When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,18
are an eccentric family.
“The current owner of Brightwell was born in direst poverty,” he went on. “My cousin considered himself fortunate to wear footman’s livery, and then had to abandon even that occupation. He is now titled, wealthy, and well matched, and he holds his title because of his fortune, not the other way around. If I say that you are a connection from former days fallen on hard times, then who is to gainsay me?”
She could believe Mr. Wentworth possessed aristocratic blood when he posited his question with such assurance, though a title, wealth, and eccentricity nearby on his family tree was bad news for Matilda indeed.
“Your family situation compounds the problem,” she said. “A sudden rise in fortunes is a natural source of curiosity and begs further questions. Why can’t I simply be a competent amanuensis whom a fellow traveler recommended to help you organize your journals?”
Stay as close to the truth as possible, in other words.
Mr. Wentworth stared at his drink. In his lack of expression, in the absence of a rejoinder to Matilda’s suggestion, she grasped that his travel journals were not something others knew of.
“You cannot be ashamed of having kept a diary of your journeys?” she said. “Your talent with a pen is far above the scribblings of the average peripatetic Englishman.” She planned to leave him and his brandy, his warm fires, and soft shawls in a matter of hours. The least she could do was offer him a few honest compliments before she departed.
A tap on the door had Matilda nearly spilling her drink, while Mr. Wentworth made swift progress across the room.
“Beggin’ your pardons, sir, ma’am.” The chatty maid—Danvers—stood in the corridor, curtsying repeatedly. “Cook said as I ought to find you and let you know that Mrs. Newbury is fallen sick. Cook thinks we might need a doctor, and the nearest quack is five miles off, and with all this snow…”
“Mrs. Newbury is ill?” Mr. Wentworth asked.
“She’s took to bed, sir, and Mrs. Newbury never takes to her bed.”
“What are her symptoms?” Matilda asked, casually setting her drink on the desk. Heaven forbid the help should find her taking spirits with the master.
“Missus has the flu, Cook thinks. Fever and chills, sore throat, and aches. Doesn’t want nothing to eat and won’t let nobody near her.”
“This will not do,” Mr. Wentworth said. “The housekeeper is the household repository for medical knowledge. What has Mrs. Newbury asked for in the way of tisanes and plasters?”
The maid glanced down the corridor, then past Matilda’s shoulder. “I’m sure Mrs. Newbury knows the tisanes and whatnot where she hails from, sir, but she isn’t from around here. We ask at the vicarage if the apothecary can’t help, or we make do.”
Mr. Wentworth’s gaze went to the shelves crammed with books and monographs. “Perhaps we have an herbal somewhere on the premises, a treatise that might shed light on what’s to be done for her.”
“I have yet to come across such a book,” Matilda replied, “and I’ve handled every learned tome, treatise, and pamphlet in this room.” She’d also seen influenza become lung fever and carry off healthy adults in less than a fortnight.
Mr. Wentworth pinched the bridge of his nose, the picture of a man preparing to shoulder one more burden he hadn’t asked for. Danvers stood in the doorway looking pale and worried.
Mr. Wentworth would not ask Matilda for aid, or perhaps he could not, while the quarter moon would rise for the next several nights.
“Influenza calls for honey,” Matilda said, “and lemons and whisky if you have them. Mint compresses, white willow bark tea by the gallon, and salted beef tea kept hot at all times.”
She followed the maid through the door and left Mr. Wentworth alone in the warmth of the estate office.
Chapter Four
Duncan had stayed away from the estate office for two and a half days, even subjecting himself to the company of his neighbors lest he be tempted to assess the progress Miss Maddie was making.
Or to assess her.
She looked marginally better. Rested, tidier. Still haunted but not as gaunt. Still cautious, though her hands didn’t shake.
The transformation in the office left Duncan shaken. Where books, papers, and other estate flotsam had covered every level surface before, she’d freed the furniture of detritus, organized the books, and done God knew what with the papers. The silver pen tray, wax jack, and standish gleamed; the air no longer bore the musty scent of unbeaten carpets; the sconce chimneys were free