Sneaking into a room was a procedure he had adopted in order to monitor his mother's behavior. In her later years, when her hold on reality had become weaker and her actions less comprehensible, she had also become secretive. She would dart about for hours on end, hiding little things in her clothing, like bits of ribbon or full spools of thread or inkpots, creating havoc for the maids on wash day.
Near the end she had taken to saving bits of food in her napkin, but she had never consumed them in her room later. She had kept the food bits in her jewelry case, among her diamonds and rubies and sapphires. She had not liked it when the food bits were taken away, and so Gideon had learned to sneak in and clean them out when her maid was bathing her. He had never concluded why Mama had hoarded rinds of ham and broken biscuits and spoonfuls of butter, nor why they had been prized along with her jewels, but Mama had clearly had some unfathomable and persistent intent in mind.
He had learned to quietly follow her, since he was, what, only eight or nine? At first it had been to shield her from Papa's unkindnesses, his blustering and roaring and condemning words. Later it had been to shield her from doing harm to herself or the household.
In her last year of life, he had shadowed her frequently, in utter silence, hidden from her sight lest she howl her outrage at being "followed by fools and sycophants" or some other unjustified accusation.
Especially in those increasingly rare times when she left her room, he had learned to observe her at her odd and covert little tasks. He could not count the number of times he had restored keys to their hooks, caps to their owners, and asked the maids to re-sew buttons to garments that had been plucked clean by Mama's busy, nervous fingers.
He had been careful never to startle her, for that only brought on hours of shrieks, but to silently follow and observe what difficulty she was currently engaged in creating.
He could almost smile at some of his memories, such as the time he had discovered her painting every inch of unclothed skin, using the contents of her rouge pot. She had laughed and called herself a red Indian, and then an hour later demanded to know who had left her out in the sun so long as to burn. And once he had found her in the attics, wearing so many layers of old, stored clothes that she could hardly move, let alone don more as she was attempting to do when he had caught up to her.
"Ah, Gideon," she had greeted him cheerfully. "You are just in time to help me with my presentation gown. I am off today to be presented to the queen, you know."
"Yes, Mama," he had answered, also with a smile, a sadder, wiser smile than hers. He had taken off the layers one by one, down to her night rail, and had somehow persuaded her that he was removing fine ermine robes, that she not be prettier or dressed more exquisitely than the queen, for that would never do, she had agreed.
Mama had not been "right" for years, and each encroaching year had taken her further from her sons. Gideon's youngest brother, Sebastian, did not remember a time when Mama had been well enough to sit at the family table. Sebastian remembered only a woman who spent a great deal of time in her room when she wasn't wandering aimlessly, and a great deal of time weeping inconsolably. Poor Mama. At least her growing infirmity had taken her further from the reach of her intolerant husband's scorn and loathing.
Despite its being a pattern revisited, and in his experience necessary, when Gideon put his hand to Elizabeth's door, he felt a flurry of qualms. He squashed them ruthlessly and knocked once upon the door, quickly pushing it open. Well-oiled hinges scarcely made a sound, even while he considered that it was one thing to make free with the privacy of his poor, addled mother, and another to enter virtually unannounced the room of a guest, howsoever reluctant a one. And a female at that. What if he interrupted a private moment, for pity's sake?
But, then again, that was what he had hoped to do: to catch her at a natural moment, just as he had hoped to do the other morning. And so he had, for she had been sleeping at the end of her bed. He still wondered why .. . but the wondering took no thought, no energy, for he had long since realized that there were some questions that would never receive a rational answer.
Elizabeth had her back to the door, which he had not expected. He had only anticipated a moment to observe her before she chastised him for entering still too abruptly. She sat on the opposite edge of the bed in her night rail, her feet presumably on the floor before her. She had obviously mistaken his knock for that of a maid, for she was not quick to turn about. "Enter,"
she said over her shoulder, her attention focused on her feet. Her feet?
"It is Greyleigh."
Elizabeth twisted at the waist, shooting him a quick glance. She twisted the other way, snagging up the dressing gown she had worn just yesterday to meet with the parish ladies. "Did you require something?" she asked from over her shoulder.
He took the canes from where they were tucked under his arm. "I have brought you these."
She faced him once more as she belted the dressing gown around her waist. "Oh," she said, and had the grace to blush at her less than gracious greeting. "Thank you." She did not stand, but she stretched out a receiving hand in his direction.
Gideon crossed the distance between them, but he did not hand over the canes at once. "You probably should not use them much, if at all. It seems clear your foot would heal sooner if you did not disturb it by trying to get about."
'Two weeks in bed would drive me mad," she said, and then her gaze met his directly as it must have occurred to her what she had said.
He merely smiled in return, a general, pleasant sort of smile. "We cannot have that then, can we, since your nerves are so recently restored?"
She made a small derisive noise. "I know you do not believe my claims of mental well-being," she said, taking the canes as he handed them to her. She gripped one in each hand, and tested their stoutness by leaning onto them. She looked up at him. "But I assure you yet again that I possess all my wits and am not of a nervous sort."
He nodded reassuringly, even if he could not quite verbally agree, but she missed the nod as she attempted to stand, using the canes.
A smile broke across her face as she took a hop forward then steadied herself with the canes. "Oh yes, these will suit nicely."
"Good. It was clear you were not one to lie abed, and would need some manner of getting about. It might be possible to locate a bath chair as well, should you want—"
"These will do," she cut him off, shaking her head, clearly not wishing to be any more of a bother to him.
"You really must not try the stairs." He spoke softly, but he allowed an edge of command into his voice.
She made a face. "No, I suppose not. I had hopes of utterly escaping the mortification of being carried about in a chair, but I suppose the stairs are beyond my limited abilities just yet."
As though to prove the point, she overbalanced, lunging forward into several quick hops on her left foot. Gideon put out his hands, grasping her upper arms. Between them they managed to keep her from falling onto her nose. He helped to right her, his hands still on her arms.
"Thank you. I suppose this only goes to show that I ought not take the stairs," she said with a shy smile and the beginnings of a blush.
"I suppose it does," he said, feeling a responding smile tug at his lips. His hands lingered a moment longer on her arms, then he thought to release her, and took a step back.
"My lord," she said, changing the subject, "am I allowed to request paper and ink?" She executed a smooth pivot that turned her back toward the bed, half facing away from him.
"Certainly. Is there someone to whom you wish to write?"
She gave a small laugh that dismissed his unsubtle attempt to extract further information from or about her. Or perhaps, as he had ascertained, she truly did not know her own surname or where she lived, such details lost in a clever but confused mind. She might have given the small laugh as a mask. Mama had done that sometimes: laughing to hide that she did not really comprehend the events going on around her.
Although, admittedly, it was becoming increasingly difficult to recall that Elizabeth must suffer from at least some form of dementia, or at least nerves. She seemed rather accomplished in her conversation, at least when it was one-to-one. It was mostly in groups that she became vague. But, perhaps like many people, groups were intimidating for her. Perhaps it was a profusion of persons or voices that overwhelmed or confused Elizabeth.
"Yes, I wish to write a letter," she answered his question, "but not for myself. One of your maids has asked if I would write a missive for her, to send to her mama."
Gideon frowned very briefly. "You need not be hesitant to ask for such simple things home. I would have hoped you are at your beckoning."
One hates to presume."
Please, presume you are my guest, Elizabeth"
There was something in his voice, something inviting, that made her shiver, as if unseen fingers had trailed along her nape. To cover the gesture, she charged into the first think to ask. "Is there common paper for the and where would I find it?"
He waved away the first part of the question "I my servants wish to use my foolscap. It is all cast in a in the table in the front hall I will tell my butler. Frick, and he will have some sent up to you."
"That is not very cost-accounting of you," she teased gently, but he thought there was no real censure in her words. "And this after I saw you poring over your account books."
I do like to know where my money is spent," he said with a deliberately prim tone, "but it does not follow that I do not therefore care to spend it"
He had made her laugh, as he had meant to do. He almost chuckled with her; but something in her laughter stopped him, or rather he stopped to hear the something in her laughter. It not musical or unique or anything else, but just fine, good laughter that did something unexpected in the vicinity of his breastbone, so sharp and pleasant that he almost gasped aloud from the sensation. He had made her laugh. And it had felt good, marvelous even, and it made his ears ring just a bit now, as if they strained to hear the sound again.
"I should go. I must go," he said, sounding a bit breathless, much to his further surprise. He backed up, nearly to the door of her room.
"Do you go again to your club? So early in the day?"
Yes. Er. no. I was going to return Lady Sees's call. Do the polite thing, you see. Keep up the neighborly connections and all."
"I see". Elizabeth said. She tilted her head a little on one side, obviously perplexed by his sudden retreat. "Well, give her my best, please."
"I will." Gideon bowed and turned, all in one motion, and was out of her door and closing it almost before the words were out of his mouth.
Whatever had got into him, he wondered with a sense of consternation as he turned to find the stairs. He had acted like a moonling in there, and although he had been accused of as much a thousand times, he still could not make sense of his own sudden need to be quit of Elizabeth's company . .. well, not her company, not really. Quit of her room then, her nearness, the strange effect she'd had on him.
"Damn me!" Gideon said on a hearty sigh, not sure why he ought to be damned, but feeling as though he'd just escaped the fire all the same.
Elizabeth stared at the door Lord Greyleigh had just exited, and experienced a shiver that shook her all the way down to her injured heel. She sucked in her breath in response, and only then realized she'd been living on half breaths since he had touched her arms.
What had happened? Nothing had happened. And yet... she'd felt a tingle start in her arms, and it had traveled to her nether regions, to all the little curves and corners that she had until only recently scarcely known her body possessed.
She put a hand to her cheek, not surprised to find it warm. That was the problem, of course. She had moved too much while coming down with a fever. She had noticed she felt too warm earlier, upon awakening, and when she had swung her feet over the side of the bed, it had been painful to do so. One quick glance had told her that her right heel was swollen and red.
It was to be expected, this inflammation. It happened with most deep wounds, of course. She would have to ask a maid to help her change the bandage frequently, and if the swelling did not reverse soon, she would have to have lint dipped in vinegar placed on the rankled wound.
But all that would have to wait, especially now she had the canes Lord Greyleigh had so kindly brought her. First she needed to write that letter for the maid, Jeannie, and in return she would ask Jeannie if there was a place in Severn's Well where one might sell one's jewels. Elizabeth would ask Lord Greyleigh the same, if it came to that, but she would rather he not know the nature or extent of her finances, since he had never given any evidence that he even knew her jewels existed. Some maid had no doubt found them and put them in the drawer, and must have neglected to report their existence to the master. Which circumstance suited Elizabeth well enough. She sat back on the bed and reached for the bellpull.
As Gideon tossed his driving gloves atop the front hall table, he noted the folded letter beside Frick's salver, the latter of which was used only for letters that were incoming. The new letter sat atop two of his own outgoing ones. The topmost letter was facedown, so that he could note the wafer sealing it rather than his own usual dollop of stamped wax.
He picked up the missive and quickly took in the direction written on it: "Mrs. Henry Powter, Shaftesbury, Dorsetshire." The hand was decidedly feminine, and unfamiliar, but it was no great work to realize that Elizabeth had indeed penned a letter for one of his maids.
It was kind of her to do so, Gideon thought absently as he tossed the letter once more beside the salver, atop the two he had placed there before going to call on Lady Sees. Powter, he thought, Jeannie Powter. Gideon knew the name from the accounts he kept, knew she was the maid nearing her time, almost ready to be delivered of her child. He wondered what she had told her family ... but there was no need to wonder, for Elizabeth would know, since she had penned the letter.