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Oh, God. She must have slept on a page of her article. Realizing what an eccentric figure she must appear, haggard and disheveled, her hair wild, her face marked with pencil, she said, “I suppose I ought to rest.”

“Aye, ma’am. May I escort you upstairs?”

“Oh, there’s no need,” she said, and paused to stifle a hard yawn. “I’ll go by myself. You have doors to chew.”

“Ma’am?”

What had she just said? “I meant chores. To do.” Scorching, immolating color covered her from head to toe. Blast. She wished she had his handkerchief to stuff in her mouth.

“You’re very tired,” he said gently. “Let me accompany you.”

She took his arm, hard and steady beneath her hand, and they headed to the stairs. “Will you wake me at eleven o’clock? I’ll need to glance at Norman’s work before sending it off.”

“Aye, ma’am.”

“There’s a telegram office on Bond Street with a courier service. If you could send for someone to come pick up the article by half past eleven . . .”

“I’ll deliver the article myself.”

“Would you?”

“Of course, ma’am. Set your mind at ease, and for God’s sake, try to rest.”

Reina was so accustomed to doing everything for herself that it came as a surprise to have his help. “I will,” she said with a lopsided grin. “I’ve never had someone to worry over me before.”

“You do now,” he replied, and helped her up the steps.

Chapter Eighteen

Picking Up the Pieces

To the amazement of everyone in the Westbrook household, Norman underwent a transformation in the next week. It started with copying the second half of Reina’s rough draft for The Economist. In three hours, he had transcribed it into ten flawless pages that matched the ten she’d already written . . . except that his version of her handwriting was tidier, the letters and spacing more uniform. He’d also corrected a few minor grammatical errors and written an impeccably polite submission letter addressed to her editor, with a blank space at the bottom for Reina to sign.

Before Reina had even finished praising him, Norman had asked if he could organize her paperwork. His past clerking experience at the shipping company had taught him how to catalog and archive documents, how to keep records of letters that had been sent as well as received, and how to keep a proper system of index cards.

Rather sheepishly, Reina had shown Norman a tall stack of pasteboard boxes filled with reports, correspondence, notes, lists, ledgers, records, and bills, all shoved to a corner of the library.

“Here it is,” she’d said. “My tower of procrastination and nightmares. If you run away screaming with your hands covering your eyes, I wouldn’t blame you. It’s what I do every time I see it.”

Contrary to her expectations, Norman hadn’t been at all intimidated by the boxes. He’d proceeded to immerse himself in sorting it all out, and made a list of supplies including paper folders, index cards, letter trays, and document boxes. Day by day, the tower grew shorter, while the library became a well-ordered office.

“It’s almost as if he likes to organize things,” Reina later told Tuppence, as they went over the household inventory in the housekeeper’s sitting room. “He seems eager to return to it every morning—and not just because it keeps him from having to do footman’s work.”

“Many people like to put things in order,” Tuppence replied, seeming amused by Reina’s perplexity. “I’ve always enjoyed housework, myself. It feels satisfying to have it done proper. The brass all polished and shiny. The floors scrubbed with all the corners and edges clean.” She grimaced and pressed a hand to the high, tight swell of her stomach. “I used to accomplish twice as much in a day as I do now.”

“You’ve done far more than I ever expected.” Reina regarded her with concern. “May I ask how . . . how you’re feeling these days?”

“Well enough, I suppose. Sharp aches now and then. Some days my ribs are sore from the baby kicking.”

“Oh, dear. Have you told Mrs. Caswell?”

They had been visited a month ago by an experienced and well-respected midwife, Mrs. Caswell, who’d encouraged Tuppence to send for her if she felt any troubling pains or symptoms. The midwife had been recommended by one of Reina’s friends, Isabel Gutiérrez de la Torre, whose fourth child had been born with Mrs. Caswell’s assistance.

In light of Tuppence’s fragility, Reina would have preferred her to consult with a doctor, in case there were complications with her delivery. Even though the housekeeper had gained weight since coming to live at Westbrook House, she was hardly the picture of robust good health. But Tuppence had been adamant that she would have nothing to do with a male doctor. Reina had backed down, feeling that in light of the rape that had forced Tuppence into this situation in the first place, she certainly had the right to decide who would help her give birth.

Unfortunately, it was impossible to find an experienced female doctor. Women had only recently been allowed to attend medical school in England, and the British Medical Association still banned female physicians from its membership.

Reina wasn’t sure Tuppence would accept a male doctor, no matter how badly his skills were needed. God willing, it wouldn’t come to that.