the room was empty and the fire had died down completely. She dressed and went to his door, relishing the thought of dragging him out as rudely as he had her the day before.
Even as she raised her hand to knock, she could hear him coughing within. She beat a retreat to the kitchen and rummaged around until she found what she needed. Mixing it in a cup, she returned confidently to knock on the door.
“May I come in?” she called out.
“I am not receiving visitors today,” he croaked back.
“But are you covered?”
“Yes.”
She pushed open the door and found him huddled miserably beneath his blankets. She walked over to touch him and found him feverish. “I think you are ill, my lord,” she announced flatly.
“Deuced clever of you to discover it,” he muttered irritably as he rolled over to look at her. “Just leave—” His words were cut short by a paroxysm of coughing that left him nearly breathless. When he managed to stop, Ellen was perched beside him with cup and spoon. “What the devil is that?” he demanded.
“For your cough,” she soothed. “It’s something my nurse used to give me when I was a child. Here …” She poured a spoonful and leaned over.
“What is it?” he persisted.
“A syrup for your cough.”
“No.”
“Do not act like a child, my lord. I promise you it will help. Besides, if you do not open your mouth, I am likely to spill it all over you.”
“Oh, very well,” he snapped, and let her give him a spoonful. “Aaagh! What the devil is it?”
“Vinegar and honey. Here, one more.”
“Very wifely, I am sure, Mrs. Trent,” he managed. “But if you’ve no wish to wash it out of your hair, you’ll take it away and leave me alone.”
“Just one more,” she coax
ed.
“No!”
“All right, be a child then, but do not be blaming me if your cough gets worse.”
“Leave me alone,” he gritted before he was again seized with coughing. “Damn!” he managed when he finally quit. “All right, give me the nasty stuff and then get out of here.”
Satisfied, she went to work on the fire in the main room, blowing on the embers until she got a few scraps of paper to ignite and then adding small kindling. Finally, she threw on a couple of logs and hoped for the best. Filling the kettle, she set it to heat over the hearth and drew on Trent’s cloak for the walk to the Bratchers’ cottage. When she opened the door, Jimmy Bratcher was coming up the path with his arms laden with breakfast.
“Mr. Trent told me mum ‘e’d be up ter get it, but ‘e ain’t showed, so’s I was ter bring it ter ye,” he mumbled apologetically.
“Quite all right,” she told him as she helped him unload the food. “I am afraid Mr. Trent is not feeling well today, so we shall require delivery anyway.”
After the boy left, she ate a couple of the sausages and a still-warm sweet bun before she brewed the tea. The worst of her hunger satisfied, she made up a tray and took it to Lord Trent.
“I have brought breakfast, my lord,” she announced as cheerfully as she could.
“Take it back and I’ll come get it.”
“Nonsense! You are sick.”
“I am not. I have the sore throat merely, and I would not be babied, ma’am.”
“You have a fever, a sore throat, and a cough, my lord,” she corrected him, “and you are sick. You will be pleased to rest in bed and I will serve your breakfast.” She picked up a towel and laid it across him. “Do you need help sitting?” she asked sweetly.
“If you leave, I’ll get dressed and join you in the other room. It is unseemly for you to serve me like a servant, Miss Marling.” He struggled to sit up and suddenly found the tray settled on his lap. “Oh, all right,” he grumbled.
“I’ll be back for the tray, my lord. Call if you require anything else.”
“Managing female,” he muttered to her retreating back. “A plague on all of you!”
By late afternoon, it became apparent that he was becoming very ill indeed. When she went to check on him, the bed shook with the violence of his chills and he was rolled up in his covers like a mummy. He opened his eyes when he heard her.
“I n-need m-more c-covers,” he chattered from beneath the blankets. “I am f-freezing.”
She reached to touch his forehead and found it so hot that she nearly drew back by reflex. “I’ll get you some,” she promised, and she ran to her room and dragged all the bedclothes off her bed to pile on him. He still shivered beneath the mound. “Could you drink some hot tea, my lord? Do you think it would help?”
“N-no.”
Alarmed, she ran to the Bratchers’ cottage and pounded on it until Mr. Bratcher, a thin, dour farmer, answered. She’d obviously caught him at his supper because his napkin was still tucked in his shirt neck.
“‘Ere now, mum, there be no need fer that,” he told her sharply as he cracked his cottage door. “There’s no deaf uns ‘ere.” He studied her suspiciously from beneath thick salt-and-pepper brows until he was satisfied. “Yer must be the Missus Trent,” he decided finally as he threw open the door wider to admit her. “Mebbe yer wantin’ Maggie—’appen she’s still in back eatin’ our supper, mum.” He paused diffidently and hung back while she entered past him. “Now, I don’t mind ‘er cookin’ fer ye, but I’d as lief eat first, ye know.”
“I assure you, Mr. Bratcher, that food is the last thing on my mind just now. Is there a doctor in the neighborhood?”
“I dunno. A doctor?” He scratched his head thoughtfully. “Mebbe over ‘n Tidwilly. There used to be an excuse fer one there—’if ‘e ain’t been run off.”
Maggie Bratcher came out of the kitchen, still drying her hands on her apron. “A doctor, mum? Why’d yer be needin’ one o’ them?” She stopped at the sight of Ellen’s worried expression and shook her head. “Niver say yer mister’s taken sick—not a big strappin’ man like ‘im!”
“He’s quite ill, ma’am, and in need of a doctor as quickly as is possible. I fear he has contracted an inflammation of the lungs—his fever is high and he keeps coughing. If you will but point the way to, uh, Tidwilly, is it?—I will take the horse and ride for help.”
The older woman clucked sympathetically and shook her head. “We wouldn’t think o’ sendin’ a lady like yourself over, would we, Sam? Yer go on back and take what care yer can. My Jimmy’ll ride over. And let me send some barley water with yer—yer’ll ‘ave to ‘eat it up some. ‘Tis just the thing fer yer man, I know.”
“Yes. Well, I am sure, uh, Mr. Trent will be most appreciative, but I need the doctor as soon as possible.”
“I’ll go meself,” the farmer decided abruptly. “Yer know, ’s possible ’e won’t come fer no boy. Maggie, yer keep supper hot, mind yer.” He put his coat and hat on and nodded to Ellen. “And don’t yer worrit none, mum, if ‘e won’t come. Maggie’s a fair ‘and at nursin’ ‘erself.”
“Oh, thank you,” Ellen breathed in relief.
“I ain’t got ‘im yet, mum.” Bratcher drew his hand back in embarrassment when she sought to pump it gratefully.
Returning to the box, Ellen found the marquess’s condition unchanged. He was breathing with difficulty and chilling in spite of the mound of covers. She hastened to put the kettle of barley water over the fire and then sat down to wait for it to boil.
“Ellen—Ellen,” came the croak from Trent’s bedchamber.
“Yes, my lord?” she responded from the doorway.
“Damned thirsty,” he muttered.
She went back and dipped a spoon in the broth to check its temperature. Satisfied, she poured some into a cup and took it into him. He struggled upright under the weight of the blankets and extended a bare arm out to take the steaming cup. He swallowed hugely, coughed, and choked. She pounded his back until he caught his breath.
“Egad, what was that? I’ve damned near burned my tongue out!”
“Barley broth. Here—’tis good for you, but do not take such a big sip this time.”
“Barley broth?” He eyed the mug with disfavor. “It doesn’t have much to recommend it.”
“Mrs. Bratcher assures me it is just the thing for what ails you. Come on,” she urged as she sat next to him and held the cup, “drink the rest of it.”
Goaded, he reached for the cup. “At least ‘tis hot,” he muttered before he downed the remaining broth. As he handed the empty mug back, the covers slipped to reveal a bare chest. Red-faced, Ellen averted her gaze and rose to leave.
“No, sit awhile with me, Ellen,” he coaxed before he was again seized with coughs that seemed to rack his entire body. When they passed, he put his hand out to her and clasped hers. “And I feared for your health.” He smiled ruefully. “Next time, I shall keep my own cloak. You seem to be a deuced healthy girl.”
“I am—I told you so. But you will feel better,” she soothed, “once the doctor takes a look at you. No doubt he will be able to bring the fever down.”
“A doctor? Dear Lady Brockhaven,” he told her acidly, “I do not need one.”
“Nonsense, my lord. You are quite ill and we both know it.”
“Nonetheless, I do not want one.” He paused for another spell of coughing to pass, and then repeated, “I do not want one. I have never met a doctor I liked.”
“Liking is immaterial. ‘Tis like a purge: it doesn’t have to be pleasant to be effective.” She loosed her hand and rose. “You need to rest and I need to get ready.”
He started to protest and then lay back with a sigh before burrowing again beneath the covers. She moved briskly to setting the place to rights before Mr. Bratcher and the doctor arrived. Finally satisfied with the looks of the main room, she tidied herself up, braiding her dark hair and twisting it up into a knot on top of her head. She eyed her w
ell-worn dress with disfavor, detesting that particular item of the Mantini’s wardrobe. But at least, she had to admit, the rain had shrunk it up to the point where it was no longer necessary to stuff Trent’s kerchief into the bosom.
It seemed like hours before she heard the approach of the farmer’s wagon and then the sound of voices outside the cottage. She flung open the door before they could knock, and greeted Mr. Bratcher and the elderly man with him gratefully.
“I am so glad you came, sir. He’s quite hot and has a dreadful cough.”
“Most likely lung congestion.” The old man nodded with authority. “Best let me see him. By the by, I am Doctor Cookson.” He stood aside for her to lead the way, and Mr. Bratcher tipped his hat before escaping to the warmth of his fire and the rest of his supper.
“Ah, not quite feeling up to snuff, young man?” The doctor approached Lord Trent.
The marquess gave him a wary stare and refused to answer, but his lack of manners did not seem to bother the old man. He pulled up a chair by the bed and began taking out an evil assortment of instruments before leaning over to peer closely into Trent’s face.
“Cough, if you please.”
“I do not require your services, sir,” Trent told him coldly before he was racked with another bout of coughing.
“Hmmmm—I thought so, but was not positive until I heard you, of course. You will have to be bled, else you will be carried off in your prime with a lung infection.”
“Bled? I’ll be damned if I let you!”
Unperturbed, the doctor turned to Ellen. “Do you have a basin, ma’am? It does not have to be large—just enough to cup him.”
“I think so.”
She left and returned with a bowl, which she handed over. “Is this large enough?”
“Excellent. You are not a queasy female, are you?”
Anita Mills Page 9