“Tell Diggory I will need the carriage in an hour. There is no need for Henry to come. He will have more duties here now that Desmond has been shifted to the sickroom. Call me when Doctor Griggs is ready to leave, will you? I should like a word with him.”
Aquinas bowed from the neck and turned back to the chafing dishes as I left the breakfast room. I stepped back into the room.
“Aquinas, don’t think me very odd, but I was wondering, what happens to all the food? What the family does not eat, I mean.”
“The meats are turned into luncheon for the staff, my lady. Kidney pie, ham croquettes, that sort of thing.”
“And the eggs?”
“The eggs, kedgeree, rolls and toast are given to the poor.”
“Thank God for that,” I murmured.
“I beg your pardon, my lady?”
“Never mind, Aquinas. Never mind.”
I should have dressed with care that morning, arming myself for battle. But I was in a hurry to speak with Griggs before he quitted Grey House, and in the end I simply stood still while Morag dragged on something green she had unearthed from the wardrobe.
“Oh, feathers,” I said, peering into the looking glass at my sallow skin. “You have gone and picked the one colour that I could not stand up to today. Best hand me some of that rose salve of Madame de Bellefleur’s.”
She passed over the little jar. “Only a thumbnail’s worth left, I should say. You’ll be wanting more of that, I wager.”
I rubbed a bit into my cheeks and lips. There was immediate improvement, although I was beyond real help.
“I cannot ask Madame de Bellefleur. What is in it? Could you make it?” Morag often pottered about the stillroom, concocting soaps and cosmetics and even proper perfumes. She had never made anything as sophisticated as this rose salve, but it was certainly worth an effort.
Morag gave it a sniff, then rolled a bit between her fingers. “Aye. Bit of beeswax, I should think. Some crushed rose petals. Cannot say for the rest, but I could try.”
“Then save the rest of it. You’ll want that for comparison.” I smoothed my hair and gave a final tug to the waist of my jacket. The green seemed almost regal now, or at least less like a weedy pond. I gathered up my reticule and umbrella.
“Morag, I will be going out as soon as I have spoken with Doctor Griggs. You may have the afternoon free to do as you like.”
She blinked at me, a little suspicious. “My afternoon is Wednesday.”
“I am aware of that, Morag. But my wardrobe is in order and I shouldn’t think it would take you very long to tidy up in here. You might see if there is anything Sir Simon requires if you go out.”
“Aye, my lady.” She did not move, and I stared at her, faintly exasperated.
“Is there something wrong?”
She shook her head slowly, but her expression said otherwise.
“Well you look mightily put out to me, although I cannot think why. If there is a problem, we will have to discuss it later. I am late.”
“My lady.” She bobbed me a curtsey, rare for her, and said nothing more. But I caught her look as I turned away and it was speaking.
My interview with Doctor Griggs was brief and unhappy. In short, Simon’s heart was beginning to fail and Griggs had prescribed laudanum to ease his pain and help him to sleep. He thought it might only be a matter of a very few weeks now and encouraged me to spend as much time with him as I could.
“Although, I see you are dressed to go out,” he finished with a touch of disapproval.
A flash of anger rose and I beat it back with an effort. It took all the control I possessed not to tell him exactly what I thought of him. I dared not, for Simon’s sake. I had little doubt that Doctor Bent could give him better care, but what difference would it make now? Simon was comfortable with Griggs, he did not see him for what he was. To me, he was anathema. His stupid prejudices, his blindness, his thoughtless dismissal of me as a mere woman…he represented everything I hated most in an Englishman. Narrow, biased, unfeeling and snobbish. But snobbery was a two-edged sword for the daughter of an earl.
I drew myself up and fixed him with the coldest look in the repertoire Aunt Hermia had passed on to me.
“My business is my own, Doctor,” I said, stressing his title. If there was one thing Griggs hated, it was being reminded that he was little better than a tradesman.
He gawped at me, his jowls wagging. He would have liked to have told me what he thought of me as well, I imagined. But he did not dare, either. The power of the March name cut too deeply for him to risk that. Attending Sir Simon Grey on his deathbed was simply another feather in his professional cap.
