Lord of Secrets

by Alyssa Everett

  And David. She could remember him watching over Bridger’s shoulder as the abigail offered her a sip of beef broth. “Eat something, Rosalie,” he urged. “Just a taste.”

  She’d swallowed dutifully, but she had so little energy, and sitting up made the cough so much worse, she couldn’t manage more than a spoonful or two.

  Time passed. Her room grew dark and then light again. The apothecary returned, pressing an ear to her back and ordering her to breathe deeply. She tried, only to burst into a fresh fit of coughing. He bled her a second time, leaving her even dizzier than before. David was present then, too, for on his way out Mr. Cousins pulled him aside, and the two men spoke together in low, grave voices. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, though she caught the words lung fever.

  Could she really be a new bride? She didn’t feel like one, and David certainly didn’t look like a happy bridegroom. He looked more like a man who wasn’t getting enough sleep, tired and worn. During her spells of wakefulness, he was at her bedside more often than not. Or was she simply confused, and her impressions of his worried face part of some fever dream?

  She’d never been quite so sick before. She didn’t imagine her life was ever despaired of, but at one point she opened her eyes to find Mrs. Epperson wearing a look so solemn, Rosalie feared surely someone must have died.

  Chapter Twelve

  Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak

  Whispers the o’er-fraught heart and bids it break.

  — William Shakespeare

  David spent the third day of Rosalie’s illness at her bedside. While she slept, he tried to read Cooper’s Grammatica, but he had difficulty focusing on the page in front of him. He couldn’t believe how rapidly her health had taken a turn for the worse. One day she’d been glowing and happy, and the next...

  He was no doctor, but he’d lay odds she’d taken a chill in that wretched cottage in the estate village. It had been cold, dark and cramped. He’d congratulated himself that by marrying Rosalie he’d rescued her, saving her from her dissolute uncle. Instead, he’d brought her to Lyningthorp only to expose her to some pestilential influence.

  Yes, he’d thought he was doing a good deed, offering her his name and his home, but now—now he didn’t know how he felt about their marriage. How noble could it be to wait until he’d told Rosalie about his past before consummating their marriage, if he was so selfishly determined to hang on to her regard that he refused to confess? One minute he was wishing for her sake that they’d never gone through with the wedding, and the next he wanted nothing more than a chance to start over.

  This was all his fault. He shouldn’t have married her, shouldn’t have brought her here, shouldn’t have neglected her long enough for her to venture out to that miserable cottage.

  And just why had that place been so miserable, anyway? He’d believed he took better care of his estate workers than that.

  There was little David could do to help Rosalie, but he thought about the inhospitable atmosphere in the village, brooded on it, until at last he couldn’t sit and brood any more. When Mrs. Epperson returned with the camphor bottle, he slipped down to his study and began asking questions.

  By the next morning, the fourth day of Rosalie’s illness, he had the answers he needed. The apothecary returned at nine o’clock, and while Mr. Cousins performed his examination, David sent for his steward.

  Edward Corrigan had been one of his uncle Frederick’s hires, but even after his uncle’s departure, David had kept Corrigan on as steward. The man had seemed too capable to dismiss. Rents remained high, and David had only to look about him at the condition of the land, the tenant farms and the estate village to know his faith in Corrigan had been well placed—or at least, he’d believed as much until he’d seen the inside of the Bridgers’ cottage.

  “You wished to see me, Lord Deal?” Corrigan had never wasted much time on social niceties, but David was hardly hypocritical enough to hold that against him.

  “I did.” Sitting at his desk, David leaned back and regarded his steward. Corrigan was a thin, ascetic man with a pointed nose and thinning brown hair. He dressed neatly but unobtrusively, as befitted a good manager. “Were you aware Lady Deal and I recently called on one of the cottagers in the estate village?”

  The man looked decidedly ill at ease. “No, did you?”

  “Yes. You keep the cottages in good repair—on the outside. Inside, they’re not half so inviting.”

  Corrigan frowned. “Yes, Lord Deal, but normally you don’t have to look at the inside.”

  David was so appalled, so angry, that for a moment he couldn’t even formulate a response. Did Corrigan really think he cared nothing if his estate workers suffered, so long as he had fresh paint and flower boxes to admire? Most of the village families had lived and worked on Linney land for generations. And now Rosalie was burning up with fever, quite possibly as a result of conditions he’d created.

  He silently counted to ten.

  When he was certain he had his temper in check, he pinned Corrigan with a look. “I’ve been making enquiries. Those cottages were built to house individual families, but at present some have two and even three families crowded under one roof, each confined to a single room. How long has that been going on?”

  Corrigan’s brows rose. “I don’t know. Since before I came. I believe it was your uncle’s idea, to avoid unnecessary building expenditures.”

  “Unnecessary building expenditures.”

  The steward flushed. “You’ve never objected before, my lord. I didn’t think it mattered to you. You never visit the estate village.”

  He was right about that much. David had never before bothered to get a firsthand look at the cottages, never called on a single worker. He hadn’t thought it necessary, when he employed a steward to handle such awkward interactions for him. He’d imagined he could keep his distance and still be a model landlord, a detached but generous fount of largesse.

  Now he knew better. On her first full day at Lyningthorp, Rosalie had shown more goodwill to the people around him than he’d shown in the ten years since he’d reached his majority. “The coal allowance we provide for each cottage...”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d been led to believe it was adequate for the families’ needs. I believed it justified my paying a lower wage than the other landowners of the county, because I was furnishing a costly necessity. But now I discover I’ve been paying my workers subsistence wages with next to nothing to compensate them for such miserly treatment.”

  “They do get some coal, my lord.”

  Yes, and Corrigan had some compassion. “Not nearly enough. I want the allotment for each family doubled.”

  Corrigan goggled at him. “Doubled?”

  “The estate can afford it. Furthermore, I want an accounting of exactly how many families are crowded together in the village and how many additional cottages will be required to house them properly, along with an estimate for the cost of construction. A fair estimate, not a penny-pinching projection that cuts every corner. And I want it on my desk by the end of the day tomorrow.”

  Corrigan gulped. “Yes, Lord Deal.”

  David leaned one arm casually on his desk. “I plan to make it my practice to tour the estate village at least twice a year, winter and summer, inside and out. I’ve been a bit remiss about it thus far—” it was a wonder he didn’t choke on such a massive understatement, “—but now that I’ve married, it seems a good time to reevaluate old routines.”

  Corrigan gave an abject nod. “Will that be all, my lord?”

  “For now.” David gestured with a tilt of his head to the door. “You’d best get to work at once. You’re going to be particularly busy for the next few weeks.”

  The steward bowed and made his exit.

  One unwelcome duty out of the way, another yet to go. David opened the top drawer of his desk. It was clear enough Rosalie wouldn’t be able to attend a dinner at Radcombe Priory that evening. He’d
have to write to Robert Melton again.

  This time, he hoped for Rosalie’s sake that he was only postponing the engagement until she recovered, not on a path toward canceling it altogether.

  * * *

  When Rosalie awoke, cool and completely clearheaded for the first time in days, her room was dark. She’d slept through another day and into the night, then.

  The sound of soft, steady breathing told her someone was sitting in the chair beside her bed. She hoped it was Bridger, or perhaps Mrs. Epperson. Not David. Anyone but David.

  “What time is it?” she said into the blackness. The words came out in a thin croak.

  The figure beside the bed stirred. “Just after one o’clock in the morning.”

  The voice was low, calm, resonant—David’s voice. Her heart sank. “You shouldn’t be sitting up with me.”

  “And why is that?”

  She couldn’t even say how long she’d been ill, or how many times he’d kept vigil. “Because it’s the middle of the night.”

  “Yes, I believe that’s why they call it sitting up.” There was a note of amusement in his voice, though it was clearly tempered by worry. The chair creaked, and he set a hand on her forehead. “Thank God. Your fever’s broken. Do you think you could eat something? I’ll ring for a servant.”

  Rosalie could hardly bear the flood of discouragement washing over her. She didn’t want to be a worry to David, didn’t want to be keeping him from his bed at one o’clock in the morning. He was supposed to need her, not the other way around. “No, don’t. Please.”

  He sighed quietly, but seemed to take her refusal as ordinary lack of appetite. He resumed his spot in the chair.

  A sudden thought struck her, bringing a jolting sense of shirked responsibility. She struggled up onto one elbow. “Oh! The Meltons—our dinner engagement—”

  “I’ve already written to postpone it a second time. We’ve put it off until this coming Wednesday.”

  She sank back against the pillow. Another inconvenience she’d caused David, another way she’d fallen short. “I wish you would go to bed, David, please. You said yourself my fever’s broken. You needn’t stay.”

  “Your abigail should be here in another hour to take the next shift.”

  “But I don’t need anyone watching over me.” Especially not David. She was the one who enjoyed looking after people. She’d felt needed and loved, tending her dying mother—but once her mother was gone, she’d been banished to Miss Stark’s. When her father had sent for her again, she’d gladly cared for him through the discomforts of gout and encroaching age. Even Mrs. Howard had complimented her on her nursing skills. What possible use could she be to a man like David—why should he want her in his life at all—if he had to look after her?

  If she couldn’t talk him into returning to his own room, perhaps she could persuade him to go by pretending to fall back asleep. Now that her fever had broken, surely he wouldn’t stay just to watch her doze, would he?

  But despite her best imitation of sleep—slow, steady breathing and a motionlessness that had her itching to move her legs again after only a few minutes had passed—he remained stubbornly at her bedside.

  She was so frustrated, she wanted to weep. Why did he insist on staying? He must be bored beyond belief. Mrs. Howard was right—he was bound to regret having married her. And Rosalie couldn’t even say something to entertain him or thank him for looking after her, since she’d foolishly decided to feign sleep.

  At last her abigail arrived, bringing a candle. David gave Bridger a report on Rosalie’s condition and quietly let himself out. Rosalie could breathe easy again.

  She waited until she was sure David couldn’t hear, and then, with a theatrical stir and a yawn, pretended to wake up.

  “Your fever’s broken, my lady?” Bridger asked in the barely audible undertone employed by all the servants at Lyningthorp.

  “Yes, I think so. How long have I been ill?”

  “Five days, my lady.”

  Five days. She’d had one good day of marriage, and five times as many of being useless. “How is your sister? Is she over the mumps?”

  “Oh, she’s much better, my lady. It was ever so kind of you to call on her the way you did. It was the talk of the village, what with you being so newly wed at the time.”

  Rosalie smiled weakly. “I’m glad she’s doing well.”

  “And his lordship calling that day, too!” Bridger said, her whisper a jarring mismatch for her enthusiasm. “The village is still all of a twitter. He seemed so pleasant in his manner, we were that confounded. Everyone says it was your doing, my lady. We were right worried when you fell ill yourself, and so relieved when we heard it wasn’t the mumps.”

  “How often did Lord Deal sit with me while I was ill?” Rosalie asked, hoping Bridger would answer Not often or perhaps even Barely at all, my lady.

  But with an odd note of pride in her voice, the girl said, “Two watches a day, my lady, and his lordship looking as worried as I never saw.”

  Rosalie closed her eyes. Oh, no. What must David think of her now? She’d worried she was useless to him, but it was even worse than that. She was an added burden, a millstone around his neck.

  Eventually, sunrise arrived, and the first rays of dawn filtered through the window hangings. Bridger drew the drapes, illuminating the room in a brilliant wash of morning light. “Are you hungry, my lady? Shall I fetch you breakfast?”

  Rosalie squinted against the brightness. “Yes, that’s a good idea, Bridger. Thank you.”

  The abigail bobbed a curtsey and withdrew. As soon as the door closed behind her, Rosalie slipped out of bed.

  A wave of dizziness blindsided her. She steadied herself with a hand on the mantelpiece until the feeling passed, then continued unsteadily to her wardrobe.

  She wasn’t going to stay in bed another minute, being tended like a helpless invalid. That visit to the estate village had been the only thing she’d accomplished since coming to Lyningthorp. Rummaging through the shelves, she chose short stays and a front-fastening gown. It wasn’t her most becoming dress, but at least she could struggle into it unassisted.

  Even the minor exertion of donning her clothes and a pair of half boots left her so drained she had to sit down and gather her energy. Still, at least she was dressed and no longer feverish. She would go downstairs to pick up where she’d left off, and David would see how resilient and helpful she could be.

  Light-headed, she ventured out of her room to the carpeted corridor. Perhaps she could pay another call in the estate village, or—or tour the kitchens, or plan the week’s menus with Mrs. Epperson, or go out into the garden to cut flowers and arrange them. There had to be any number of ways she could make herself useful. She rounded a corner to the stairs, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. She’d feel stronger as soon as she ate some breakfast.

  At the top of the stairs she paused with one hand on the banister. It was a perfectly ordinary staircase, just a short flight down to the first landing, but in her current dizzy state it yawned before her, as steep and daunting as the Matterhorn. She tightened her grip on the wooden railing and started down.

  A strong hand caught her about the arm—and just in time, too, for as she took the first step, her wobbly knees threatened to give out under her, and she would have stumbled and fallen if not for David’s support. For one terrified instant, she had a vision of herself plunging headfirst down the staircase.

  “What are you doing out of bed?” he demanded, his face pinched with alarm.

  Flustered at his tone, she gaped up at him, clinging to his coat sleeve for balance. “I—I’m—”

  At her blank look, he swore softly and swung her up into his arms. “Where is that abigail of yours?” He started toward her room. “For God’s sake, do you have any idea how worried everyone has been? What on earth possessed you to go creeping about alone when you’ve been so ill?”

  “Bridger went down to fetch my breakfast.” Crushe
d against his chest, her voice weak and miserable, she wasn’t sure whether he could even hear her. “And I haven’t been that ill.”

  “You’ve been doing a curst good imitation of it.” Shouldering his way into her bedroom, he deposited her bodily on the bed, returning her with so little ceremony she dropped like a sack of flour on the feather mattress.

  Rosalie sat up. “I don’t want to stay here! If you won’t let me do something helpful, what use am I?” She never lost her temper, never answered anyone sharply. She should have thanked him for saving her from breaking her neck on the stairs. To her surprise, however, she’d lashed out in rebellion.

  He took a step backward, his brows climbing. “What do you mean, what use are you? You’re my wife.”

  The fever must have affected her temper, for she wanted to snap Oh, really? Then why did I spend my wedding night alone? She bit back the retort—but still answered with unaccustomed heat. “Some wife! I’m little better than an invalid.”

  He frowned. “You’ve been ill, but it’s not as if anyone blames you for it.”

  Conveniently forgetting he’d spent the better part of the past week keeping watch at her bedside, she raged, “No, you’ve probably been thankful to have me out of the way! At least I’m less of a bother, confined to my room.”

  His brows came down in a puzzled scowl. “I never said you were a bother.”

  “You never said I wasn’t.” Good Lord, what was wrong with her? She sounded like a fishwife. No wonder he was staring at her as if he’d never seen her before. Even she didn’t recognize herself. But for some reason—her bewildering wedding night, her recent illness, the disastrous start she’d made of their marriage—she was shaking with indignation.

  “Well, then, I’m saying it now,” David told her.

  “You don’t want me. You treat me like a child.” And she was behaving like a child. She could hear it, feel it, but she couldn’t stop herself.