“You owe me nothing. It was my ... well, not pleasure, exactly, but I was certainly glad to help. I like to be useful.”
“And so you were. Truly. I appreciate it more than you know.”
He made to reach for her hand, then shifted his hat into that hand instead.
When they returned to Painswick Court, Anne bid him good day. She was eager to return to her patient, hoping Lady Celia had fared well during her absence.
She went upstairs and was pleased to find Lady Celia sleeping peacefully, her daughter silently reading in the bedside chair.
“Oh! You’re back. How did it go at the mill?”
“Better than expected. The man injured his arm but will regain the use of it in time.”
Katherine sighed in relief. “Good.”
“Mr. Palling seems a kindly employer.”
“I think he is, yes. He has always seemed kind, even generous, to me.”
“And nothing new with your mother?”
“No. Resting quietly, as you see. Rosa sat with us for a time but has just gone down to bring us tea.”
Miss Fitzjohn rose. “Perhaps you might take it with her instead? I think I shall retire to my own room.”
“Of course. Thank you again for sitting with her.”
A wan smile touched her lips. “What is the saying? It was the least I could do. Good day, Miss Loveday.”
“Good-bye.”
When she had gone, Anne noticed the balcony door stood open. She stepped out onto the small balcony and, over the parapet, saw two men below: Jude Dalby hailing Ernest Finch, on his way home. Walking across the gravel drive, Mr. Dalby extended a hand, offering something to the physician. Curious, Anne watched as a slender green bottle passed from one to the other. A dram of good whiskey or patent medicine, perhaps? Anne couldn’t see what it was, but Dr. Finch reluctantly accepted it.
Once Mr. Dalby had pivoted and returned to the house, Dr. Finch glanced at the bottle, scowled, and flung it into the bushes.
What in the world was in that bottle?
That night, Anne was fast asleep when she heard a muffled sound of distress, accompanied by the thrashing of bedclothes.
Instantly alert, Anne rolled from the low bed, pushed her door open the rest of the way, and hurried into the next room.
Lady Celia lay in bed, eyes closed. She moaned, her head moving from side to side. Was she ill again? Or having a bad dream?
In his little basket near the dying fire, Louie rose and stood as though at attention.
“My lady, what’s wrong?” Anne asked, gently patting her shoulder.
The older woman gasped awake, and even in the dim room, Anne could see the whites of her wide, frightened eyes.
“Someone is trying to kill me,” she rasped.
“You’re all right. It was just a bad dream. A nightmare.”
“A nightmare? Are you certain? It seemed so real....”
“Who was trying to ... hurt you? In your dream, I mean.”
“I couldn’t see the person’s face.”
