against Selina’s forehead. “Should I call for the doctor?”
The old woman watched Selina’s face intently for a moment before shaking her head.
“She doesn’t need a doctor,” she finally said, much to Philip’s relief. He had no idea why he trusted Mrs. Healy’s word so implicitly, but he did. “Perhaps some sustenance for when she wakes.”
He glanced over at the cluster of servants that were witnessing the spectacle, faces agog. Only Mrs. Leary’s face still held unfettered antagonism.
What the hell was wrong with the woman? Philip wondered angrily. She must have seen, they must have all seen, what had happened in here. And what it had done to Selina.
“But –“
Mrs. Healy’s softly spoken word dragged Philip’s attention back to her and though he would have said it was impossible, his sense of foreboding grew.
“But what?” he asked.
She looked up at him and shrugged, suddenly seeming frail and even older. “This spirit. It’s strong. The torment, the pain – it can make things very difficult. For Selina.”
Philip’s heart stopped dead in his chest.
“Difficult?” he repeated past suddenly parched lips. “You mean – dangerous?”
Mrs. Healy sighed and turned a pointed stare to the servants before dropping her eyes once more to Selina’s unconscious body.
Philip immediately followed the lady’s thoughts.
“Leave us,” he instructed hastily. “One of you bring a tray to Miss Lee’s room.”
“Will Timothy be well? By himself?” Philip asked Mrs. Healy.
“He will. And we’ll be right next door,” Mrs. Healy said before turning and leaving the room, giving Philip little choice but to follow.
He entered Selina’s bedchamber and moved to lay her gently on the bed.
She stirred slightly as her head met the pillow, and Philip could have wept with relief.
He reached up and smoothed a chocolate brown lock from her brow.
“I shouldn’t have left them alone,” he said softly as his eyes raked her face.
Was some colour returning to her cheeks or was that wishful thinking?
“She told you to,” Mrs. Healy answered stoutly.
“But I should have been there,” he argued, spinning to face the woman.
Her eye-roll told him better than anything else could have that she found him wanting.
“To do what, exactly?” she asked now, her tone dripping with scepticism.
“I don’t know,” he answered defensively, not unlike Timmy when he was in trouble with one of his tutors.
“Hmph.”
Philip decided to ignore Mrs. Healy’s disdain in favour of finding out what she’d alluded to in Timmy’s room.
“Mrs. Healy,” he began hesitantly. “This – whatever it is. What is it doing to her?”
Mrs. Healy’s sigh seemed to come from her soul.
“Why don’t we sit?” she said, taking a seat at the small table and waiting for Philip to take the other.
“Selina is – special,” Mrs. Healy began. “She is the seventh daughter of the seventh daughter, Lord Breton. That makes her powerful beyond what you, or even I, can fully comprehend.”
“I don’t understand—“ Philip began.
“No, I don’t suppose you do. There are ways and customs, gypsy ways and customs, that you wouldn’t understand. Not unless Selina wanted you to. And even then, unless you’re born to it…” She shrugged as though she’d said enough on the subject.
“But it’s dangerous?” Philip prompted. “For Selina? You said it’s difficult.”
Once again, she looked not at him but through him, as though she were trying to see inside him.
“There are dangers in this house for Selina, Lord Breton. But I think we both know it’s not just coming from your dead wife.”
Chapter 12
Selina slowly opened her eyes, blinking rapidly to clear the haze of sleep.
For a moment, as she took in the opulent blue bed hangings and felt the luxurious pillow beneath her head, she couldn’t understand where she was.
But as she lay there, it came rushing back to her.
Timothy crying.
Charlotte tortured, mourning not just her son, but Philip.
She remembered feeling so weak, so much pain.
She remembered tilting forward and then – nothing.
Tentatively lifting her head from the pillow, she was relieved that it wasn’t pounding as it had been. She had no idea what time it was, or what happened after that rather embarrassing fainting episode.
Sitting up, she took in the darkness of the room and the glowing embers of a fire that had obviously burned out some time ago.
A glass of water sat on the bedside table by her head and she drank greedily. But though the water eased the parch in her throat, what she really longed for was a hot drink.
Though the room was warm and the coverlet heavy, there was a chill in her bones that was already making itself known.