In a few scant minutes, there was a gentle tapping at the door, and he went to answer it. The house was maintained only by a limited staff, and it soon became apparent that the housekeeper was the only servant in residence who dared answer the summons of the son of the Marquess of Montrose, even if he was only the third son. Thomas, who had grown up accustomed to the rigid hierarchy of a grand estate, was accordingly flustered to be attended upon by a person of such exalted belowstairs status.
“I am so sorry to have troubled you.” He tried to conceal his awkwardness and did not succeed.
The housekeeper was surprisingly young for her role, with cool grey eyes and a crown of lustrous dark hair wound into austere braids. She had handled Thomas’s unannounced arrival, and his unorthodox guest, with quiet composure. She seemed equally unperturbed now, despite the early hour and Thomas’s rumpled, weary appearance.
She dropped a curtsy. “I’m here to serve, my lord.”
“Please don’t call me that. I left behind such titles. But I was wondering, Missus ... ah ...”
“Clark.”
“I was wondering, Mrs. Clark, if you would be so kind as to fetch me a book from the library.”
“Of course. Was there something in particular?”
The patient had started coughing again, and Thomas glanced helplessly over his shoulder, distracted. “I ... er—” He cringed internally at the hesitation. The marquess had instilled into all his sons certain principles for handling the lower orders. They required neither kindness nor cruelty, simply clarity and consistency, as with other trained animals. But, at that moment, still unsettled by his own reactions and preoccupied by theafflictions of the other man, Thomas was utterly incapable of articulating his needs.
Thankfully, Mrs. Clark seemed to possess an instinct of understanding, and—rather than force him to struggle towards precision—she simply said, “I’ll do what I can.”
He murmured his gratitude and closed the door.
She returned about fifteen minutes later with a tray and a stack of books tucked beneath her arm. He went to relieve her of the tray, which contained some cold meats and a pot of tea. He had not realised he was hungry, but the sight of food was unbelievably welcome.
“You are very kind.”
She offered a careful smile. “You must take care not to fall ill yourself.”
“Oh, I am never ill.”
“Perk of the job, Mr. Mandeville?” He thought he caught the trace of an East London accent, carefully subdued, and a gleam of wickedness in her eyes, also quickly banished.
He smiled. “Perhaps, but the Lord helps those who help themselves, so I thank you for the consideration.”
“It’s nothing, sir.” She turned to leave. Then paused. “If I’m presuming, do you know this man?”
“Er, no. He seemed in need of assistance, so I rendered it. Or tried. I do not know if he will survive the night.”
She cast a look at the figure in the bed and seemed about to say something.
“Do you know him?” asked Thomas.
“I’m not acquainted with him.”
“But you know him?”
Her eyes slid away from his. “There aren’t many who’d stop to help a stranger for no reason but goodness.”
“There is”—he offered one of his shy, whimsical looks—“a fine precedent. But I am not accustomed to London. There are so manywho suffer here that it challenges me. I try but I simply cannot imagine so many souls, afraid, alone and overlooked.”
“Nobody can, sir. Maybe that’s the problem.”
“‘The eyes of the Lord are in every place,’” he said, rather doubtfully. “It seems a kind of pride to believe the salvation of the world is one’s personal responsibility. So what remains but to do what we can?” He folded a fresh cloth and dampened it, adding softly, “Though it seems but little.”
“Sometimes little can be enough.” Mrs. Clark gestured towards the bed. “I can sit with him, when you need to rest.”
“I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t. Good night, sir.” She slipped out, closing the door with barely a sound, leaving Thomas to his patient.
