When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,21
concoct menus that even he, in his endless distraction, will enjoy?”
Matilda had tried many gambits to engage Mrs. Newbury in conversation: Acquaint me with the staff here. What can you tell me of the Wentworth family history? Who are Brightwell’s neighbors?
Mrs. Newbury had replied with terse answers: The staff was hardworking and loyal. The London Wentworths had owned the property less than five years, so who knew their history? The neighbors minded their own business.
Other questions could not be asked: Tell me of your family. How did you come to be in England? Is there anybody you’d like to send a letter to? To a woman forcibly removed from her homeland early in life, those questions were likely to bring on sad memories.
The topic of Mr. Wentworth, however, had Mrs. Newbury scooting up against the pillows. “That one. He works too much and too hard. Harder than a farmer with no sons. What family lets such a learned man clear ditches and trim hedges?”
Matilda imagined him, coat off, impervious to the elements, his rhythm with a spade or blade steady and relentless.
“Is the estate in difficulties?”
Mrs. Newbury gestured for her cup, which held the bitter willow bark tea. “The Wentworths are scandalously wealthy. Nobody knows how the duke acquired his fortune, but they are awash in money. Have their own bank, if you can imagine such a thing. Mr. Wentworth—our Mr. Duncan Wentworth—is a cousin, and he joined the family in London to serve as a tutor to the crippled brother, Master Stephen. He’s Lord Stephen, but he doesn’t put on airs. They have all that money, and they send Mr. Wentworth here, a scholar, and expect him to fix what became a shambles of an estate years ago.”
Her dark eyes held disdain for a family who’d set up one of their own to fail.
“Is Mr. Wentworth in disgrace?” Banishment was usually reserved for those in disfavor.
Mrs. Newbury sipped her tea. “When we are in disgrace is when we need our family most.” She passed Matilda the cup, along with an inquiring glance.
Oh, no. No confessions. Not when Matilda had learned that the title Mr. Wentworth so casually disdained was that of a duke.
“Which ducal title has the honor of gracing the Wentworth escutcheon?”
The housekeeper lay back and closed her eyes. “The Duke of Walden. I’m told the previous duke was a lovely old man who grew senile at the very end. He sometimes wouldn’t leave a room for weeks, and talked to people no longer among the living. His factors took advantage.”
As factors were wont to do. “Mr. Wentworth has been traveling in recent years, hasn’t he?”
“All over the Continent with Lord Stephen. Not like his lordship could go by himself, is it?”
Matilda had no intention of tarrying in a ducal household, even if that household was at present managed by a cousin. Nonetheless, a puzzle was emerging.
Why did Mr. Wentworth bide here, scything hedges, clearing ditches, and half freezing, when he was connected to wealth and had traveled the world? Why had he offered Matilda sanctuary and what would he expect in return? She was as helpless to ignore that conundrum as she was to walk past a chess game in progress without assessing the play.
“Send Danvers to sit with me,” Mrs. Newbury said. “Or leave me alone. I’d rather you leave me alone.”
“I’m off to the library to fetch a book, though I’ll be back.”
In Matilda’s absence, the patient was more likely to fall asleep, and sleep was as effective a remedy for influenza as anything.
Matilda tucked in the covers, turned down the bedside lamp, and filled the water glass on the night table half full. Mrs. Newbury shifted to her side, facing the wall, and Matilda took her leave.
The staff respected Mrs. Newbury; they also liked her. If she died, she’d be mourned, and the same could not be said of everybody. That not-very-cheering thought led to others: Would Papa mourn Matilda’s passing? Would he be relieved? Both? What about the colonel?
Should she take ship for America and put it about that Matilda Wakefield had died?
The widowed Matilda Talbot, rather, if she used the name she’d been traveling under recently.
Matilda could not afford to let those thoughts plod in their predictably melancholy circles, for melancholia, like influenza, could be contagious. She was building up the fire in Mrs. Newbury’s parlor stove when she realized the door to the corridor had been left open several inches. No wonder the sickroom was gradually cooling.