“That sounds wonderful. I find I am famished.” It was true. Amelia was suddenly made aware of the deep ache in her midsection, borne of lack of food.
“It is no wonder, what with you being bedridden nearly a week.”
“A week!”
Mary moved toward her with the tray, eying her somberly. “Indeed. You’ve given the entire household a bit of a scare.”
“I had no idea.”
“You were not well aware most of the time.”
A memory came to Amelia. It was hazy and wrapped in a dream, but it took hold nonetheless. “And did Lord Norwich—” She stopped, unsure how to continue. “When did he return home?”
“Wednesday, I believe. He was earlier than any of us expected, but he returned as quickly as he could after receiving Mrs. Huckabee’s note about your condition.”
“I see.” Amelia took the offered tea, avoiding Mary’s eyes. “And did he... did he see me at all?”
“He could hardly be torn from your bedside after his arrival Wednesday. I do not believe he moved from that very spot from one o’clock to after ten. Mrs. Huckabee fairly dragged him downstairs to have a bite to eat. The man hadn’t eaten all day, from what I heard.” Mary glanced at Amelia with curious eyes, as if wanting to see how Amelia would take the news.
Amelia sipped the tea so she would not have to answer. Her mind was swirling about her, trying to piece together her murky dreams and this new information. She placed the cup back on its saucer, her arm already growing fatigued by the simple movement. As much as she wished it otherwise, her husband was a mystery to her. He had spent hours by her sickbed but also apparently met with Miss Brooks while away. She knew he had a horrid reputation, hid behind an uninterested mask, chose humor over genuine connections, occasionally showed a softer side, and hated pickled vegetables.
And somehow, amidst all of that, he had stolen her heart from behind her tall walls—had likely sauntered in and charmed her guards out of it—and then retreated behind his own mask to effectively confuse her.
Meanwhile, all the Miss Brookses, Ediths, and general gossipers of London Society came out of the woodwork to further complicate their relationship.
She groaned.
“Lady Norwich? Are you all right? Shall I have Cook send up a tisane? Perhaps one of the physician’s tinctures?”
“No. No, Mary, I am quite all right. I think I would like to bathe and dress, though. It would be grand to feel more human again.”
Mary eyed her with that same look of concern and disbelief that must have permanently affixed to her face while Amelia lay unconscious over the last week. But, again, she nodded. “Very well, my lady. I shall draw a bath.”
Amelia sighed with relief. There may not be a cure for her addled brain, but she’d never known a bath not to improve one’s mood regardless of the situation.
“Oh, and Mary?”
Her maid stopped in the doorway to the dressing room. “Yes?”
“Will you have someone remove these flowers?” She gestured to Miss Brooks’s arrangement. She didn’t need further reminders of the woman.
Mary’s brow creased, but she nodded. “Of course, my lady.”
***
Edward paced outside the connecting door to Amelia’s room.
He’d heard her voice.
She had been speaking with her maid for nearly ten minutes, though Edward couldn’t decipher what she was saying, but it had now been silent for near on a quarter of an hour.
But he’d heard her voice.
His feet carried him back to the door, and he rubbed his jaw. She was clearly awake, yet no one had seen fit to tell him. What use was it to have servants if they didn’t do what one asked—namely, keep tabs on his wife for him when he could not? He pushed out a breath.
There was a plan formed partially in his mind, a plan to come clean to Amelia, declare his love for her, and, preferably, carry her off into some sunset. Or a sunrise. He wasn’t particular at this point. But if his blasted servants wouldn’t even tell him she was awake, how could he speak with her?
Granted, this was his house. She was his wife. Could he not simply knock on the door?
