The Nightingale Girls - By Donna Douglas Page 0,150

maid.

‘Are you sure, my lady? I could finish curling your hair for you?’

‘I can manage, thank you.’ Millie couldn’t keep the irritation out of her voice. She desperately wanted to be alone, and Polly’s insistent fussing was beginning to tear at her already shredded nerves. She knew it wasn’t the girl’s fault, she was only trying to do her job, but what did it really matter if Millie’s hair was perfectly curled or hanging in rats’ tails? Her father was dying. Nothing mattered any more.

‘We must maintain normality for the sake of the servants, if nothing else.’ As grandmother’s stern admonishment came into her head, Millie felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rising up inside her.

Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror and realised why poor Polly had been so anxious to attend to her. She looked perfectly dreadful. Her face was drawn and grey-tinged, eyes threaded with spidery red veins and ringed with dark circles like bruises.

She started to laugh, a harsh, spiky sound that echoed around her empty bedroom and made her feel as if she was going quite mad. She tugged a brush carelessly through her curls. Behind her in the mirror, she caught sight of her bed. The pale pink silk coverlet and big feather pillows looked so soft and inviting, she felt herself drawn towards it. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to sink into its warm, enveloping depths just for five minutes . . .?

She hadn’t meant to close her eyes, let alone fall asleep. But the next thing she knew Polly was shaking her awake.

‘Sorry to disturb you, my lady, but you have a visitor.’

Millie sat up, groggy with sleep. ‘What – what time is it?’

‘Just after four o’clock, my lady.’

‘What? Why didn’t anyone wake me sooner?’ She threw back the covers and leapt out of bed so quickly her legs buckled under her. ‘I have to get back to the hospital – where are my shoes?’ She began searching around desperately.

‘But what about your visitor, my lady?’

Millie turned to look at her, uncomprehending. ‘What visitor?’

‘Lord Sebastian is here, Lady Amelia.’

‘Seb’s here?’ Her brain, still fuzzy with sleep, tried to make sense of it. Why was Seb here? The last she’d heard from him, he was on a shooting party in Scotland with Georgina Farsley’s family.

‘He is very anxious to see you, my lady.’

Ignoring Polly’s protests that she couldn’t possibly meet her visitor with her clothes all crumpled and her hair a tangled mess, Millie hurried out of the room.

Looking over the galleried landing, she could see Seb pacing in the hall. He was still dressed in his shooting tweeds, his cap clenched in his hands.

She stopped at the top of the staircase to compose herself. She might look a complete fright, but she didn’t want Seb to think she had fallen to pieces entirely.

He swung around as she descended the stairs. ‘Millie!’ He rushed over to her, holding out his arms, then remembered himself and dropped them to his sides.

‘Seb,’ she greeted him. ‘This is a surprise. I thought you were in Scotland?’

‘I was. I drove straight down as soon as I heard.’ His eyes searched her face anxiously. ‘How is he?’

‘My father has not yet regained consciousness.’ Millie forced herself to sound calm.

‘But he will recover?’

‘I – I don’t know.’ Her voice faltered. ‘The doctors say he has a chance. But with every passing day that he remains unconscious . . .’ She stopped herself, pushing away the thought. She could feel her fears start to overcome her, and struggled to keep them at bay.

What would her grandmother do in this situation? she asked herself. She would be calm and gracious at all times, whatever she might be feeling inside.

‘You came all the way down from Scotland, you say? You must be very tired.’ She forced a smile. ‘Please come into the drawing room and rest.’ She led the way. ‘Would you like something to eat? Yes, of course you would. I’ll get Mrs Saunders to send something up . . .’ She reached for the bell to summon the butler, but Seb stopped her.

‘For God’s sake, Millie, what’s wrong with you? I didn’t come all this way for a social visit. I came because I was worried about you.’ He put his hands on her arms, steadying her. ‘You don’t have to do this,’ he said softly. ‘You don’t have to make polite conversation, as if we’re at a wretched tennis party.’ He ducked his head to look into her