Ambrose asked, “Are you sure you wish to take her to Suffolk, Peake?”
“Very sure.” Peake nodded. “It is a wonderful idea. Both women need a companion their own age.”
“Very well,” he replied. “I have no objection.”
Lottie, “Thank you again for your assistance, Lord Peake. Now I will check on my peonies in the garden. They are an often target of Livingston’s attentions.”
“Do you mind if I join you?” Peake asked. “If Ambrose doesn’t feel as if I have abandoned him.”
“Not at all,” her brother replied with a sigh. “I would like some time to myself. It has been an eventful day.”
Later that afternoon Peake asked his permission to court Lottie. Ambrose gave his consent without reservation.
A brief discussion with his aunt about his illness had resulted in her advice to make sure he didn’t merely have an allergy before alerting his sisters to the possibility of a brain tumor. Aunt Abigail would visit Lord Peake’s estate with Lottie in tow. Ambrose would return to Marcourt with Rose and her dog Livingston.
“I can’t believe she named the dog after my valet,” he said to Chastain the night before he was to leave for Marcourt.
“How does the valet feel about it?” Chastain asked with a chuckle.
“He merely shrugged when I told him. You know the man. Stiff upper lip and all that.”
“I think it is a good thing to get Rose back to the country. She can spend time with her friend Emma and the dog. She will hopefully be too busy to fawn over any more men.”
“Iris says it happens because our father died, and Rose needs an older male in her life.” He shook his head.
“My wife does like to find an explanation for all human behavior.”
Now here he was back in a bumpy carriage with his sister and a puppy. Livingston was a fine-looking Springer Spaniel. Chastain’s father had supplied the animal.
How strange that his friends had such interesting relationships with their fathers. Chastain’s father had been a cad to his now dead wife by all accounts. Iris was trying to heal the breach between Chastain and his father.
Lord Peake’s father had died a few years ago. The man had spent too much money on his London entertainments, nearly ruining the family.
As for Ambrose and his father… They had rubbed along well enough. Ambrose had been at school with his friends, had little interest in three younger sisters. He knew he would someday be head of the family but presumed he had many years to sow his oats before he became the next Lord Norfolk.
It had been Aunt Abigail’s suggestion to name him Ambrose after his great-grandfather. Their mother, a keen gardener, had named her daughters after the blooms she loved so well. Lottie’s Christian name was Lotus, but woe to the man or woman that called her by that moniker.
The dog whined.
“I think Livingston needs to get out,” Rose said.
He knocked a fist against the ceiling of the traveling carriage. It came to a halt. A postilion opened the carriage door. Rose hopped out; her leashed dog jumped out after her.
A second carriage contained his valet, Rose’s governess and maid, and a housemaid tasked with helping with the dog. That maid, Sally, exited from her own coach and rushed to catch up to her mistress. The dog sniffed several bushes beside the side of the road.
He turned away, not interested in seeing the animal relieve itself. They were close to their first inn. He wasn’t quite sure how to work out accommodations for Livingston. He would probably have to bribe the innkeeper for the dog to be allowed inside. A small price to pay to keep his youngest sister happy.
Ambrose walked a bit, happy for the exercise. The shaking of the carriage had made him afraid a headache would come on. It hadn’t. They would be at the inn in another few hours. He had some biscuits and apples in the coach. He must eat something to help keep a possible headache at bay.
* * * * *
“I have news of Lord Norfolk,” her uncle said to her the next day in his shop.
She would not pretend to have no interest in the news. Her uncle knew her fascination with the marquess well enough. “Do tell.”
“He sought a second opinion in London. The physician he consulted agrees that the marquess does not have a brain tumor and has suggested his headaches are due to an allergy.”
The belief of another medical professional that Lord Norfolk did not have a brain tumor hit her like a chill breeze. She felt gooseflesh rise on her arms.
“That is encouraging, surely,” she replied. “Do you have any idea what the marquess could be allergic to?”
Her uncle nodded. “I do. The gentleman gave me a list of items he ate the day of our picnic at Rutley House. I believe the likely allergen is citrus fruit. Although his lordship doesn’t like lemonade, he did partake of some that day.”
“Citrus can give someone severe headaches?” She had never heard such a thing.
“Most definitely,” her uncle replied. “I know at one time Mrs. Jennings used citrus juice in the laudanum mixture she gave to Lord Norfolk. That is troublesome unless she only added the citrus recently.”
“Have you told Lord Norfolk of your suspicions?”
“I have only just received a letter from him with the news about the second opinion. He will return to Marcourt in a few days and asked me to visit him there.”
Her uncle looked at her closely. She colored under his steady regard.
“How bold could I be, uncle?”
He smiled. “You have already taken on your mother. How bold do you wish to be, my dear?”
Her uncle was right. She had wished for a new life and it was upon her. To make her life complete she wanted to share it with someone.
“So bold as to make all my wishes come true,” she replied, and meant it.
* * * * *
Marcourt was as he’d left it. A beautiful house in a lush, pastoral setting.
“Meet Livingston, Mrs. Jennings.” Rose held up her dog for the housekeeper to inspect.
The housekeeper pursed her lips and looked at him as if to inquire why he hadn’t alerted her by letter as to the addition of a pet in the family. Truthfully, he’d had more important things on his mind just recently.
“The maid Sally helps with Livingston,” Rose said to the housekeeper. “He will be no trouble, I promise.”
Mrs. Jennings didn’t look convinced although she said, “Very good, Lady Rose. I’m sure your pet will be a pleasant addition to the household.”
Rose ran along to acquaint Livingston with the gardens. Ambrose retired to his study. A stack of correspondence awaited his attention. A cursory look through the post assured him there was no letter from the apothecary.
He’d felt good the last few days. Since the incident at Rutley House he had tempered his daily exercise.
At Rutley House he’d been appalled at how a day of walking had caused him distress. Goodness knows he’d always been a sporting man. He enjoyed boxing, fencing and riding. This cutting back of his activities was dashed annoying.
Unable to settle, he left his study to check the progress of the stable construction.
The sun was shining, hammers could be heard along with the conversation of the workers. Ambrose walked to where the estate manager stood talking with a man and looking over plans. He knew the plans as he’d approved them himself. Twenty stalls, two tack rooms, the newest and finest materials in all stages of construction.
It was a good day. His family appeared to be happy. Before Ambrose left London, Lord Peake had asked for Lottie’s hand. The gentleman had yet to ask Lottie to marry him, but Ambrose knew their marriage was a foregone conclusion. Lord Peake and Lottie fitted together too well.
And himself? The news he might merely have an allergy rather than a brain tumor had caused him to wish for something he’d never dared hope for: A marriage of his own. And he knew just who he wanted to be his bride.
* * * * *
She’d had a bad dream. In her dream Lord Norf
olk ignored her when she accompanied her uncle to Marcourt Hall. Had rejected her. Camellia awoke, her body trembling. She needed to distract herself. She needed a book.
There was a light in the library. The door was partly open. She walked in to see her father reading. He was seated in a stuffed chair with his feet on a padded stool.
He looked up. “Camellia! I see I’m not the only one who can’t sleep. Are you all right? You look out of sorts.”
“Just a bad dream, papa.” She walked to one of the shelves and peered at the titles, hoping to change or at least curtail a long discussion of the subject.
“Come tell me about it, my dear.”
She turned toward him and took a seat on the floor by the tufted stool. She leaned against his chair as she had done as a child. Happy to be near the one person who loved her best in all the world.
“Oh papa! I am too embarrassed to tell you. Suffice it to say I made a cake of myself.”
His hand came out to touch her head. To stroke her hair as he’d done when she was a young girl. “That would be a bad dream,” he said with laughter in his voice. “Did this dream include one Lord Norfolk?”
She remained still, only the tiniest squeak from her mouth betraying her surprise as her father’s words. “Helena must have told you about him.”
“Your sister was concerned,” he replied soothingly. He said no more as was his habit. He knew she would elaborate on the subject if she wanted to.
She finally said, “It seems highly probable that Lord Norfolk does not have a brain tumor, merely an allergy and sugar sickness.”
“And his illnesses would be manageable?” he asked softly, removing his hand from her hair.
“Uncle declares it to be so,” she replied as she sat up and away from her father’s chair.
She met her father’s gaze.
“Camellia, you may not understand it, but I love your mother. The years of enduring her imagined illnesses have not changed my feelings for her.” He paused. “If you truly love someone nothing else matters.”
“Mother seems much changed since she came to Rutley House,” she said in reply.
He nodded. “She is. I made sure she knows that no matter where you girls make your lives, my place is and always will be beside her.”
His words signaled an end to a chapter in her life. He would now be the one she expected to care for his wife.
Perhaps her bad dream had been her acknowledgement of how much she had to lose if Lord Norfolk didn’t return her feelings of affection. Her wish of a new life included the man she realized she was in love with.
She stood up. Touched her father’s hand where it lay on the arm of his chair. “I think I will try to sleep now. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, my dear.”
Back in her bed, a picture of Lord Norfolk rose in her mind. She remembered the moment she touched him on his shoulder, the smell of his cologne. The way he had teased her and challenged her to take her own advice.
Recollections of their time together made her recent bad dream a distant memory. She loved Lord Norfolk and as her father said, nothing else mattered.
Chapter Sixteen
Ambrose sat in the drawing room of Marcourt Hall in a hard-backed chair, his housekeeper seated nearby on a settee with Lady Camellia. Mr. Simpson sat across from him on a chair similar to his own.
“Shall we forgo refreshment and discuss the business at hand?” he asked the apothecary.
Mr. Simpson nodded. “I think we are all anxious to do so.”
Ambrose glanced at Lady Camellia, not surprised at all that she’d accompanied her uncle today. He knew that if she cared half as much for him as he’d come to care for her, nothing would have kept her away.
She wore the green travelling dress from the first time he’d ever seen her. His favorite memory of her was in the lilac evening dress she wore at Rutley House when she’d been so obviously irritated by the attention Lady Bowles showed him.
He shook himself. The rest of their small party was staring at him.
“I took it upon myself and tested the theory of an allergen,” he said, reverting his attention back to the apothecary.
“That could have been disastrous,” Mr. Simpson replied. “Although you look well enough today.”
He sighed. “The problem is citrus fruits. I took a few sips of lemonade two days ago and developed a terrible migraine.”
“I could have devised another way to test you for allergens.” The apothecary shook his head and sighed.
“I wanted to be sure,” he replied. His gaze once again on Camellia he added, “I needed to be sure.”
“Did not your laudanum receipts contain citrus juice, Mrs. Jennings?” the apothecary asked.
“Not until recently,” the housekeeper replied. “At one time I only mixed the opium with brandy. I added citrus juice to lessen the amount of opium in the receipt. I am so sorry if I am the cause of your distress, my lord.”
He smiled at his oldest retainer. “It does not signify. Now I know the cause of my migraines and I can avoid citrus. I do not have a brain tumor; I have an allergy! I could hug you, Mrs. Jennings.”
The housekeeper started and rose from her seat. “I don’t think that is necessary, my lord. If that is all, I do believe I hear Lady Rose’s dog whining at the door.”
When the housekeeper opened the door to the room it was to see not only the dog but his sister as well. Rose jumped up from her position kneeling on the floor, a position useful for listening at keyholes.
“I was looking for Livingston,” she said at his frown and skipped away down the corridor, her pet behind her.
“That was one of your sisters?” Lady Camellia asked, her gaze still on the spot where Rose had been kneeling.
“The youngest,” he replied. “You will be happy to know I planned to tell my sisters about my tumor if the theory of an allergy was not proved.”
She looked at him and nodded. “I’m happy you would take my advice.”
“And did you take mine?” he asked.
Camellia’s dimple flashed at him. “I did.”
Mr. Simpson cleared his throat. Ambrose had forgotten the man was in the room. “Have you had your exercise for the day, Lord Norfolk? It is rather lovely outside. Perhaps you could do with a turn in the gardens. I would consult with Mrs. Jennings on your diet before I return to Downham Market. It is my opinion you should have little problem in future handling your condition.”
He felt a collective sigh of relief not only from himself but the lady in the room.
“Will you accompany me on my walk, Lady Camellia?” Ambrose asked.
“I would like nothing better. Lord Norfolk.”
* * * * *
Lord Norfolk exited the house through a pair of French doors that led to a small terrace. The marquess preceded down steps which led to a gravel path. He paused and extended his arm. She took it, feeling giddy at the feel of his clothed forearm under her gloved hand.
“You don’t have a tumor,” she said breathlessly.
“I don’t have a tumor,” he replied lightly.
They were silent a moment, the sound of insects buzzing nearby reaching her ears.
“I will no longer be my mother’s nursemaid,” she said as they walked. “I will remain at Rutley House for the foreseeable future.”
“I am pleased to hear it,” he replied. “I like the idea of you near Marcourt Hall. It makes it easier to court you.”
She stopped walking, releasing her hold on the marquess. “You want to court me?”
He turned to her, standing not two feet away. “My parents married for love. It is my wish to do the same.”
“Lady Bowles will not be happy,” she replied, chin raised. She knew only how she felt. He had not declared himself after all.
“I was infatuated with the lady many years ago. Before I met you. Before I knew what real love was.” He smiled crookedly. “I love you, Lady Camellia. Most passionately and unreservedly. Will you marry me?”
Before she could answer, a Springer Spaniel loped past them and raced through an opening in the brick wall that surrounded the rose garden.
“Please say you will marry him,” the girl she knew as Lady Rose skipped to stand beside her brother. “He really is quite good looking when he has more weight on.”
Ambrose merely laughed in response and his sister skipped away. “How could you argue with that?”
“A better endorsement for marrying you I could not have heard,” she replied with a giggle.
He stepped closer, one hand reaching out and taking her chin gently into his palm. “Marry me, Camellia. You are everything I could have wished for.”
His head swooped down and he took her lips in a sweet, soft kiss. When he raised his lips from her own, she sighed from utter bliss. He loved her!
“Yes, Ambrose,” she replied, boldly using his given name. “I love you. I wish for nothing more than to be your wife.”
THE END
The Wish (The Blooms of Norfolk Book 3) Page 10