“Pneumostat.” Then Hugh shot Aleida an anguished look. “Go.”
Aleida caught the eye of the other man. “I’m his friend. I think he needs a doctor.”
Hugh waved her off and marched to the back of the house.
The older man nodded toward a sitting room. “Please have a seat, miss. I need to assist him.”
Aleida stood in the entryway. Her umbrella dribbled on the marble floor, and her heart strained toward Hugh. Was he having an asthmatic attack? Did this man—the butler?—know how to treat it?
Should she leave as asked?
How could she, not knowing whether he was all right? She set her umbrella in the stand and hung up her coat and hat.
In an ornate mirror, she smoothed her hair and tucked loose strands into the coils.
From the back of the house, metal clanged on wood and a soft but urgent voice rose.
She should wait in the sitting room as told, but she followed the sounds to the back stairs and down to the basement.
Light arose from the kitchen. An electric motor whirred and liquid bubbled.
Hugh sat at a table before a black metal apparatus, and heheld a rubber mask over his nose and mouth. Wet hair curled over his forehead. He spotted her, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
“Breathe slowly and deeply.” The butler helped Hugh remove his soaked suit jacket.
A pit opened in Aleida’s stomach. “I shouldn’t have intruded. How rude of me.”
“It’s never rude to help an ailing friend.” The butler hung Hugh’s jacket over a chairback. “I’m Simmons. Whilst you wait, why don’t you make a pot of tea? It helps. Kettle’s on the stove, and tea’s in a tin on the shelf above.”
Aleida took the kettle to the sink and turned on the water. “Tea is the British cure for everything, yes? Even an unwelcome intruder?”
Simmons toweled off Hugh’s hair. “In this case, tea is truly a cure. It opens the airways.”
“Asthma.” Aleida set the kettle on the stove and lit the fire. Her vision blurred, and her heart ached for Hugh, not just because of the disease but because of his embarrassment. Embarrassment she’d caused.
She spooned tea into the teapot. “I’m sorry, Hugh. You didn’t want me to know, and now I do. You told me to go home, and I didn’t. I was worried about you, but that’s no excuse to violate your privacy.”
Aleida blinked her vision clear, raised her chin, and faced him. “The kettle’s on, and the tea’s in the pot. I’ll leave now.”
Hugh lowered the mask. “Simmons, please show Mrs. Martens to my study. I’ll join her shortly with the tea.”
Aleida cringed. “I should—”
“Please come with me, ma’am.” Simmons gestured to the stairs.
Wearing the mask again, Hugh nodded without meeting her gaze.
Aleida followed Simmons upstairs.
He pointed toward the rear of the house. “If the bombers come, the shelter is in the garden through that door.”
“Thank you.”
“His treatment lasts a quarter of an hour.” Simmons led her into the study, and he turned on a lamp. “Thank you for seeing him home. He could use a genuine friend.”
Aleida offered a weak smile, and when he left, she settled into a brown leather armchair. What a curious thing to say. Hugh had dozens of friends. Everywhere he went, he made friends.
The room smelled of leather and tea and ink. Papers and notebooks lay scattered over the surface of a rolltop desk, and three teacups sat on top, divorced from their saucers. A low cabinet rested by her chair, supporting two saucers and more papers. Two bookcases boasted a riot of books, most lying on their sides.
