“I’m too late.” The doctor glanced back over his shoulder, saw Gideon’s expression, and spoke gently. “It comes on fast sometimes in the elderly. I’m sorry.”
Gideon knelt by the bed and put a hand on Pritchard’s chest, still where it had labored before. “I should have stayed by him,” he murmured.
“You can’t have known. I’ll just check on the grooms,” Standish said with the brisk tone of a medical man here to serve the living, not the dead.
Gideon stood. “Have you seen Miss Selwyn?”
“This morning. The cousin is giving her excellent care. I think she’ll recover. I’m less sanguine about the maid.”
“The maid?”
“Aye. Kerr is her name? She fell ill two days ago.”
“Euphemia is alone,” Gideon murmured without thinking.
Standish raised a brow. “Can’t be helped. I’m on my way. Get some sleep, Kendrick. So far, the house staff has stayed well; I don’t need another one down.”
He left Gideon to his grief. The only man here who’d ever believed in him, the last one he’d trusted at Woodglen, had just died, and he had no one to share his grief except a shaggy mountain of a dog. He lay his head on the bed, one hand clutching thick fur, and gave in to tears for Pritchard, for his brother, Phillip, on whatever godforsaken trek their father’s perfidy had driven him, and for the boy that he had been, derided, abused, and driven from this place.
The unfamiliar lapse concluded, and he stood. Determination stiffened his spine. This illness would pass. He’d give Euphemia Selwyn as much help as she needed until it did. Then he would unravel the peculiarities in the management of Woodglen if he had to throttle Marshall to do it. While he was at it, he would search the family papers for proof that his father’s marriage to Phillip’s mother was—or was not—bigamous. That it would also prove his own mother was—or was not—the vile old man’s legal wife, he brushed aside. Phillip deserved to know for certain. Then he would go home where he belonged. To Wales. Away from foolish gossip and ignorant speculation.
Chapter Sixteen
Sunlight and thesound of her cousin’s voice woke Mia in the chair where she had fallen asleep. She had no idea how long she had slept, nor did she know how many days had passed. She stretched her back, tipped her neck to ease her aches, and wrinkled her nose against the smells of sickness and unwashed bodies. The weather had been too foul to even open the windows. Sun this morning didn’t mean warm, but she might check.
“Fee?” Selina’s thready voice called again.
She hurried to the bedside.
“I’m cold, Fee,” Selina said, her voice quivering but clear and coherent. Sweat beaded on her face and soaked her pillow. Mia raised the covers.
“Your nightgown is soaking wet. I think your fever broke.” A hand to Selina’s brow confirmed the fever had gone. She tucked the covers around her. “God be praised for his mercy. We’ll have to change you in a bit. How do you feel? Well enough to sit?”
“Miserable but less. Is there tea?”
Last night’s tea would be stone cold. “I’ll see if they brought hot water,” Mia responded. She had heard no knock, but she might have slept too soundly, so bone weary she could no longer help it.
She opened the door, pleased to see a large teapot wrapped in a cozy. Next to it a towel covered a plate of toast and boiled eggs, both lukewarm at best. She brought them to the table and used the water—blessedly still hot—to put willow bark to steep. There was enough left to make two cups of tea, reusing leaves from the day before or perhaps the one before that.
She brought the weak tea to Selina, slipped a hand under her shoulders, and helped her drink. She drank well, but it exhausted her.
Mia laid her down gently. “I need to see to Kerr,” she said. Selina nodded and closed her eyes.
A firm knock startled her. Had they brought more?
The sight that greeted her sent her heart racing. Gideon Kendrick leaned against the doorframe. “How is Miss Selwyn?” he asked.
“Better, thank you, but I fear Kerr is worse,” she replied, cataloging details of his appearance. Coarse black hair rumpled. A day’s growth of beard. Shadows in his dark eyes. Cravat loosely fastened. Yet properly dressed.
He must have examined her appearance as well. “You are exhausted. When did you sleep last?”
“I just woke up,” she replied. At his skeptical expression, she admitted, “I fell asleep in the chair. I don’t know how long I slept.”
He studied her so long she squirmed under his scrutiny. His gaze drifted away. “Pritchard died,” he said without preamble.
Mia reached out without thinking and put her hand over his heart. “Oh! I am so sorry. I know he was your friend.”
He peered at her again as if weighing some serious matter. She saw when he reached a decision. “You need to sleep. I’ll care for your patients.”
