Chapter One
Bening Manor
East of Emden, Germany
March 1815
Lady Cecelia Tuttcliffe,Celia to a dearest few, ran her finger down the line of numbers for the third time, smearing them in the process. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Celia, stop!” She slammed the ledger shut and shoved it to the corner of her desk. It was time to compose herself. Losing all sense of reason simply would not do.
She eyed the long-handled bell waiting close at hand on its small, round silver salver. “Blast it all!” She snatched it up and shook it, half tempted to lob it across the room.
Friedrich, the loyal footman who guarded them better than any soldier, governess, or highly trained mastiff, opened the library door before the jingling faded. “My lady?”
“He is still in there?”
The sandy-haired giant whom she felt sure was close to her age of three and twenty offered a sympathetic nod. “Yes, my lady. The physician is still with Her Grace.”
Celia was keenly aware that servants possessed a dangerously intimate knowledge of what went on in a manor. Keeping secrets from them was next to impossible. Winning their loyalty and rewarding them for their silence was a much wiser course of action—especially for her and Mama. “Berta has heard nothing through the door?”
Friedrich avoided her gaze and resettled his footing, squaring his broad shoulders as though bracing himself. Celia almost smiled. The footman always did that when he found a question uncomfortable. “Friedrich, I am well aware that Berta has the uncanny ability to hear a mouse squeak in the next province. What has she heard through that door?”
The man’s shoulders slumped, and he stared at the floor. “Berta will not tell me, my lady. She cannot speak for weeping.”
Celia swallowed hard but failed to rid herself of the lump of emotions choking her. She cleared her throat and fought to maintain a calm exterior. “Weeping?”
“Yes, my lady. I am sorry.”
“Thank you, Friedrich. You may go.” Celia pushed away from the desk and went to the window, blinking furiously against tears she refused to shed. Mama would not die. Not yet. Not from this infuriating fatigue that none of these ridiculous doctors appeared able to diagnose or treat. Bloody quacks. The lot of them.
She fisted her hands against her middle and channeled her fears into a determined rage. Mama would live. The inimitable Thea Tuttcliffe, Dowager Duchess of Hasterton, was not but a few years past twoscore years of age. A young widow by many accounts. She would live. Celia would consider nothing less.
“My lady?” Friedrich quietly called from the doorway. “Her Grace asks that you join her now.”
Prepared to hear the same ineptness all the other physicians had spouted, Celia exited the library, pausing only long enough to select the correct key on her chatelaine and lock the door behind her. She had not secured the ledgers nor properly reviewed the most recent business correspondence on her desk. While she didn’t question the loyalties of most of the staff, she never set caution aside. “Friedrich, please let Mrs. Thacker know I have locked the library. I shall let her know when she can open it for the maids to see to its tidying.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Celia hurried up the stairs, noting that Berta, her mother’s lady’s maid, no longer waited outside the double doors to Mama’s suite. She pushed through them to find the elegant dowager duchess reclining on her favorite velvet lounge in front of the sunny expanse of windows overlooking her gardens.
The noted physician summoned from Austria stood at a nearby table rummaging through his black leather satchel. The man’s wild gray brows knotted in a furious scowl. He glanced up when Celia entered and squinted at her over the tops of his spectacles. “There is nothing to be done, my lady. Your brother should consider returning to Emden.” The doctor shrugged on his stark black greatcoat, then spared a stern glance for Duchess Thea. “His Grace should return sooner, rather than later. That is my recommendation.”
“Did you not say your coach was waiting, Dr. Mendelson?” The duchess countered his stern glare with a tight-jawed look of her own. “Forgive us for not offering you tea, but I would never wish to cause you to miss your connection in Bremen.”
The man snorted a disgruntled huff, then presented a curt bow. “I strongly recommend you take my advice to heart, Your Grace. For your own good and that of your family. Good day.” He gave Celia a snapping nod, then headed for the door.
Celia followed and closed the doors behind him with a rude bang. “What a waste of time. Godspeed, you priggish little man.”
“Now, Celia—to let another control your behavior is a sign of weakness. Never relinquish your control, dear girl.” Her mother smiled and waved her closer. “Come. We have decisions to make.”
“I shall cast a wider net, Mama. There are other medical experts to be found.” Celia yanked on the bellpull. They needed tea. Or more aptly, something stronger. Mama’s favorite pear brandy would not be amiss.
“Celia, come here now.” Her mother’s tone held more than its usual weariness. It echoed with resignation and heartbreaking finality.
Celia pulled a small, cushioned footstool over and sat beside her mother. Taking Mama’s hands in hers, she leaned in close. “You must not give up. The doctors I have found so far are nothing more than charlatans adept at fleecing the hopeful. I shall find another. And then another, if necessary, until I find the ultimate medical professional to help you.” She scowled at the closed doors. “Where is Berta? She never takes this long when you ring.”
“The doctor sent her to give Cook a recipe for a special calves’ foot jelly and some other concoction to build my blood.” Duchess Thea wrinkled her nose. “I am sure it will be dreadful, and if I am to die anyway, why should I waste any of my precious few moments on anything dreadful?”
“Mama! Do not say that.” Celia rushed to the bellpull and yanked on it again and again.
