“Yes. I know the man, and it is true.”
The valet’s eyes widened. “Do you indeed, sir?”
“I’m afraid so. Dashed fiend torched my ship.”
The razor hovered midair as Connor winced in concentration. “He... may have spoken a bit pompous-like. But poetical? I’m not sure. I shall have to think about that, sir. See what I might remember.”
“You do that.”
Connor wiped the lingering soap from Nathaniel’s cheek and smoothed on a spicy-smelling balm. “Would you mind, sir, if I looked in on Mr. Lewis myself? I could bring down fresh nightshirts and help the nurse bathe him. Maybe even shave him if she thinks it wouldn’t hurt him.”
“You certainly may.” Nathaniel felt the slightest flicker of wistfulness. Perhaps he ought to have hired his own valet years ago. “Your thoughtfulness does you credit.”
Connor shook his head, sheepish. “I just want to dosomething.”
Nathaniel nodded. “I understand exactly how you feel.”
Margaret went through her early morning duties in a haze. She couldn’t believe it. She felt ill at the thought. Who would shoot Lewis Upchurch? Lewis was a flirt, but she could not imagine him challenging anyone to a duel. So what had he done to cause another man to rise up in defense of his honor? Had Lewis insulted the wrong man... or the wrong man’s wife, sister, or lover? That she could imagine. Still, she shuddered to think of him hovering near death.
Margaret went upstairs in hopes of offering Helen some comfort, but when she reached Helen’s room, Betty was just coming out, lips pursed.
“She’s not there. And her bed hasn’t been slept in either. Spent the night in the sickroom, I’d wager. Poor lamb.”
Margaret had no appetite, so instead of the servants’ hall for breakfast, she stopped in the stillroom, hoping to talk with cheerful and level-headed Hester. She found Hester bent over her worktable, both hands gripping a scrub brush, bucket of soapy, steamy water nearby. She bent from the waist, using her entire body to push the brush over the surface with grim-lipped vigor, cheeks ruddy from the effort, breath heaving, forearms bulging.
“Hester... ?”
Hester glanced up but did not cease her motions. “No matter how many times I scrub it, with salt, lye, soap... It makes no difference. I can’t get it clean.”
Margaret had never seen Hester upset before. She touched her shoulder. “Let me have a go. You’re exhausted.”
Hester nodded gratefully, wiping the heel of her hand over her brow. She leaned against the sideboard while Margaret picked up the brush and resumed scrubbing.
“Between you and me,” Hester said, “I’ll never be able to roll dough on this table again. I shall always have to cover it with parchment or a tray. No matter how hard I scrub, I still see his blood. Smell it too.”
“I’m so sorry, Hester. It’s awful, isn’t it?”
“Awful. Never saw the like before and pray I never do again.”
“Is there anything else I can do to help?”
“Just having you to chat with has helped already, Nora. I don’t care what the others say, you’re a bit of sunshine to me.”
Chagrined, Margaret scrubbed the worktable for a quarter of an hour, then rinsed away the soap and dried it with a clean towel. “Spotless,” she announced.
“Better,” Hester amended.
Margaret squeezed Hester’s hand and took her leave, realizing it was almost time for morning prayers. She stepped into the passage and nearly ran into Connor, who was just coming into the stillroom. “Oh! Excuse me.”
He nodded dully and stepped aside, face pale. He looked as low over the tragedy as Hester herself. But of course he would, witnessing it firsthand, having to drag Mr. Upchurch’s body into a wagon.
Margaret paused in the passage, listening curiously as Hester greeted the young man in low, comforting tones. “How are you holding up there, Connor?”
His voice rumbled in low reply, almost a groan.
“There now. It wasn’t your fault. You mustn’t blame yourself so.”
Another low reply.
