A Poor Relation (18 page)

Bernard was sitting up on his bed, reading a book propped at a convenient angle by a pile of pillows.

“Is Anne still here?” he asked eagerly as Chris entered his chamber. “Do you suppose she might be allowed to visit me? Incapacitated as I am, I cannot surely be considered a threat to her virtue.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Properly chaperoned, of course! Her mother and sister are here, too. Lady Grove and Anne are with Rowena. I feel somewhat guilty at leaving the fair Millicent to Lady F.’s tender mercies, but she will rattle on about parties—to hide her concern, I daresay.” He tried to convince himself.

“I daresay.”

“It was considerate of her to choose not to tire Rowena with too many visitors.”

“Most considerate.”

“Oh, go to the devil. I know she is no angel. I fear she regards Rowena’s accident as a convenient excuse for calling here often.”

“Be careful, my lad, you are growing quite puffed up.

“Never!” said Chris in horror. He hastened to explain, “I am all too well aware it is my rank she covets, not my person. But enough of the chit. Lady F. wants to know if her embrocation has helped your leg.”

“In order to be allowed below stairs to see Anne, I will say it has cured me completely.”

“But you are still in considerable pain, are you not? Don’t worry, I shall smuggle her in here if I have to.
She
is not like to have any objection.”

“Do you think not?” Bernard asked eagerly.

“I am prepared to wager my estate on it. Not that it would be any great loss.” He described the havoc wrought by the gale. It was a relief to talk about it, even though his friend had no words of wisdom to offer.

When he left the room, Lady Grove and Anne were just leaving Rowena’s chamber. Lady Grove looked distraught.

“Oh, my lord,” she cried on seeing him, “the poor child is most unwell. I do not know what is best to do for her. I was never easy in a sickroom, I fear. She has taken the doctor’s draught, however, so I daresay she will feel more the thing presently.”

“Please say I may stay, sir,” Anne begged. “Mama says I must not trespass upon your hospitality, but Rowena needs me.”

“If Lady Grove will be good enough to give her permission, Miss Anne, I hope you will stay, at least until Miss Pinkerton comes. Perhaps I ought to have consulted you, ma’am, but I took the liberty of sending for Miss Caxton’s old companion.”

“That was monstrous kind in you, I vow.”

“But she will not be here until tomorrow, Mama. Say I may stay, please.”

Beset on all sides, Lady Grove conceded.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“I just want to see if there is anything I can do to make you more comfortable. Your aunt says you are not at all well,” Chris said anxiously.

“I took Dr. Bidwell’s draught, and now I feel much better. Before that I ached all over, much worse than when I rode Vixen that day.” Unexpectedly Rowena giggled. Her eyes seemed very green, despite the dim room, its crimson brocade curtains drawn against the glare of daylight.

The thought of her suffering troubled Chris, with an almost physical malaise. “You will be black and blue for some days, I collect.” He tried to reassure her. “The doctor swears the headache will pass.”

“At least it is gone for now, sir. I feel like talking. Did the wind do much damage in the orchards, besides the branch that hit me?”

Chris accepted this invitation with alacrity and poured out his questions, forgetting Mrs. Diggory who was on duty in the sickroom. Rowena responded eagerly, almost impatiently, scarcely waiting for him to finish a phrase. At last Chris noticed the housekeeper peering in an ostentatious way at the watch pinned to her starched black bodice.

“Fifteen minutes, my lord, and not a moment longer, that’s what her ladyship said.”

“Never fear, Mrs. Diggory, I do not dare cross her ladyship. Thank you, Miss Caxton, as always you have given me everything I need. I will not trespass further on your generosity, for I know you ought to be resting. Just tell me one thing: do you want me to inform Geoffrey—I forget the last name—about your accident?”

“Geoffrey? Geoff Farnhouse? Why on earth should I want you to write to Geoff?”

“I thought, since he sent you your horse, that there must be some sort of understanding between you.”

“We were practically brother and sister. Oh, he did want to marry me when our estates marched together, but we were never anything to each other except good friends.”

Chris felt as if a constricting neckcloth had been removed from his throat. It was the oddest sensation.

“Anne said you have sent for Pinkie.” Rowena smiled drowsily, suddenly on the brink of sleep. “That is quite the kindest thing you could have done.”

“I have tired you,” he said in self-reproach, touching her hand lightly. “Go to sleep now.” He tiptoed from the room.

“Yes, dear Major,” she whispered to his departing back.

“Well, I never, to think of his lordship’s asking your advice like that, miss. There’s many round here’ll be that grateful if you put him in the way of straightening things out.”

Mrs. Diggory felt her forehead. “No fever still, thank the Lord, but before you settle, try if you can to drink a drop of this nice barley water Cook made up for you, my dear.”

When Anne came in to take her turn at the bedside, Rowena awakened with a return of the splitting headache. Full of the brief visit to Bernard that Lady Farleigh had allowed, Anne chattered without requiring a response while she spooned a sustaining broth into Rowena’s mouth. She was dubious about giving another dose of the doctor’s draught so soon, but Rowena’s head was so bad that she relented. It tasted horridly bitter, but as before the aches vanished and after a brief period of restlessness she fell asleep again.

When she awoke the next morning her head hurt worse than ever though her bruises were much less painful. She bore with what complaisance she could muster a visit from Aunt Hermione, who fussed unbearably and insisted on shaking up the pillows twice in twenty minutes. However, she refused to take any more medicine. Even without it, as the day passed her headache faded, and when Chris came in, late in the afternoon, she looked forward to a long discussion.

“I won’t stay more than five minutes,” he said at once. “I had a rare trimming yesterday from Lady F. for tiring you. Mrs. Diggory is a tale bearer, I fear.” He grinned at the indignant housekeeper.

“Nowt o’ the sort, my lord! I’d like to know how I’m to answer a straight question from her ladyship if not with the truth. You’ve four minutes left.”

“And a regular martinet. You look a little better today, Miss Caxton, so I cannot think my visit was so damaging to your health.”

“Oh, no, indeed it was not. I should be sadly dull if I had not something to think of. Tell me how things are going with the tenants’ repairs.”

He gave her a quick progress report. “Time’s up, my lord,” announced Mrs. Diggory, consulting her watch.

“Yes’m.” Chris stood up and smiled down at the invalid. “I have every hope that your Miss Pinkerton will be here this evening, Rowena. Potter had orders to hurry back.”

“No doubt he will scarce stop to change the horses, then. Poor Pinkie, but how I long to see her!”

She watched him leave with his firm, soldierly stride, his upright military bearing. That was the second time he had called her Rowena. It was a slip of the tongue, of course, yet surely it must mean he thought of her as a friend, not only a mentor. And he had come to see her, even though he had no questions for her. She almost hoped the headaches would continue so that she could stay at the Grange indefinitely.

Content, she let her gaze wander about the room. Though it had nothing to do with her desire to remain, she was duly impressed by the magnificence of her chamber. The walls were hung with rose silk; ornate plasterwork in a fanciful design of climbing roses and cupids decorated the ceiling; and the mantel was of pink-veined marble. No wonder there had not been a penny to spare for the land, she thought indignantly.

Her next visitor limped into the room, cane tapping, just before the dinner hour. Lady Farleigh, eyes bright with curiosity, studied Rowena with embarrassing intentness as she crossed the room and sat down beside the bed.

“So you are the young woman who caused all the to-do. We have not met.”

“No, ma’am. You must be Lady Farleigh. Thank you for your hospitality, my lady. It is excessively kind in you to allow me to stay.”

“Gammon! I had no say in the matter—it was all young Christopher’s doing. And then the boy pestered me to let him see you.”

Rowena was annoyed to feel a flush rising in her cheeks under the old lady’s scrutiny. “I have been telling... His lordship has done me the honour of seeking my advice on running his estate, ma’am. I have some experience with a similar place in Kent.”

“So I hear. Most commendable.”

“Lord Farleigh just wanted to consult me on some urgent matters.”

“Ah, that would account for it.” The dowager countess looked as if she did not credit Rowena’s explanation for a moment. “It is odd that your aunt never brought you to the Grange.”

“I... I am in some sort a companion to my cousin Millicent, my lady. I daresay Aunt Hermione thought it unnecessary for me to pay my respects.”

“And now the beauteous Miss Grove does not deign to visit her cousin and companion. She was here again this morning, ready to throw her cap over the windmill at the slightest sign from Christopher. She’ll catch cold at that game if I have anything to say in the matter, for all her splendid dowry. And her sister no better—young ladies did not ask to visit gentlemen in their bedchambers in my young day, I declare!”

“Oh, no, ma’am, the case is quite different. Anne and Captain Cartwright are truly in love.”

“Hmm, that’s the impression Christopher gave me, or I should not for a minute have countenanced such indecorum. And only his need of your advice persuaded me to permit him to see you. Well, enough on that head.” She struggled to her feet. “I’ll not tire you further. Just remember, Miss Caxton, that there are times when knowledge is worth more than any fortune.”

She hobbled out, leaving Rowena to ponder the significance of her last remark. It sounded astonishingly as if the dowager would approve a match between the earl and the poor relation.

* * * *

Miss Pinkerton arrived while Rowena was eating her dinner. She had graduated from broth to minced chicken and a custard, and Anne no longer had to help her. She abandoned her tray with a glad cry when Pinkie scurried in, breathless with excitement.

“My love, how good it is to see you.”

“Oh, Pinkie, I have missed you!” Rowena hugged her.

“So very kind of Lord Farleigh... Such a comfortable carriage... And Lady Farleigh received me most graciously. How are you, Rowena dear? What a shocking accident!”

“Still a trifle out of curl, but much better for seeing you.”

“Rowena is much improved, ma’am,” Anne interposed, curtsying, “but we are worried about her headaches. She received a shocking blow to the head, you know.”

“Yes, indeed, Corporal Potter told me. Rowena, where are your manners? Pray introduce us.”

“My cousin Anne Grove, Pinkie, and she knows very well who you are, for she conspired with his lordship to send for you. You must not worry about my head. It is much better tonight and I still have some of the doctor’s draught to help me sleep.”

“And it is time you took it and went to sleep, if you do not mean to eat any more,” said Anne, demonstrating her newfound nursing skills.

“Oh, dear, I might have guessed. Is that the draught, Miss Anne? May I see it?” Miss Pinkerton uncorked the brown bottle, raised it to her nose and sniffed, then poured a drop of the contents on her finger. She tasted it with the tip of her tongue.

“Laudanum!” she said triumphantly. “Rowena never could take laudanum. First she grows agitated, and then afterwards there is always the dreadful headache. I’ll just pop down to the kitchens and see if the cook can brew up some chamomile tea.”

“I’ll go. You must be tired after the journey, Miss Pinkerton. Chamomile tea, you said?”

“That’s what she needs, mark my words.” Pinkie beamed and nodded as Anne hurried out. “A pretty-behaved young woman,” she said to Rowena, “though I will say I was predisposed by your letters to like her. Now, my dear, you lie quietly till she comes back and I will stay with you until you fall asleep. We shall talk tomorrow.”

Holding Pinkie’s hand, Rowena lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes. She had not realized how much she missed being important to someone close to her. Anne was a dear and a good friend, but for some time now she had been absorbed in her feelings for the captain. Pinkie was hers, and hers alone.

The chamomile tea was soothing, besides tasting much better than the medicine. Rowena slept soundly and awoke with no more than a slight tenderness where the branch had hit her head. Her chief ailment now was weakness from lying so long abed, so Pinkie insisted that she leave it to recline on the chaise by the fire for half an hour.

She was there when Chris came in to see her. The half hour stretched to an hour, and then to an hour and a half as they talked, first about the orchards and tenants, then moving on to a hundred other subjects.

Miss Pinkerton watched and listened indulgently. She had had a long interview with Lady Farleigh that morning. The two elderly ladies found themselves in accord on any number of matters, from the disgraceful informality of modern manners to an elegant menu for an October dinner party. There was just enough of disagreement left (Miss Pinkerton could not, for instance, allow the superiority of the Bodley over the Yorkshire kitchen range) to promise hours of agreeable discussion.

By the time she saw that Rowena was tiring and chased his lordship out, she was convinced that the countess was right on two counts that she had doubted.

She helped her charge’s wobbly steps back to the bed and tucked her in.

“I believe you will be ready to go below stairs for a while tomorrow,” she said.

“I must not recover too soon, or I will lose you again.” Rowena looked at her anxiously. “Though perhaps my aunt will invite you to stay for a little while.”