A Lady in Love (10 page)

"And my other guests?"

"I've seen every person in the house. Those who show no signs—pustules, fever, and so forth—should stay for three more days, to assure themselves they are free from contagion. Lord Dudley Tarle seems especially anxious to be gone, but I've warned him of the consequences if he leaves too soon. After all, we don't want the entire county to break out with it, do we?"

After ringing for Smithers to show the doctor out. Lady Phelps all but collapsed into her chair. “I never expected to turn the house into a hospital,” she murmured. One by one she said the names of the stricken guests. “And then, three of the servants are ill as well, which makes for thirteen people in need of care. An unfortunate number."

As Sarah chewed her thumbnail, commiserating, but unable to offer a helpful suggestion, the butler entered. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but I fear ... I fear ...” Smithers sneezed violently, flourishing a handkerchief. “I regret to inform your ladyship,” he continued in an oddly thickened voice, “that I am about to become inconvenient."

"Fourteen!” Lady Phelps exclaimed, becoming a trifle more cheerful. “At least that is not a number of ill-fate."

"Glad to be of service, my lady."

Sarah said, “You should put your feet in a mustard bath, Smithers, and drink a glass of that punch you sent up to us. And have Mrs. Smithers put a hot brick beside you when you retire. Mother always says that's the way to drive off a cold."

Inexpressible yearning came into the butler's face. “Hot punch,” he echoed.

"Yes, do go along to bed, Smithers. We shall manage without you—somehow."

After he'd gone. Lady Phelps said, “Poor man. Yet I don't feel as sorry for him as I do for myself. However shall I care for all these people without a complete staff? And the twins sick, too. This is the last time I permit Harvey to hold open house. I shall speak to Sir Arthur about it directly. I do hope
he
isn't going to be ill. You've no notion how horridly difficult—” Lady Phelps recollected to whom she was speaking. “Whatever shall I do?” she repeated.

Sarah tried to imagine herself in Lady Phelps’ position. What would
she
do if faced with this predicament? “You could send for Mother,” she said. “Shall I take the message for you?"

"Of course.” Quickly, Lady Phelps crossed her pink boudoir carpet to seat herself at her desk. Taking up a pen, she removed paper from a burl-wood box. “Marissa's never flustered by anything. I shall write her immediately. And, Sarah, I don't want to sound unwelcoming, but you'd best stay away from the house until the course of this chicken pox is done. I shouldn't like you to fall a victim to it. You heard the doctor say it can leave scars.” She touched her own cheek, looking at the smooth cream of Sarah's skin.

"Oh, yes. Mother. Not even a sniffle."

"Good. For I shall need your help at Hollytrees. All those poor people are going to require nursing. Dorothea cannot do it all alone. Run up and ask Molly to pack us some clothing, then you change into your warmest dress. I shall order your father's suppers for the next several days."

"But Lady Phelps doesn't want me, Mother. She said so."

"Ah, no doubt she is concerned for your safety. She mayn't recall your having had the chicken pox when you were three. I do, though. You gave it to everyone in the house, even to Molly."

"I don't remember, either.” Yet, she smiled. It was one more link between Lord Reyne and herself.

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When Molly took the bundle that had been the nainsook dress and her shoes, the maid said all that Sarah thought she might. “Haven't you even sense enough to come in out of the rain, child?"

"Yes, Molly.” Sarah was thinking of the rain, and the surprising warmth she had felt when enveloped in Lord Reyne's arms. She sat on her bed, leaning her cheek on one knee drawn up close to her chest.

"You may smile, miss. It's not you that's got to clean ‘em. If you ruin your shoes this way, you'll go to London barefoot. And all the fine ladies and gentlemen will laugh at you."

Sarah's smile faded. Once more she found herself at Lady Phelps’ dancing party with wine punch all over her bodice. Had the guests been laughing at her? More painful a thought even than that—was Lord Reyne laughing at her now? He had not embraced her there under the trees; she had thrown herself into his arms. Sarah remembered the rigidity of his body and the impersonal pats he gave her shoulder. Pressing her hands to her burning face, Sarah slid off the bed into a heap on the floor.

Molly, turning from the clothes press with gowns in her arms, froze. For a moment, only her eyes moved. “Isn't that just like the girl? To run out and leave me with all the—” A terrible groan seemed to float up from the floorboards. “Mercy! I never knew the house was haunted.” More loudly, she said, “Come out from there and let me see you!"

A disembodied head floated over the edge of the bed, looking at her with mournful eyes. “Oh, Molly, I've been such a fool!"

Tossing Sarah's gowns onto the bed, the maid came around to seat herself on the other side. Blond hair, loose and rather wet, rested against her black satin knee. Molly smoothed the heated temples, as she often had when Sarah was a child. “What is it you've done that's so horrid?"

Sarah wanted to confide in someone. Molly listened to so many of her fancies and dreams; she would surely understand the feelings Sarah had toward Lord Reyne. Yet, even as she opened her mouth to speak, something held her back. With the echo of laughter still hurting her ears, she would not risk even the slightest upward curve of the maid's lips. Sarah straightened, and carelessly picked a leaf from her skirt. “Nothing, Molly. I've done nothing. Oh, your niece who works at Hollytrees—"

” ‘Lizabeth."

"She was very kind to me when I was all wet."

"Why were you all wet?” Molly asked.

Sarah guessed Molly was still trying to find out why she had called herself a fool. “The rain caught me, unexpectedly. That's how my shoes got wet. Everyone at Hollytrees was caught. ‘Lizabeth took good care of us."

"I reckon she'll have her hands full now. Do her good; all young girls are lazy."

"Yes, Molly.” Sarah stood up, pretending to be strong. “What shall I help you with?"

Molly frowned. She was all the more suspicious because of Sarah's exaggerated aspect of innocence. Slowly, the maid said, “They'll be needing extra linens at Hollytrees, what with all them fine folks bedridden, as you say. They'll need to make up beds for you and the missus as well. Go count out a dozen sheets to take Lady Phelps. Not the ones with the lace edges, mind."

In the fragrant depths of the linen-press, Sarah laid her cheek against the cool ecru sheets. A tear was absorbed and lost. Loving Lord Reyne from the moment she'd seen him, it had never until now occurred to Sarah that he did not love her in return. Everything he'd said and done, reinterpreted, meant only casual kindness to a tiresome girl, same as he would have shown to any stranger. After all. Lord Reyne was an earl, trained from infancy always to be a complete gentleman.

Sarah saw now what an utter, utter fool she had been and reproved herself for it. There'd be no more hurling herself into his arms and seeking out his company. Though she loved him no less, an infant self-esteem demanded she behave as a well brought up young lady should. Aunt Whitsun would be proud of her, though she hoped that lady would never find out how foolishly her niece had behaved.

Resolutely, Sarah began placing the folded sheets in a basket. A sob shook her. “One, two, three ...” Tears spotted the second-best sheets. “Ten, eleven, twelve.” Sarah sighed and wiped the dampness from her cheeks with shaking fingers.

Half-closing the door, she glimpsed the best, the finest sheets waving their lace-trimmed edges at her. Quick as a thief, Sarah grabbed a set and buried them under the others, so Molly would not see them. She slammed the press door.

"No!” Lord Reyne said, pushing aside the tray the young footman attempted to place on his lordship's blanketed lap. “Blast it, man, I don't care what the doctor said. Eating in bed is for old women and invalids. Take it away and bring me my breeches."

Fred left open the door to Lord Reyne's room. Sarah, in the hall after taking Mrs. Dealford her tray, paused to eavesdrop. Mrs. Dealford had made no objection to dining in bed, contenting herself with asking Sarah to send up Emma as soon as she returned downstairs. Sarah would not hurry to do the lady's bidding.

From Harmonia she'd heard that Emma had not left her mother's bedside even once during the afternoon, which Harmonia thought monstrous. From outright hostility, Harmonia had swung over to Emma Dealford's side. “No doubt her mother forced her into it. I'm sure Emma didn't want to talk to Harlow at all."

Sarah felt a certain hesitation in meeting Lord Reyne after that impulsive embrace, but she overcame it, feeling he needed her help. Stepping into the room, Sarah coughed gently, her lashes downcast. With a muffled exclamation, Alaric swung his naked legs under the covers.

When he was decent, he said, “Miss East, perhaps you can explain that dining cannot be considered undue exertion. I've been trying for five minutes and all I hear is ‘Doctor's orders, my lord.’”

Stung by his mockery, the footman said, “So it is, my lord."

"I think it will be all right if Lord Reyne sits over there.” She pointed to a rather old-fashioned style of table, banished from the library, that possessed a matching chair. “There isn't going to be a formal dinner this evening, just trays for everybody. It makes more work, of course, but Lady Phelps thought it would be best."

"Oh,” Alaric said. “I didn't know that."

Sarah smiled, laughing a little. “You're not the only one who's sick, you know. There are thirteen of you."

"Thirteen!"

"Fourteen. Smithers has a dreadful cold."

"That's true enough,” said Fred, from the corner where he laid out Lord Reyne's supper. “We can hear him sneezing like a grampus all through the downstairs.” He stood back and surveyed his handiwork. “Will that be all, my lord? Miss Sarah?"

"No, you can stay to valet me,” Alaric said.

"I ain't been trained for that work, my lord. I'll make a hash of it, sure to.” Fred backed toward the door.

"At least find me a bowl of hot water so I may shave. Once these spots turn to blisters, I shan't be able to use a razor. Please forgive me for speaking so frankly. Miss East."

"I don't mind.” Sarah wandered over to look at what Lord Reyne was to eat for his supper. She had not thought the thin gruel and dry toast looked very appetizing when she'd carried it to Mrs. Dealford, though that lady said it was the very thing she wanted. Mrs. Smithers’ attention was less on her cooking than on her husband's wants, as was natural, and the under-kitchen maid had prepared the meal.

Sarah glanced up inquiringly, feeling Lord Reyne's gaze upon her. When he did not speak, she prompted him with a “Yes, sir?"

Alaric could not help smiling at the girl, despite a headache like a lowering cloud. “Will you ever get over this habit of being alone in men's bedrooms?"

"But it wasn't Lord Dudley's room!” Sarah blushed. “Excuse me. I'll just see about finding you some beefsteak—if you want it, that is."

"Beefsteak? Miss East, I am in your debt unto half my worldly goods. I may be ill, but I'd rather not starve to death. Call it an invalid's whim."

Sarah cast one more look at him as she hesitated in the doorway. In the light thrown by the shaded candles beside his bed, she could not see any dots on his face, only the disorder of his fair hair and the strong neck revealed by the open throat of his nightshirt. “I can find you something. It may be cold."

"As long as it is food for a man, not for a Bath widow. Sarah?” he said, calling her back.

"Sir?"

"Why are you doing this work?"

"I beg ... oh, my mother and I came to help Lady Phelps. There isn't anyone else, what with so many of you."

"You've had this revolting disease, then, I take it?"

"When I was a baby."

"Gad, the things one leaves undone through absence of mind. I kept meaning to have it, you know. Well, if you are immune, will you sit with me while I eat? I promise not to alarm you by dining in my shirt. I shall at least wear breeches, if that fellow can be prevailed upon to hand them to me."

She laughed happily. It had just come to her that he'd called her by her name. She all but sang as she went down the stairs. When she reached the kitchen, the tune came bubbling up.

"You're cheerful,” Harvey said.

"Yes, I am. Where's Annie?"

"Gone to bed with the same thing Smithers got."

"Oh, no! Not another one. Who's to cook?"

"Your mother said she'll do breakfast. Mother will make dinner tomorrow night. I'm to create some sort of luncheon."

"You, Harvey? Perhaps I should."

The young heir quirked his lips in his attractive, lopsided smile. “No, no. I shall enjoy it, I think. Father's livid about it, of course. But I always rather fancied my chances in the kitchen. Some very notable gentlemen have special dishes they prepare themselves. I mean to say, punches and such. Why not meals? With Mother's help, naturally."

Sarah could only shake her head in surprised admiration. “Do you think you could find a beefsteak for Lord Reyne? He's frightfully hungry."

"I ... I suppose I might be able to. There may be some of sliced roast beef from the picnic. I know there must be, as we hardly had the chance to sink a tooth in it. I wonder where they would keep it?"

Through the swinging door came Emma Dealford. “Mr. Phelps, I think—” Seeing Sarah, Emma said, “Ah, Miss East. Is Mother looking for me?"

"No, I don't think she is.” Sarah saw Harvey's face when Miss Dealford spoke. The expression passed in less than a finger snap, yet it was enough to clear Sarah's conscience of her lie. Sarah knew Mrs. Dealford thought her stupid, from the way she'd very slowly repeated her instructions two or three times. Let her go on thinking so, if it would please Harvey.