“Nevertheless. I shall check on you later.”
He withdrew before she could object further, though not before he caught the flicker of something in her eyes—surprise, perhaps, or gratitude, or some complicated blending of the two.
In the corridor, he encountered Mrs McConnor, who was directing two maids in the placement of candles—a precaution against the storm that seemed increasingly likely to descend upon them before nightfall.
“Mrs McConnor. A word, if you please.”
She turned at once, her expression settling into attentive professionalism. “Of course, my lord.”
Nathaniel drew her aside, lowering his voice. “Miss Collard appears indisposed. She insists it is merely a headache, but I am not persuaded.”
Mrs McConnor hesitated—just long enough to confirm his suspicions.
“Miss Collard is indeed somewhat indisposed today, my lord,” she said carefully. “Nothing serious. A recurring indisposition common to many women. It will pass within a day or two.”
Nathaniel stared at her.
A recurring indisposition. Common to many women.
Oh.
Understanding dawned, followed swiftly by heat at his cheeks. He was not entirely ignorant of such matters—he had overheard enough guarded conversations in his youth to possess a general awareness—but knowing of such things in theory was quite different from confronting them directly. From realising that Miss Collard—composed, capable, unfailingly self-possessed Miss Collard—was at present enduring something both intimate and decidedly uncomfortable.
He had no language for it—only the keen awareness that he had strayed into territory gentlemen were trained, from boyhood, not to name.
“I see,” he managed. “And is she… properly attended to? Does she lack for anything?”
Mrs McConnor’s expression softened, whether at his evident discomfort or his genuine concern, he could not say.
“She manages, my lord. She is not one to make a fuss. But I can see that extra coverings are sent to her room, and perhaps a warmed bottle for later—the heat is often of comfort.”
“Yes. Please do. And anything else you think may help.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Should she not be resting? Surely the children might forgo lessons for a single afternoon.”
“Miss Collard would not hear of it, my lord. She insists she is equal to her duties, and I did not feel it my place to contradict her.” Mrs McConnor paused. “She is a proud woman. Independent. She would not care to be thought weak or incapable.”
No,Nathaniel thought.She would not.
That fierce self-reliance was among the qualities he admired most in her—and the very one that now frustrated him beyond measure.
“Very well,” he said. “But keep an eye on her, if you would. And inform me if… if she should require anything.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Mrs McConnor returned to her work, and Nathaniel retreated to his study, his thoughts in hopeless disorder.
Miss Collard was plainly unwell—enduring more discomfort than she would ever confess—and yet she persisted, calmly instructing his nieces and nephew while bearing her own suffering in silence.
It was admirable. It was also, in his opinion, entirely unreasonable.
He paced the length of his study, unable to attend to accounts or correspondence, unable to think of anything but the woman in his library who was likely, even now, expounding upon botanical classifications while resolutely ignoring her own pain.
Why would she not allow herself rest? Why must she press on when anyone could see she was unwell? Did she fear for her position? Did she believe him so exacting, so unfeeling, that she dared not take a single afternoon to recover?
The thought was intolerable.
He would speak to her. He would make it plain that she was valued, that her position was secure, that she need not prove her worth through quiet endurance.
And yet he knew she would refuse. Would deflect his concern with that same polite, unyielding composure. Would not permit him to help.
