Fortune Said: A Valentine Haberdashers Tale (3 page)

Sissy thought that this was proof enough that Mr. Whitman was an inveterate flirt. She remembered how horrible she felt when she awoke from the fever, and hers hadn't lasted as long. If he could lie there teasing her about being his Valentine when he most likely ached in every muscle then he had a greater fortitude than she.

"Do you have any other requests than the brandy?"

He closed his eyes with a small smile. "Not at the moment, but I will keep the offer in mind."

Without the fear of her patient's imminent death, Sissy took the opportunity to stretch her legs and fetch his drink herself. The hallway was deserted and the deep pile of the runner made her own passage silent. The first floor was quiet as well. It wasn't until she descended into the kitchens that she heard voices and activity.

Dibbs saw her almost immediately. His eyes were still reddened a bit from earlier and she saw a flare of fear. "Is he still all right?"

She nodded. "He's just insisting on some brandy. I assume that wouldn't be an imposition?"

"I'll fetch it."

Grace Dibbs, the butler's wife, came over to Sissy. "Thank you so much for everything you've done."

"It was no bother." In fact she was dirty, tired, sore, and roiling again in the grief of her own family's passing. But then Grace gathered her up in a warm hug. The sort of hug she had known often as a child and hadn't realized she missed.

"We're so lucky," Grace said. "Lucky that you were here and knew what to do, and lucky that Whit was able to survive it."

Sissy felt tears gathering in her eyes but couldn't make
herself push Grace away, and found herself clinging to the other woman. Grace led her to a seat at the large table where the staff took their dinners.

"I have to take the brandy up to Mr. Whitman," she protested.

"I'm sure Dibbs has done that himself. Sit with us and chat while we finish Whit's meal."

Sissy sat at the table, feeling somewhat miserable. "I doubt he'll be able to eat much," she warned, remembering the state of her own stomach upon awakening.

"Whit, not eat?" Grace shook her head. "You have no idea what that man is capable of. We'll be fortunate if we can get him to
stop
eating after two weeks without at least a snack."

Grace and the rest of the staff in the kitchen entertained her with stories and plied her with treats until Sissy began to relax. This was the first time she felt like she had truly been accepted among them.

* * *

Whit opened his eyes when he heard the door. Although he had been expecting Miss Devonport again, instead it was Josh with a brandy decanter and two glasses.

"Good man," Whit said quietly. He was still disturbingly tired.

Dibbs set the glasses down on the table and poured the brandy. Sitting on the bedside, he handed one glass to Whit and clinked his against it. "To your health."

"What's left of it.”

"You'll get better now," his cousin admonished.

Whit sniffed the brandy and gave a contented sigh. "It's the
hors d'age."

"Would you expect any less? It's not every day that one escapes death."

Whit chuckled. "You make it sound like I emerged victorious from facing Old Boney on the battlefield, rather than tolerating a fever."

Josh sipped from his glass. "Death is death, Whit, and you have apparently charmed him out of his plan to take you as yet."

Whit finally took a sip of the smooth spirits, murmured his appreciation, and closed his eyes again. "How is the earl?"

"He's fine, from what I gather."

Whit's eyes snapped open. "Where is he?"

"Kellington. Taking a honeymoon with his new wife."

"He already married her?"

"Indeed. Just this week."

Whit frowned. "His wedding suit would have been my crowing grace. What did he wear?"

"The blue superfine."

"And?"

Dibbs chuckled and described the earl's attire in detail.

"Who dressed him?"

"I did."

Whit nodded, still feeling melancholy. "I would have used the ruby stickpin."

"Oh?"

"An extra spark of color. And it symbolizes love."

"I didn't say he was in love with her."

"Thus even more important."

"Well," the butler said with a dry smile, "if you hadn't been lying in bed all day like a lazybones you could have done something about it."

Whit smiled. At last Josh was acting more himself. "Now we know what becomes of me without constant monitoring."

"As though I didn't already know that." Josh paused and set a hand on Whit's shoulder. "I am glad to have you back. You have been missed."

Whit sought to distract Josh from earnest emotion as it threatened to overset his own peace of mind. "Have you met the countess? What is she like?"

The laughter that question elicited was a bit beyond the reaction Whit had been expecting. "Oh yes,
” the butler said, “I've met her. Shortly before the wedding."

"That sounds suspiciously like there's a story."

"They married because the circumstances of their engagement were published in the society pages. It was... condemning to her reputation. She blamed the earl for it and rode bareback across London to confront him over it."

"No!"

"As we didn't recognize her, we tried to stop her at the door. She assaulted Jim Bridgins and me with her riding crop."

"Sweet mercy! And he married her?"

"Of course he did. Regardless of his faults, the earl is deeply honorable."

"True. I hope he took her riding crop away."

"As do I. I still have bruises."

"You do not!"

Josh laughed and unbuttoned his jacket and shirt to reveal his shoulder, where a mottled purple bruise flared.

"Good Lord."

Righting his clothes Josh said, "I have three more just like it. Grace was beside herself. I was afraid she might hunt the woman down."

"It sounds as though it has been ridiculously busy while I was asleep." The brandy was having quite an effect on him, something he couldn't complain about since it meant that the aches throughout his body were lessening. He settled back into his pillows and murmured, "Where is my Valentine?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Miss Devonport. She said she would be my Valentine since we were trapped here together."

"Now that you're no longer so ill and contagious, I think that we can relieve her of her duties."

Whit frowned. "A mere hour ago you were beside yourself that I had lived, and now you won't even allow me a pretty maid to nurse me back to health? You're more hard-hearted than I had realized."

"Whit," his cousin said in a warning tone.

"Will you never trust me?"

Josh opened his mouth and then closed it again. "I'll leave it up to Miss Devonport if she would like to stay on during your convalescence. And you look as though you need to sleep again."

"I am quite tired."

Josh stood and started toward the door.

"You're leaving the
hors d'age
brandy?"

"Yes. Try not to drink it all at once."

"Won't Gideon be perturbed that we took so much of it?"

Josh came back to stand over him. "No, you idiot, he won't." He leaned down to kiss the top of Whit's head. "Gideon has been beside himself in worry for you. The first thing I did after telling Grace you were awake was
to dispatch a rider to Kellington to give him the news."

"Oh."

Josh took Whit's empty glass to set on the table next to the tumbler. "Get some rest. I will check with Miss Devonport on your behalf."

"Thank you, Josh."

"Of course," his cousin said.

* * *

Although she was still bone tired, Sissy's spirits were lifted by her time chatting in the kitchen. When Dibbs reappeared she stood to greet him but he spoke first.

"Miss Devonport, thank you very much for caring for my cousin during his illness. If there is ever anything I can do for you, please don't hesitate to ask."

"Mr. Whitman's return to health is reward enough for me."

He paused for a moment as though carefully considering what he would say next. "You are, of course, not beholden to care for him any longer since he has recovered from the fever. But he has requested you. I think he has grown fond of your ministrations."

"I would be delighted to care for Mr. Whitman until he is well."

"Then I remain in your debt, Miss Devonport."

"Think nothing of it," she reassured him.

"If we're done being polite," Grace interrupted them, "I have Whit's tray prepared."

Grace tried to hand over the enormous tray laden with food that Sissy was fairly sure outweighed her.

"I'll take that," Dibbs said, intercepting it.

There was so much food that Sissy was sure Mr. Whitman wouldn't be able to eat a tenth of it. It was enough for three normal person's dinners.

"Well, if you're going then I'm coming with you," Grace said to her husband.

"Of course. I never said you couldn't."

The
couple trooped up the stairs with Sissy in their wake. It was nice to feel at least somewhat associated with a family again.

Whit awoke to the sound of his name and was almost immediately enveloped in a hug that smelled like spice and roses. Grace. He patted her back awkwardly, wondering when Josh would appear and demand that Whit unhand his wife.

"If you're quite done I need to set down this tray."

Ah, so Josh was already here.

"Set it on the other side of the bed, I'm not finished by half."

But she did sit back and took his face in her hands. "You scared the devil out of us, you know."

"Did I? Then I suppose I should take up my vicars robes forthwith."

"They told me that your spirits were surprisingly well returned, hopefully your appetite is as well." But she didn't release him immediately, searching his face as though looking for something. He knew not what that could be. She finally gave him a trembling smile and turned her attention to pulling things from the tray to display for him. "Yorkshire puddings, of course. Roast potatoes."

"And roast chicken!"

"And roast chicken," she agreed, her smile finally blooming more naturally. He had told her once that he would marry her if she could roast a chicken well and it had become something of a joke between them. Josh's proposal to her had even referenced it, strange as that seemed.

"Grace, why don't we leave him to his feast," Josh said, holding out a hand for his wife. She rose from the bed and twined her arm in her husband's. The couple stood in an easy intimacy as Josh said, "Don't hesitate to call on us if you need anything."

If Whit had truly desired marriage he would have been jealous of them. They obviously put each other at ease, and each of them lit up when they saw the other enter the room. But as he wasn't particularly inclined towards marriage, no matter how much he had teased Grace on the topic, he was able to appreciate their relationship with the gentle indulgence of an objective observer.

"If I need
anything
? What if I have an itch in the middle of the night. Should I ring you?"

"Whit," Josh said warningly. His cousin knew him well enough to fear that Whit might carry out just such a threat.

"Worry not, I wouldn't want to wake your wife with such a banal request. Besides," he said, turning his attention to the quiet woman who still hovered near his bed, "I'm sure that Miss Devonport will see to my needs."

"Of course," Miss Devonport said with a small smile.

* * *

When the
Dibbses left, Mr. Whitman attacked his food with a great deal more enthusiasm than Sissy had expected. But his energy and appetite waned rather quickly.

"You must eat this chicken," he told her.

"I must?"

"Yes, it would be a crime for it to go to waste."

She sat on the edge of the bed next to him and picked at his plate. "It is quite good."

He gave a contented sigh. "Yes it is.
The
hors d'age
and roast chicken. Quite a good day."

She laughed. "I'm sorry, the hors what?"

"The
hors d'age
. Very fine brandy aged over ten years in the barrel. Would you like to try it?"

"I don't know anything about brandy."

"Taste it. Then you'll at least know whether or not you like it. Although I have to caution you, developing an affection for it could just lead to heartache since we so rarely have any."

"Would you like some?"

"Yes, but you should taste it first."

She stood and picked up the decanter. "I assume this is it?"

"Yes, just pour some into the snifter."

She looked at the clear amber liquid in the cut crystal decanter. There seemed to be many priceless, or nearly priceless, things in the earl's household and she was suspicious this was one of them. When she poured it into the snifter the pungent odor of the liquor rose up to her. It was pleasant and bordered on sweet.

"Now," Mr. Whitman said, "you hold the bottom of the snifter in your palm to warm the brandy. And gently swirl it."

She trie
d, but they both laughed at her awkward attempt.

"Here, let me show you." He took the glass and demonstrated how to swirl the brandy around the bottom. When she took the glass back she was marginally more successful
. "Now," he said, "you sniff the brandy."

"I can smell it from here."

"Who is the instructor?" She laughed and he captured her wrist, bringing the snifter to his nose and inhaling deeply. "Ah, yes. Lovely."

She knew he was speaking of the brandy, but the silly intimacy of him teaching her how to drink properly made her blush
. She raised the glass to her nose and sniffed as he had demonstrated. She would wager that just the fumes from this were more potent than any wine she'd ever had.

"And finally," Mr. Whitman said, "you are ready to take your first sip."

She tipped the glass back and let the brandy roll onto her tongue. And within a moment was coughing it out.

"Gracious!" she exclaimed between hacking coughs. He saved the snifter from her hands.

Mr. Whitman looked very much as though he were holding himself back from laughing at her. "So I'll assume you haven't indulged in the stronger spirits before."

She shook her head, still too overcome with coughing to speak.

"I suppose it's an acquired taste," he said, looking down into the snifter and swirling it once more. "One that I have very much acquired."

S
he held her hand out and gasped, "Let me try again."

"It's not a challenge. If you don't like it, you don't like it."

She kept her hand extended until he finally yielded the snifter. This time she was careful to hold her breath as she took a small sip. It burned going down, as though it were liquid fire, but she managed to swallow without coughing. The aftertaste was sweet and potent. "I don't hate it. I don't know if I like it yet."

"Perhaps that's enough for now," he said, holding his hand up for the cup.

She held up her finger to forestall him as she took another sip. This one went down easier still. She finally handed the snifter back to him. "What would you like to do with the evening?" she asked. "I could read if you like."

"What have you usually done this time of the evening while we've been here?" He sipped at the brandy himself.

She looked at her hands. "I would usually embroider and... and talk to you." She looked back up. "I thought it was important to talk to you. I still remember hearing my mother's voice when I was ill and think it is part of what kept me... here."

He had a distant look in his eye for a moment. "Yes, I do remember your voice. Vaguely." Then he looked at her directly again. "But forgive me, I don't remember what we talked about."

"Oh, just," she fluttered her hands, "nothing."

"Then feel free to tell me all that nothing again, since I was such an abominable listener before."

She picked up her embroidery and sat in the chair beside the bed, trying to be as casual as she had been for the fortnight he had been fevered. It was certainly harder to talk to him when he was awake and responsive.

"What are you embroidering?" he asked.

"A pillow cover." She held up the hoop for him to see.

"That's quite elaborate, may I see it
more closely?"

She secured her needle and brought the hoop for him to look at.

"That's extraordinary. I feel like I'm lying in a field of wildflowers. Where did you learn to do this?"

"From my mother."

"Is her work as exceptional? This is so detailed."

"Yes, it was."

"Was?"

"I survived the fever but my mother did not."

"I'm sorry, Miss Devonport, I didn't know."

She felt tears burning at the back of her eyes and seized her embroidery back a bit more abruptly than she
intended. She huddled into the chair and started sewing again. Clearing her throat she asked, "What of your family?"

"My family? Well, you know my cousin Josh. My father was Gideon's father's valet. He didn't have me until late in life and has passed on some five years ago now."

She stopped sewing. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged
, but his jaw was tense. "We were never particularly close."

"Your mother?" she asked.

"Still living," he confirmed, taking another sip. What he didn't say served to speak more loudly than anything he could have said. Apparently he wasn't close to her, either.

"No brothers or sisters?"

She saw his fingers tapping on the counterpane. Not his favorite subject, apparently. "No. You?" he asked politely.

"Not anymore."

His tapping stopped. "You didn't lose them to the fever as well?"

She didn't trust herself to speak so she simply nodded.

"Miss Devonport, I am so sorry. It must have been quite a trial for you to care for me."

She set her sewing aside as she could no longer see through the unshed tears in her eyes. "No it wasn't, Mr. Whitman. Because you lived."