‘Oh no, Mrs. Mead told me what you did. I owe you my life.’
‘Ah, now you are just exaggerating. It was your own sturdy constitution and Mrs. Mead’s devotion that pulled you through,’ Isabel said.
Connie’s cheeks dimpled. ‘I don’t think so. Sebastian told me you looked after him too, after Waterloo.’
This time, the heat burned in Isabel’s cheeks as her mind flashed to that night in London when she had sat with him in the dark hours.
‘Again, Bennet did all the work.’
Connie smiled. ‘Oh, dear Bennet. I am looking forward to seeing him again. He’s been here a few times with Bas and he is such fun. But please don’t underplay your role. You rescued Bas from that awful hospital and he said that when he was very ill you sat with him, like you did with me.’
Isabel cleared her throat, as her mind’s eye played over thestrong, muscular body she had nursed all those weeks ago in London.
‘He wasn’t so very ill. I just kept him company.’
Connie looked up at the ceiling. ‘I don’t believe you. I know what wound fever is. When he came back from Spain, after Talavera, he was very ill. Dr. Neville thought he would die. I heard him saying the wound had been badly treated. He had to operate again on our kitchen table. The doctor said Bas was lucky not to have his leg amputated. Afterwards, Mrs. Mead said I was allowed to sit with him and hold his hand and adjust his pillows, offer him a drink of water or read to him. So I did. I probably drove him to distraction.’
Isabel recalled Sebastian using those same words to Connie when she had woken the morning her fever had broken. That explained the joke between them.
‘Sebastian really is the best of brothers, Lady Somerton,’ Connie said.
‘He is,’ Isabel agreed. ‘I wish I had a brother to care for me as much as yours do for you.’
Connie looked up, a smile dimpling her cheek.
‘I am very spoiled.’ Her face darkened. ‘I feared the worst when I heard he had been wounded again. I couldn’t bear to lose Bas. I am so glad you found him.’
‘It was lucky for both of us. Brantstone needs its lord and I think he will be a good one.’
‘So do I,’ Connie said.
Isabel rose to her feet and circled the room. The walls were crammed with paintings, some in oil, and others watercolours or pencil sketches.
‘These are very good.’ She glanced back at Connie. ‘Are they your work?’
A faint stain of colour rose to the girl’s pale cheeks.
‘Some, but not all. These days I paint miniature portraits and it gives me a little income. I’ll show some to you when I am allowed out of bed.’
Hearing an echo of her brother in the impatient tone, Isabel smiled.
‘You will get out of bed when I say.’
‘I suppose, now I am Lord Somerton’s sister, I won’t be able to keep painting.’
Isabel shrugged. ‘Maybe not for commissions.’
Connie’s mouth tightened and Isabel saw her brother’s stubborn nature in the glint of her eyes.
‘I have no intention of becoming one of those fragile, useless little women who sit around painting vases of flowers, Lady… Isabel.’
‘I will be starting a school in the dower house next year. Perhaps you can help me?’ Isabel ventured.
Connie raised an eyebrow, and Isabel laughed. ‘Yes, it is for those fragile, useless little women, but the school is just a means to an end.’
She told Connie of her plans for the financing of a charity school in Manchester. Connie’s eyes widened.
‘Oh, I’d love to help, but only if I can help with the other school.’ She paused. ‘If Bas allows me, of course.’
