“What’s wrong with him?”
“More of the same.”
“What same?”
“Where have you been the last week? He’s been off his food, tired, and ill-tempered — more ill-tempered than usual,” she corrected in response to Pierre’s expression. “And the last two days, he’s hardly slept. Liam and Ann were very worried last night.”
Guilt smote her heart. “It’s painful with his partial paralysis, his body is constantly trying to compensate. Liam told me he’s often in pain but refuses to show it.”
Cook sighed with feeling. “It’s sad. Older people are frailer than they look. He might shout like a man half his age, but a little bother like indigestion that you and I get over in a day can knock him down for a month.”
“No wonder he’s in a bad mood. I should go and see him.” Pierre started to get up.
“Sit down; he’s too tired to see anyone. Nurse Ann says no one is to come upstairs until Adam gets back.”
“Where is Adam?”
“Delivering a baby. A woman Laura works with went into premature labour and needed help. They’ve been there all night. We don’t know where exactly and can’t reach them because Adam doesn’t have a mobile. So, we had Evans out in the horse cart looking for them.”
“A baby?”
Cook’s face lit up. “I know, isn’t it exciting? One of the women in the Casemates. Mrs B and I already prepared a little something to send them, as soon as we find out who it is.”
When Cook and Mrs B said, ‘a little something,’ they usually meant a mountain of gifts. They must have been busy since dawn packing things for mother and baby.
How blind had she been, obsessing about her problems. She didn’t have problems, just drama in a teacup. Yet here they all were, up to their necks in real emergencies. “Can I send them something? Is it a boy or a girl?” She could hand-make a baby diary with little painted flowers and fantasy characters.
“We’ll know when Evans gets in touch. And...” Cook glanced at the ceiling towards the first floor where Lord M was in bed. “Adam’ll be here soon, and he’ll do what he normally does to make his patient better.” She rose to her feet. “What do you want to eat? I have some lovely kippers if you fancy that, or I can whip you up–”
Pierre shook her head. “Not hungry.”
“How about poached eggs?”
Poached eggs, like Cook made them, smothered in rich hollandaise. Pierre’s stomach growled.
“I take it that’s a yes?” Cook snorted.
“Please.”
She waited in silence while Cook brought her a small teapot and a little later, a plate of delicious breakfast. Yet eating alone wasn’t the same. “What about Emmet?” she couldn’t help asking.
“Oh,him.” Cook’s expression soured. “Well, there’s a story. That Nicole is no longer pretending. After going through the charade of giving him a separate room and calling himthe photographer” — Cook mimed air quotes around the word — “Making out she hasn’t given the job to her fella. Now, it’s all out in the open. Yesterday, they went out early in the day, holding hands for everyone to see. I heard they spent half the day at the church looking at everything, herself posing in front of stuff while he takes pictures of her.”
“Well…” Pierre swallowed. “We knew they were engaged.”
“That’s not all. She’s been ordering breakfast in bed for the two of them. Can you believe it, does she think she’s in a hotel? She rings down on the house phone and asks for this and that. Croissants with organic orange juice and buttermilk pancakes, eggs Benedict on smoked salmon on English muffin on God only knows what else. Like she’s not the wedding planner but the bride herself.”
“Inbed?” The question burst from her before she could stop it.
“In bed or on the table in her private sitting room.” Cook waved a hand through the air. “Either way, it’s on a trolley delivered to her suite. Yesterday morning she wanted Pop Tarts. That’s an American thing. We don’t have it here. Mrs B had to go up and explain that we’d have to order stuff like that, and we need notice. Not that it phased the woman. She snapped back that they’ll have dinner alone in her suite and she ordered,Ordered, if you please” — Cook’s voice went up a whole octave — “clam chowder and a Cobb salad. I had to look them up on YouTube, and for tonight, her royal highness wants a Ruben and a key lime pie. Where does she think she is? And—” She noticed Pierre with the fork frozen halfway to her mouth.
“Oh, never mind. Look at me bending your ear when you haven’t eaten your breakfast.”
Pierre glanced down at her plate. Poached eggs with hollandaise on English muffins, wasn’t that the same as eggs Benedict? She pushed the plate away. How was she going to tell Cook that this lovely breakfast now looked like boiled socks?
Mrs B saved her. The housekeeper came in carrying a tray of brass ornaments for polishing.
“Oh Pierre, there you are, dear. Lord M is asking for you.”
