There was
no answer from Lady Annabel. Miss Fell pulled herself out of her chair in alarm and looked at her. She was sitting bolt upright, her eyes closed, her face blank. Herr Doktor Holzkopf was overcome with raucous mirth.
“Ach, mein gootness!” he exclaimed. “Hier iss die gut lady in a trantz, ze wronk lady haff I in ze trantz put!”
His laughter was so infectious that Miss Fell found herself giggling. With an effort she forced herself to gravity.
“
Can you do something about it, sir? Pray bring her round at once!”
“I do.
Gnädige Frau,
you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“I count to zree, zen I snap mein finkers und you vill avake. Vun, two, zree.” He snapped his fingers. For a moment Miss Fell feared that Lady Annabel would not admit his extraordinary numbers, then her eyes opened and she looked around.
“Are you ready to begin, Herr Doktor?” she asked.
Great was her amazement when Miss Fell explained what had occurred. She refused absolutely to permit a second attempt.
“It seems to be a shockingly unreliable cure,” she said severely. “I cannot think how Dr. Knighton came to recommend it.”
“It vork, it vork,” insisted Herr Doktor Holzkopf as he was remorselessly ushered out of the room by Bell. “It is zat ze junge lady a head ze most shtrong haff.
Ausserordentlich, ausserordentlich!”
He went away muttering to himself.
“What did he say?” inquired Lady Annabel suspiciously.
Miss Fell started giggling again. “I do not know what that last word was, Lady Annabel, but before that he said that I have a very strong head.”
“Oh dear! I suppose that means that
I
have a weak head. What a dreadful little man! I am so glad Richard was not here, Clara.”
Miss Fell suddenly found she was exhausted. James had to be called to carry her above stairs, and she retired to bed with relief. Nothing had been settled, she thought with despair. She still might be a baron’s daughter or a butcher’s. The way she felt at that moment she would bet on the butcher.
When Lady Annabel described the fiasco to Richard, he was not at all amused.
“We might have guessed our problems would not be solved so easily,” he said gloomily. “I beg your pardon, mama, for not being here. I’d have thrown the fellow out on his ear.”
“You must beg Clara’s pardon, Richard. She was quite distressed by your absence.”
“I shall do so. I fear I was unconscionably rude to both of you this morning. The truth is, I was blue-devilled.”
“Is Lucy in a scrape, dearest?” asked Lady Annabel, trying to hide her anxiety.
“Oh no, mama. It is all settled. Pray do not speak to her about it.”
She might have pressed him, but she suspected she knew what the trouble was. She did not feel up to tackling Richard about Major Bowen, even for Lucy’s sake. If Lucy were truly in love, her brother’s disapproval would not change her feelings, and sooner or later her mother must find out. She would deal with her difficult son at that point, she decided, a little guiltily.
Richard apologized stiffly to Miss Fell the next morning. He did not try to avoid her, and willingly aided her still stumbling steps, but their free and easy intercourse was at an end. Lucy’s misdeeds had returned his thoughts to the question of eligible and ineligible birth, and he, too, would now have bet on the butcher.
Miss Fell suffered in silence. Her health did not improve as fast as Lady Annabel considered proper, and Dr. Knighton was called in again. After submitting patiently to a scolding for introducing the German quack, he was permitted to prescribe an iron tonic, which Miss Fell swallowed three times a day with many protests and grimaces.
However unpalatable, the tonic appeared to be efficacious, unless it was her improving relationship with Richard that was responsible for the return of roses to her cheeks. She spent an increasing length of time each day at the pianoforte, and he listened in silence as she played. They were still not on their old basis of familiarity, but every time he saw her he was more inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt. Her sad eyes bewitched him, and he longed to make them smile. She, however, was the one to make him laugh, when she judged the time ripe to tell him about her head “ze most shtrong.”
“As though I were a confirmed tippler!” she said in mock indignation, and went on to explain why the Herr Doktor had arrived several hours early. “‘I mix up mein lenkvitches, iss all,’” she quoted.
“Good God, and we expected that…that monkey to cure you!” gasped Richard, helpless with laughter.
Lady Annabel watched the reconciliation with joy marred by a feeling of lethargy. Her back ached, she could not concentrate on her needle, the candlelight was too bright. Firmly she pulled herself together. Lucy was coming home tomorrow, as Dr. Knighton had pronounced all danger of infection past. She must keep her wits about her and attempt to discover the truth about her daughter’s feelings. Irritably, she wished Lucy could be satisfied with Lord Denham, a most unexceptionable match.
On Wednesday Lady Annabel woke with a fever, and aching in every limb. Dr. Knighton was sent for again.
“It is the grippe, of course,” announced Miss Fell, entering the drawing room where Richard awaited the verdict.
He turned on her savagely.
“More trouble to be laid at your door!” he snarled. “I wish I had never found you!” He flung out of the room.
Miss Fell was shattered. Whatever his mood, he had never before reproached her directly. She wanted to burst into tears, but she was far too busy to indulge in the vapors. She told herself sternly that she could not possibly be interested in the opinions of so unstable a gentleman and sent James off to the apothecary.
Returning to Lady Annabel’s chamber, she found the abigail, Vane, in tears.
“Oh, miss,” she wailed, “I can’t bear to see my lady so ill, tossing and turning so and burning up with the fever. Whatever shall I do?” She wrung her hands, and the question was evidently rhetorical.
“That one never were the least use in a sick room,” observed Mary dispassionately. “Best send her to her room, miss. I’ll nurse m’lady. Got plenty of experience, I have.”
“Thank you, Mary, we shall care for her between us,” said Miss Fell gratefully. “Vane, you may leave, and do not come back unless you are able to be of assistance.”
Between caring for her patient and running the household, Miss Fell was kept fully occupied for two or three days. She was happy to be able to give some exchange for all that Lady Annabel had done for her and, feeling herself to be of real use for the first time, found that she was only mildly fatigued at the end of each day. She had no time to think of her own problems. She did not see Richard at all. He visited his mother only when Mary was on duty and dined out every day.
Lady Annabel was a docile patient. The grippe did not hit her as hard as it had struck Miss Fell and by the third day she was able to sit up for a while in the afternoon. The next day she expressed a desire to go below stairs.
“I think a little music would be good for me,” she declared. “Will you play, Clara?”
“The doctor is coming this morning, Lady Annabel. If he allows it, I will certainly play for you.”
Richard entered as she sat down at the pianoforte. She looked at him questioningly as he kissed his mother. He came over to her, and while opening her music he said in a low voice, “I must speak to you, Miss Fell.”
She looked up at him gravely. “When Lady Annabel returns to her room?” she suggested. She could not read his expression.
“Very well.” He went to sit by Lady Annabel, and they conversed quietly while Miss Fell played. Once she glanced at him and found him gazing at her longingly, but with something strange in his look that puzzled her.
Richard helped his mother upstairs. Miss Fell saw her settled comfortably in her bed and repaired to the library, where he awaited her. He was leaning on the mantel, staring down into the fire. As she came in he turned. He stepped toward her and took both her hands.
“Miss Fell, what I said on Wednesday was inexcusable,” he said painfully. “I beg you to forgive me.”
Her heart went out to him, but she pulled her hands from his clasp and answered with reserve.
“Indeed I forgive you, Mr. Carstairs. It was said in the heat of the moment when you were worried by your mother’s illness.”
“You have been very good to her. She calls you her angel of mercy.”
“I did no more than she had done for me. Less rather, for I am nothing to her, and she has been like a mother to me.”
Richard was silent. He was about to speak again when she turned and ran from the room.
His mind was in a turmoil. Watching from a distance as she had abandoned the role of invalid and become the nurturer, he had been forced to realize that what he felt for her was not a blend of protectiveness and desire, but love. It warred in his head with his pride and his lack of self-confidence until he thought he would go mad. He feared that he had irredeemably offended her and was almost glad, since that would solve his dilemma. He groaned aloud and rang for some brandy.
Miss Fell had run from him because she must otherwise have burst into tears or flung her arms round him. Or both. She had decided that she must never again relax her guard with him. It hurt too much when he rebuffed her. Conquering her tears, she went to discuss dinner with Monsieur Pierre.
Chapter 12
Richard stayed home for dinner. He dined alone, as Miss Fell had a tray in Lady Annabel’s chamber; however, she joined him later at his request, and they played a quiet game of chess. Each had resolved to keep his emotions to himself and to treat the other with impeccable courtesy. Almost in spite of themselves they fell into the easy interchange that had been so precious to them, but now each was conscious of feelings held back, of a certain caution.
Lady Annabel recovered rapidly. At least partially satisfied by the relations between Richard and Miss Fell, she was anxious to have Lucy back under her care and to try if she could to discover how sat the wind in that quarter. A week after her collapse she was pronounced fit (“Thanks entirely to dear Clara’s nursing,” she insisted), and Lucy was to be permitted to return two days later, provided certain precautions were observed. One or two of the London servants had succumbed to the grippe, but Mrs. Dawkins had packed them off home with a basket of comforts, so as not to endanger the rest. The Yorkshire servants regarded them with scorn, as proof of the decadence of London life in general.
They
would not dream of so discommoding my lady.
Lucy returned home on Friday afternoon. She seemed subdued, though happy to be back in the bosom of her family after three weeks’ absence. She quickly resumed her friendship with her dear Clara, but did not confide in either her or Lady Annabel.
Saturday brought their first visitors in weeks. Aunt Blanche came to see her sister-in-law, bringing Jenny and Edward in her train. Richard was privileged to see Edward introduced to Miss Fell, and her reaction was all he could have wished. Taking in the violently flowered waistcoat, the striped neckcloth, purple coat and positively yellow pantaloons, she remarked with a choking gasp, “I see you are a very Nonpareil, Mr. Carstairs. What a pity Mr. Richard Carstairs is not a little livelier in his dress.”
Edward cast a glance of triumph at his cousin, saw that gentleman laughing, and turned back in suspicion.
“I see you are bamming me, Miss Fell, just as Richard and Lucy do,” he sighed. “None of you understands the exigencies of Fashion.”
Lord Denham arrived and bowed over Miss Fell’s hand. He complimented her on her return to health. He chatted with her for a few minutes and then retired to a corner with Lucy, who flirted with him outrageously.
Jenny came to sit by her and regarded her with evident admiration. “Lucy told me all about you,” she opened, to Miss Fell’s alarm. “How your mama was at school with Aunt Annabel, and how you were thrown from your horse and rescued by Cousin Richard. It is so romantic!”
“It was very uncomfortable,” said Miss Fell prosaically.
Lady Annabel, after consulting Richard, invited everyone present, including Lord Harry, who now appeared, and Mr. Geoffrey Carstairs, to take potluck in Cavendish Square that evening. Lord Harry was about to plead another engagement, having no taste for a family party, when he caught his brother’s minatory eye and meekly accepted.
“It will be in the nature of a celebration,” announced Richard. “My mother and Miss Fell are both recovered safely, and Lucy is restored to us.
“I shall broach the ‘87 brandy,” he added privately to Lord Harry, at least partially reconciling that young gentleman to his lot.
The dinner party, after much anxious last-minute preparation in the kitchens, was a great success. As the gentlemen rose from the table to join the ladies, Lord Denham pulled Richard aside.
“Like a word with you later,” he mumbled self-consciously.
“Pot-valiant, eh?” grinned Richard. “Of course, Tony. We shall retire to the library when the rest leave.”
Miss Fell was persuaded to entertain the company with a performance upon the pianoforte. Lucy, entrancing in sky blue muslin, joined her in a song or two. The unmusical Lord Denham gazed at her throughout in uncritical devotion. Conscious of his gaze, Lucy blushed and giggled like a schoolgirl. The young people played a game of speculation, in which Lord Denham unashamedly robbed everyone else to ensure that Lucy won. She seemed to be in high spirits, but Miss Fell thought she detected unhappiness in her eyes and wished she had her full confidence.
The party broke up, guests went their several ways, the ladies retired to bed, and Richard accompanied Tony to the library. Their interview was brief. Lord Denham formally requested permission to address Lucy and, not unexpectedly, received it.
“You gudgeon, Tony,” said Richard affectionately, “as though I could have any objection. You are the most eligible bachelor in town, I only hope she’ll have you.”
On Sunday afternoon, Lady Annabel and Miss Fell went off in the town carriage to pay some calls. Many people had left their cards when Lady Annabel was unwell, and she decided to repay their visits and seize the opportunity of introducing Miss Fell to as many people as possible. Lucy, unaccountably depressed, complained of a headache and refused to accompany them. Her mother feared the grippe, but she did not want to fuss.