thoughts. Something to make him laugh.
“You apparently stand quite high in Cally’s good graces,” I said lightly.
He looked startled. “I beg your pardon. Who?”
“Cally, the kitchen maid. She scowled at me when I asked for a tray—until I told her it was for you.” I grimaced. “I must say, I’m rather afraid of her.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So you can bear blood and broken bones in the dead of the night, but the kitchen maid unnerves you.”
“Well, you didn’t see the look she gave me as she put the knife on the tray.”
He gave a small laugh, settled back more easily in his chair, and drank from his wineglass. I let out a breath of relief and surreptitiously tucked my left foot under me.
“Have
you
eaten?” he asked.
“I had some soup.”
“If you’re hungry, there’s plenty here for both of us.”
The wine I’d drunk had made me feel warm and light-headed. And I
was
still hungry. I took him at his word and made myself a sandwich like his. The cheese was salty and the bread tasted of rosemary.
He smiled at me. “So this is your true identity.”
I nearly choked on my bite of sandwich. I gulped it down, feeling the twin pangs of guilt and regret, and wondered how he had found out about my title. But he didn’t seem at all angry.
Perhaps he saw my dismay, for he added hastily, “I only mean that you probably don’t usually look as if you’d been dragged out of a muddy field.”
So he hadn’t heard about my title after all.
I smiled with relief. “Yes, our trunk arrived this afternoon.”
“And how is your head?”
“I’m fine.” I refrained from touching the plaster. “Out of curiosity, how many stitches did you put in?”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve!” I echoed, startled. “Why, you told me it would be only a few.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t want to alarm you. How is your mother?”
“I had to give her drops twice, when her pulse rose; but she took some toast with her tea, and she’s sleeping now.”
He frowned. “Has the laudanum come yet? I sent someone to Bonwell to meet the afternoon express—although I’m not sure trains are running anywhere near on schedule today.”
“So far as I know, it hasn’t come. Mrs. Mowbray is sitting with Mama, and I’m sure she’d have mentioned it.”
“Well, it should be here soon. Has your mother spoken yet?”
“Not a word. But she’s been sleeping most of the day.”
He made a small noise in the back of his throat.
I took another sip of the wine and closed my eyes just for a moment so I could feel its warmth spread through the soft area under my ribs.
“Tell me,” he said quietly, “why did she first start taking the laudanum?”
My eyes flew open. Surprised again by his forthrightness, I said nothing for a long moment. A flush darkened his cheek, and he turned away, muttering, “Forgive me. It’s a private matter. I shouldn’t have asked.”
I was sorry that he felt he’d overstepped, and I reached a hand toward him. “No—that is, I don’t mind telling you.” I didn’t add that aside from Anne, I’d never spoken of it with anyone. “It began when my brother died.”
“You said the birth was difficult.”
With the clarity of a picture, the image came back: the smears of blood on the sheets, the silver bowl, the doctor’s serious face and Mama’s screams, and me being pushed toward the stairs and told to get away, to go down to the kitchen—
“Yes.” It came out a half-whisper. “She was in a good deal of pain afterward.”
“So she’s taken it since then.”
“Well, not constantly. Jane—the nurse I told you about, who’s coming tomorrow—she weaned her off it for a while. But then my father died, and our doctor began giving Mama small doses for her nerves. She’s taken it ever since.”
“And when did your father pass away?”
“Ten years ago.”
He winced. “So you lost him when you were still a child. I’m sorry.” A pause. “I’m sure it affected your mother
“You apparently stand quite high in Cally’s good graces,” I said lightly.
He looked startled. “I beg your pardon. Who?”
“Cally, the kitchen maid. She scowled at me when I asked for a tray—until I told her it was for you.” I grimaced. “I must say, I’m rather afraid of her.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So you can bear blood and broken bones in the dead of the night, but the kitchen maid unnerves you.”
“Well, you didn’t see the look she gave me as she put the knife on the tray.”
He gave a small laugh, settled back more easily in his chair, and drank from his wineglass. I let out a breath of relief and surreptitiously tucked my left foot under me.
“Have
you
eaten?” he asked.
“I had some soup.”
“If you’re hungry, there’s plenty here for both of us.”
The wine I’d drunk had made me feel warm and light-headed. And I
was
still hungry. I took him at his word and made myself a sandwich like his. The cheese was salty and the bread tasted of rosemary.
He smiled at me. “So this is your true identity.”
I nearly choked on my bite of sandwich. I gulped it down, feeling the twin pangs of guilt and regret, and wondered how he had found out about my title. But he didn’t seem at all angry.
Perhaps he saw my dismay, for he added hastily, “I only mean that you probably don’t usually look as if you’d been dragged out of a muddy field.”
So he hadn’t heard about my title after all.
I smiled with relief. “Yes, our trunk arrived this afternoon.”
“And how is your head?”
“I’m fine.” I refrained from touching the plaster. “Out of curiosity, how many stitches did you put in?”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve!” I echoed, startled. “Why, you told me it would be only a few.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t want to alarm you. How is your mother?”
“I had to give her drops twice, when her pulse rose; but she took some toast with her tea, and she’s sleeping now.”
He frowned. “Has the laudanum come yet? I sent someone to Bonwell to meet the afternoon express—although I’m not sure trains are running anywhere near on schedule today.”
“So far as I know, it hasn’t come. Mrs. Mowbray is sitting with Mama, and I’m sure she’d have mentioned it.”
“Well, it should be here soon. Has your mother spoken yet?”
“Not a word. But she’s been sleeping most of the day.”
He made a small noise in the back of his throat.
I took another sip of the wine and closed my eyes just for a moment so I could feel its warmth spread through the soft area under my ribs.
“Tell me,” he said quietly, “why did she first start taking the laudanum?”
My eyes flew open. Surprised again by his forthrightness, I said nothing for a long moment. A flush darkened his cheek, and he turned away, muttering, “Forgive me. It’s a private matter. I shouldn’t have asked.”
I was sorry that he felt he’d overstepped, and I reached a hand toward him. “No—that is, I don’t mind telling you.” I didn’t add that aside from Anne, I’d never spoken of it with anyone. “It began when my brother died.”
“You said the birth was difficult.”
With the clarity of a picture, the image came back: the smears of blood on the sheets, the silver bowl, the doctor’s serious face and Mama’s screams, and me being pushed toward the stairs and told to get away, to go down to the kitchen—
“Yes.” It came out a half-whisper. “She was in a good deal of pain afterward.”
“So she’s taken it since then.”
“Well, not constantly. Jane—the nurse I told you about, who’s coming tomorrow—she weaned her off it for a while. But then my father died, and our doctor began giving Mama small doses for her nerves. She’s taken it ever since.”
“And when did your father pass away?”
“Ten years ago.”
He winced. “So you lost him when you were still a child. I’m sorry.” A pause. “I’m sure it affected your mother
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