She paused, replaying the brief encounter in her mind, tilting her head.
No. That wasn’t entirely true.
He had been aware.
Of the pantry, the low mattress, the dim candlelight.
Of her.
But not of…
Himself.
Daisy’s fingers grasped the sides of her apron. “He’s most certainly a gentleman.” She knew it. There was a quality—a cadence to his speech, and even in pain, he had apologized to her.
Twice.
For what? Because he couldn’t answer her questions? Or simply for no reason at all?
A gentleman’s reflexive politeness.
His frustration had been palpable—he had tried, and then his pain had overtaken him again.
“Do you think he’ll live, then?” Gilbert’s voice pulled her back, his curiosity as sharp as ever.
Her brother had been as helpful as she would allow, but the reality remained—the man in their pantry was, in fact, a man.
No man had lived under this roof since their father’s death. And if this gentleman’s presence was discovered—if gossip took hold—her reputation would be damaged. Beyond repair. And she needed that reputation. Without it, she wouldn’t be able to do business with theton.
Daisy let out a slow breath. “The fever’s gone. So I think so...”
It was the outcome she’d hoped for when she and Gilbert had dragged him inside, half-dead. And yet, his continued survival did not negate the difficulties his presence would bring.
Gilbert plunked his books on the chair by the door, shaking her from her thoughts. “Mrs. Farley asked about you.”
Daisy’s stomach tensed.
“She’s wondering why you haven’t come ’round for tea this week.”
A reminder. That people noticed her absence. That she had a routine, a life to maintain, watchful neighbors. All compelling reasons to proceed with caution.
Daisy forced a rueful smile. “Dear Mrs. Farley. What would we do without her?” The question was rhetorical—as they would likely never find out.
“I’ll drop in on her tomorrow after I’ve made my deliveries.”
Mrs. Farley, one of Aunt Thea’s old friends, had lived next door for decades. She made it a point to remind everyone that she had never missed a Sunday at church—even going so far as to critique the vicar’s sermons when she found them lacking.
Daisy had once asked her aunt why she endured the relentless scrutiny of their neighbor.
Aunt Thea had simply shrugged. “Mrs. Farley is lonely.”
And Daisy could not argue with that. Once one got past the woman’s penchant for unsolicited opinions, she was mostly tolerable.
And so, Daisy had taken up her aunt’s practice—sitting for tea once a week, listening to harmless gossip, playing the role of dutiful neighbor.
“Better to be friends with your neighbors than enemies,” Aunt Thea had added.
And Daisy had conceded the wisdom of it.
