“I should wait.” Mia’s protest was halfhearted but she firmed her resolve, ignored her hunger, and took the three onions that Mrs. Cantwell gave her. With an apron to protect her dress, Mia took up the knife. “I can make the beds when I am finished with the onions, Mrs. Cantwell.”
“No, miss. When he came in Lord David made it clear that I am the only one to go into his room.”
“He did? How insulting.” Anger surged through her.
Mia raised the knife and began cutting, or chopping, the onions, and despite the very sharp knife within a minute tears were flowing.
“The things I’ve seen, miss, they would shock you. Women are forever trying to find a way to hide in a gentleman’s bedroom. Gentlemen are much more direct.”
“I would never hide in a man’s bedroom. It would be too demeaning.” She wanted men to come to her, would settle for nothing less.
“Of course not, miss. You have enough pride not to stoop to such behavior. You and Lord David are alike that way.”
Alike? That could not be, Mia thought but was too polite to say out loud. Though it could explain why the kiss had been so amazing.
Mia wiped the tears and grabbed the last onion. “Tell me more. Please,” she added with a smile that invited secrets.
“One lady hid in the armoire. Another had herself made up into the bed. There was a time when two ladies were both hiding in different places in the same bedroom. Neither one of them came out until morning.”
Did that mean that the gentleman found both of them and sent neither one away? Mia wanted to ask but did not want to betray her lack of sophistication.
She would look through the bookshelves more carefully this evening. Maybe she could find a book of drawings that would explain what three people could do together.
Mrs. Cantwell handed her some lemon soap to remove the smell of onion from her hands, and just as Mia was drying her fingers her stomach growled.
“Eat a meat pie, miss. You can pretend you are not hungry but your stomach insists otherwise.”
“All right. The only thing I’ve eaten today is one of Janina’s sweets. Indeed,” she said in surprise, “I was up at first light so it’s the middle of the day for me.”
Choosing the smallest of the four meat pies, she broke off a tiny portion and ate it. “Oh, it’s delicious. Made with minced pork, onions, and some seasoning I do not quite recognize. Coriander, I think.”
“Indeed? I thought that they would be from Mrs. Henderson’s recipe. She is a dab hand at meat pies. Her crust is as flaky as possible but she does not favor spices beyond salt and pepper.”
“Do you know who made the bread? I should like to send them our thanks.”
“I could guess it comes from Miss Horner. She always puts raisins and cinnamon in her Sunday bread.”
“Miss Horner? Then I will definitely write a note.” Writing to her would establish some contact and then, perhaps, Mia thought, she could suggest a meeting when they were free of the quarantine. Of course it was Mr. Novins who had to act but she would like to meet the lady who had won him so thoroughly.
“No special thanks are necessary. Helping in hard times is what people in Sandleton do.”
Mia took another bite and used a cloth nearby as a serviette. Hardly good manners, but the situation did allow for some leeway. No one needed to wash more plates and cutlery than absolutely necessary.
“Stop eating that!” Lord David commanded as he came into the kitchen. “We don’t know who made it.”
Mia’s answer was to pop the last bite into her mouth and swallow without chewing it. “Do you think the villagers are out to poison us?” Her tone added, “You, sir, have a problem with paranoia.”
“You’ve only had one, I trust.”
“Yes, and I am still hungry, but I will leave the rest for you just in case they are poisoned and have another of the sweets that Janina gave me.” She picked out the biggest, did not offer him any, and put the box, carefully rewrapped, back on the pantry shelf.
Without another word, Mia went to the door with every intention of staying in her room until dinner. She needed a small rest anyway after rising so early. The door almost toppled her as Basil pushed it open from the other side.
He charged into the room and hurried on without a word of apology.
“Mrs. Cantwell. Lord David.” He looked from one to the other. “Please come. John Coachman is not breathing. I think he’s dead!”
Basil had not commanded Mia’s attendance, but no one could keep her away. She followed the other three up the stairs to the sickroom. The second groom was wide-eyed and had moved as far away from the coachman as he could, pressing himself into a corner with a blanket wrapped around him.
There was no doubt John Coachman had gone to God. Mia knew that look at least as well as anyone in the room. The peace, the complete repose of the face, all the lines gone as though he had lost twenty years and was young again. It had been the same with her father and even Elena’s husband, though his death had been more sudden.
Mia stayed by the door, feeling slightly ill, and wondered what had caused the coachman’s death and how long it would be before they all were sick.
“Listen to me, Basil,” Lord David said, giving the groom a steadying look. “Go to the gate and tell the man there to fetch Mr. Novins. The surgeon has been expecting this.”
Basil nodded at Lord David and hurried away.
“What did you say?” Mia left the door and went to stand in front of Lord David. “This is beyond tolerable, you mean-spirited dictator. You thought John Coachman would die and you did not tell any of us?” Mia looked from Lord David to an unsurprised Mrs. Cantwell. “Oh, I see. I was the only one you would not tell. Because you thought I would not handle it well. Let me tell you, keeping the truth from me is what I do not handle well.” She wanted to slap him but had some presence of mind, though not quite enough. As she spoke she pushed him once, twice, and would have done it a third time if he had not grabbed her wrists to stop her.
Lord David closed his eyes but she saw the anger and distress before he hid it from her. “Miss Castellano.” He spoke very, very quietly, in great contrast to her raised voice. “You are in the presence of a man who died in my service. You will treat him with the respect he deserves and stop shouting.”
He was right. Oh, God, he was right. The poor man was dead and she was acting like a fishwife.
Mrs. Cantwell put her arm around Mia and whispered, “It was Mr. Novins who suggested keeping it a secret. Even Basil did not know.”
Once again Mia Castellano was on a par with the servants, the lesser servants. They moved nearer the door. Mia found her self-control and prayed for John Coachman’s soul, for his family, for any sins that would keep him from heaven, even as her hands began to shake with fear.
After a few minutes, Mia left the room. Her stomach was beginning to ache in earnest. She should never have gobbled that meat pie so quickly. In her room she curled up on the bed, still dressed, and allowed herself tears.
How many days had it been since she swore she would never cry again? Well, someone’s death was a valid exception, was it not?
When she heard Mr. Novins arrive, she rose, washed her face, and went to the front parlor so she could have a word with him when he was ready to leave.
She was a grown woman and was determined to be treated like one. If she was going to die she wanted to know the details, every detail, from the man in charge. And that was not Lord David, who had a way of making her feel as big as a peach pit, and as important.
Her stomach rumbled, not from hunger this time, and she rubbed it with her hand, wishing that Janina was here to take care of her.
If Janina was still alive.
Mia sat down and began to sob in earnest. Not quiet tears that trailed down her cheeks but gasping sobs that sounded as though they were being ripped from her.
Oh, Janina, poor Nina, please be well soon. With a monumental effort she controlled her gulping sobs, and w
ith two shuddering breaths she was almost calm again.
Mia picked up her guitar, but only plucked a few of the strings, notes that would be a song if she made the effort. But she did not have the strength at the moment.
“Miss Castellano?” Mr. Novins came into the room when she stopped playing. “Lord David said it would be all right if I came to speak with you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Novins.” She wanted to tell him that Lord David was neither her husband nor her lover and had no right to dictate who should talk to her, but she was so tired she could barely make her lips move.
“I wanted to reassure you. I believe that the coachman’s death was from a head injury and not from the illness that led to the quarantine. The other groom is most fully recovered from his distress, and once I receive word about the well-being of your maid I will be able to release you all from quarantine. That should happen any day now.”
It was a veritable speech for Mr. Novins and Mia nodded, raising a hand to her face to rub at her eyes and clear her vision. “Thank you, Mr. Novins. I appreciate the information.”
“Miss Castellano, now may not be the ideal moment …” Mr. Novins began, quite in earnest. Of course, Mia thought, now when she was so fatigued and her stomach hurt, he wanted to talk about Miss Horner, or at the very least express amazement at her good humor through the ordeal.
Mia did not want to hear one more person express surprise at her ability to be thoughtful, especially in the face of her most recent failure. Maybe later. Right now all she wanted was her bed.
“Mr. Novins, please excuse me. I was up early and am very tired. I am going to my room for some prayer and some rest.”
Mia left the room and made it up the stairs and into her bedchamber before she accepted that she was about to be most unwell. She grabbed the chamber pot, and before she could take another step was thoroughly and completely sick.
In that way of sickness the few minutes afterward was free of nausea. She changed out of her dress, stays, and chemise, ruining the laces of the stays with her impatience, and put on a clean chemise. Mia knew there was no hiding her nausea in a house this small, even with no staff.
Oh, hell, she thought, quite deliberately using the word, I should have stayed dressed long enough to tell Mrs. Cantwell so she could tell Lord David, to whom Mia was still never going to speak.
Mia went back into the dressing room and wrapped herself in a dressing gown the moment before the insidious pain began to build. She pulled open the door, intending to call for Mrs. Cantwell, but dizziness overwhelmed her and she careened into the passage and Lord David instead.
He took her by the shoulders—why was he always doing that?—and as she began to gag she tried to turn away from him.
“No,” he said. “Do it right here on the floor. It will be easier to clean up than if you trail it across the rug.”
She wanted to shout, “Do you think you can give permission for everything?” but she knew what would happen when she opened her mouth, so she bent over and let what was left of her stomach’s contents land on the hardwood floor, not feeling one whit of regret when some fell on his highly polished boots.
This time the retching left her weak and the dizziness added to her confusion. Lord David used a handkerchief to wipe his boots and left the bit of linen on the floor. He swooped her up in his arms and took her back into her room, putting her on the bed.
Mia was well enough in the moment to have the vague thought that this was the second time he had carried her in his arms and it was even less romantic than the first time, which she would have thought impossible.
She propped herself up in bed, feeling better in a sitting position. Lord David left the room without explanation and came back a moment later with a clean chamber pot, which he left on the table next to the bed.
He took the used pot with him and left the room still without saying a word. Mia closed her eyes and settled herself against the upraised pillow as the nausea began to build again. God help poor Janina if this was how she had felt.
Mia endured the torture of repeated bouts of nausea alone, and was grateful for it. It was too humiliating an experience to share with anyone.
She offered her suffering up for any sins the coachman may have committed. It was a very Catholic way of thinking, but at the moment it was the only good she could see coming from this wretchedness. She was in such misery she would not even wish it on Lord David.
Periodically Mrs. Cantwell would come in and wipe her forehead with a damp cloth and bring a clean chamber pot. Where was Mr. Novins? Was she so far beyond hope that he was not even going to examine her?
Sleep, the only escape, was impossible, and she could feel her body growing weaker and weaker. Finally she fell into a state that was somewhere else. Not asleep, not awake; a preview of hell. Death did not seem so bad if it would mean an end to the constant cycle of nausea and vomiting.
Lord David came in once, at least she thought he did. Or could it have been a dream? No matter, it was a welcome break from the nightmare.
He was so gentle, carefully pushing each strand of hair from her face, smoothing the sheet, all while at eye level, as though he had knelt beside the bed.
“Listen to me.” His voice sounded different, too, as though he had a hard time speaking. Still, the command she knew so well echoed even in his whisper. “You are not going to die.” He took her hand and squeezed it, silent for a long, long time. “This will pass and you will recover.”
Gentle or not, he was still telling her what to do—as if he could choose life or death. But this one time she would try to do exactly what he wanted.
Chapter Nineteen
MIA HEARD SOMEONE open the door. It was the most wonderful sound in the world. The blessed click of the door handle was, for her, a celebration of life. For the first time in an eternity of hours she was aware of something outside of herself.
Mr. Novins came into the room. With Lord David behind him. The surgeon came over to the side of the bed nearest the window.
Neither spoke at first. Lord David walked over to the mantel and wound her clock, and then came to stand on the other side of the bed.
“You do not have smallpox,” Lord David announced.
“You are not God.” She was too weak to say anything else. With all the strength she had, she turned her head away from him and looked at Mr. Novins.
“Yes, I do realize that despite being able to command most of this small world at Sandleton, I cannot decide what illness you have.”
She wondered why he was humoring her unless she was about to die. “Where have you been?”
“Here, at least five times. The question is, where have you been?”
She shook her head. Talking took too much energy.
“Yes, you are better, but exhaustion can still take a toll.”
Mr. Novins looked at Lord David, who gave a curt nod. What secret did they have?
“Mia,” David began, “Mr. Novins has a posset that he and the apothecary devised for Miss Horner’s mother.”
Mr. Novins picked up the story. “She grows so weak sometimes that Mary is afraid she will slip away.”
Mia drew a breath. She could understand that. Even breathing seemed like work.
“The posset will help you regain strength, but it may well dredge up unpleasant memories. It’s as if the body is trying to dispel anything that weakens it. Would you try it and see if it will help you?”
They both waited, as though afraid of her answer. Well, she was not a fool. Of course she wanted to be better as soon as possible. She could withstand a few more bad dreams. She gave Mr. Novins the slightest nod and closed her eyes.
“Stay awake a moment more, Mia.” She felt David sit on the edge of the bed and gather her close. “Open your mouth and let Novins dose you.”
She did as he wished and felt the cold tasteless syrup slide down her throat. Mia felt it trickle all the way down to her stomach and thread its way to her extremities in a most peculiar way.
Mr. Novins cleared his throat. She had already forgotten he was there. “Miss Castellano, I will explain what happened when you are feeling better.”
Mia felt Lord David nod to the surgeon and heard the door click shut.
“Tell me what I can do to make you more comfortable.”
“Just hold me.”
He could have argued. He could have refused. He could have patted her hand and assumed she was delirious. Instead David Pennistan let go of her only long enough to tug off his boots, pull off his coat, loosen his cravat, and then set himself on the bed, on top of the covers, lifting Mia into his arms again.
Lying against his chest was the most comfortable place in the world. If death was going to take her, this would be the perfect place from which to leave this world.
“You will tell me if you are going to be sick again? I think it’s over. Mr. Novins said four hours.”
“Forever,” she whispered.
“Yes, I know it feels like an eternity since it started. You must talk to Gabriel about how time is distorted by pain.”
His voice, the way it sounded so everyday and normal, was as comforting as his arms.
“Contagious?” she asked.
“No.” He was quiet a minute and as if sensing that she loathed his one-word sentences added, “Rest now and let me explain later.”
Let me. Had he asked her permission? How very unique. She must be on her deathbed. But if she was, then there would be no “later.”
“Heaven.” It was all she could manage, but thought that he should know the joy of conversing with someone who used one-word sentences.
“Shh.” He smoothed her hair, which she was sure was tangled and damp from her fever. “Rest now, Mia.”
“Talk.” She was almost asleep but was afraid that she would not wake up if she closed her eyes.
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