Fuck, fuck, fuck.
What on earth is she doing here?
From what I understand, she does not visit cottagers. In the two months since she arrived in Trescott, I have heard not a whisper of it.
I turn.
She is already there.
She is standing in the doorway, wearing severe grey. She should be in deep mourning, but she is scandalously not keeping it, despite the recent deaths of her father and two brothers.
Her nearness makes my head immediately swim.
“Miss de Lacey,” Mrs. Ludlow says, crossing the threshold and clasping her hand. The warmth of the greeting surprises me. “Always a sight for sore eyes, aren’t you, dear?”
“How is Victoria?” she asks. “I came as soon as I could.”
“Ah, that good Mr. Perry. I told him he did not have to go all the way to the Abbey to tell ye. It’s not serious.”
Miss de Lacey shakes her head. “It was no trouble for him. You know that I’m always calling him to the Abbey. If it is anyone causing him bother, it is me.”
“Hush! As if you don’t have all the right in the world. With that big estate to run and all your cares in London too.”
I have gone from surprised to taken aback. Not only is this banter completely unexpected, but Miss de Lacey’scold sneer of yesterday has been replaced by an expression of concern. If her countenance is not quite warm, it approaches it. She has yet to relinquish Mrs. Ludlow’s hand. I was unaware that Miss de Lacey even knew the Ludlows personally. Yes, Mrs. Ludlow had mentioned victuals sent “from the Abbey,” but I did not understand that Miss de Lacey came herself.
“And we have Mr. Saintsbury here with us. I was just telling Peter that we must have the kindest neighbors in all of Dorsetshire.”
Miss de Lacey shakes her head. “We treat you only as you deserve.”
“It is very good to see you, lass,” says Mr. Ludlow.
I stare at this impertinence. To refer to Miss de Lacey aslass!
But Miss de Lacey merely smiles. I have never seen her do so before. Her smile is a bright, searing thing of such exquisite beauty that I feel hollowed out, gutted, at being admitted to its presence.
“I have brought that poultice for your leg. My man will bring it from the carriage.”
At those words an Abbey footman appears carrying a small trunk.
“Dr. Morton has made up a draught for Victoria’s throat too. You know they work but taste dreadful.”
“Aye, but she must drink it. I will see that she does,” Mrs. Ludlow says grimly. “Come.”
She gestures towards both myself and Miss de Lacey. Miss de Lacey moves towards the second room in the cottage. I follow her and find the little girl, Victoria, sitting up on a neat little bed. She has a drowsy expression.
“How is your throat, my love?” Mrs. Ludlow says.
The girl moans and puts her face intothe pillow.
“You must be a stronger girl than that,” tuts Mrs. Ludlow. “And you are very fortunate, for Miss de Lacey has brought a draught for you.”
The girl shakes her head, brown curls tossing.
“None of that now,” Miss de Lacey says. “Look up at me.”
The girl obeys. Her face is tear-streaked.
“You must drink it,” Miss de Lacey says. Her voice is stern, but it is still far softer than any she used withmeyesterday.
