When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,20

though Miss Maddie is preoccupied with establishing order among my papers, a daunting task. She is welcome here as long as she pleases, though I gather she’d rather we were discreet about her presence.”

She’d been more forthright on that topic than almost any other, though did she raise the issue so that she might bide at Brightwell longer or that she might leave, safely and soon?

“We’re not stupid, sir.” Manners’s ears turned red, but he didn’t apologize for his rejoinder. “Nobody has been off the estate since the snow arrived, and I doubt the roads will be clear enough for us to attend services this Sunday.”

“We’ll have prayers in the family parlor.”

Manners looked relieved, though this pronouncement meant Duncan would have to dust off a Book of Common Prayer and play preacher.

Another reason to resent dear Cousin Quinn’s gift from here to Prague.

“Is anybody else showing signs of illness?” Duncan asked.

“No, sir. Mrs. Newbury isn’t used to our winters. We told her the first winter would be the worst, but now she has the flu.”

Meaning that even with Miss Maddie’s care and skill, the housekeeper might not see a second winter. “Have we sent for the physician?”

Manners’s gaze traveled the four corners of the room, a junior officer inspecting the barracks. “That’s ten miles round trip in this weather, sir.”

“Then the sooner somebody leaves, the sooner they’ll return. We have daylight and sound horses.”

Still Manners would not meet Duncan’s gaze. “Probably a lot of flu hereabouts. Doctor Felton might not even be home.”

“Send the best rider we have, or I’ll go myself. It’s not as if this household can’t pay for the physician’s services, and we do very much need our housekeeper.” Then too, Miss Maddie might fall ill, an unfair recompense for her willingness to take on yet another of Duncan’s burdens.

“I’ll send MacIntosh, sir. He’s from up north.”

Whoever MacIntosh was. “Be about it, please.” Duncan refrained from directing Manners to ensure that Miss Maddie partook of a tea tray.

And to ensure that she had at least two of her shawls.

And also a pair of decent reading glasses.

Miss Maddie would flee into the winter night if Duncan attempted that degree of fussing.

Manners gave the journals lining the shelves one last perusal, bowed, and withdrew.

Duncan started on the biscuits—buttery, sweet, with a hint of lemon, which implied Mrs. Newbury would have the honey and lemon toddies Miss Maddie had ordered. An hour later, he was still resisting the temptation to poke his nose belowstairs—no lord of the manor committed that folly without good cause. He instead perused the journal Miss Maddie had been reading.

Provence in summer. One of his more fanciful maunderings. His fingers itched to take up a pen and edit the words on the page. Delete that extraneous phrase, substitute the Anglo-Saxon term for its Latinate cousin because the occasional two-syllable punch could lift a sentence from soothing erudition to effective communication.

But if Miss Maddie could do battle with influenza on behalf of a near stranger, then Duncan could trouble himself to review another year of Brightwell’s ailing books. He set aside the journal, closed the curtains behind the desk, and opened the ledger book that he’d been ignoring since Miss Maddie’s arrival.

* * *

Matilda knew better than to ask an ill person for permission to provide treatment. One gave orders in a sickroom, and most patients were comforted by that.

Over the course of the afternoon and evening, Mrs. Newbury’s symptoms did not improve, nor did Matilda expect them to. Influenza was a fierce foe, and could retreat only to strike with renewed force.

At Matilda’s direction, none of the staff came into the housekeeper’s apartment, but rather, met Matilda at the door. Willow bark tea was kept hot on the parlor stove in Mrs. Newbury’s sitting room, and the scent of mint, also steeping on the stove, filled both chambers.

“You should leave me,” Mrs. Newbury said, twitching at the quilt. “You will become sick, and you will die, and for no reason other than your English stubbornness.”

“Nobody will die if I can help it,” Matilda said, laying the back of her hand on the housekeeper’s brow. “You are still warm, but not burning up. Shall I read to you?”

“The doctor will not come. You should be honest with me, Miss Maddie. If I’m to die, you should tell me.” Such dignity and such ire lay in those quiet words.

“Who will look after Mr. Wentworth if you die? Who will send him the trays he doesn’t order? Who will