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“A fortnight?” He stared at her in horror, then his gaze slid to his arm.

“Your wounds became septic within hours of your arrival at Langton, and when your delirium showed no sign of abating, Mother sent for me.” She did not add the words “In case you died,” but they hung in the air between them. “Mrs. Beecham has battled tooth and nail to save your arm and your life. That poor woman has used every clove of garlic and pot of honey she could lay her hands on to make fresh poultices, and she’s had Cook steeping all manner of plants to find something that might bring down your fever.”

“I placed her in charge of my recovery.” Jonas remembered the conversation now.

“And she has taken the charge seriously.” Rosalind eyed him curiously. “Only Mother, Mrs. Beecham, Hancock, and I know of the bullet holes in your arm. James may have guessed the nature of your injury, but he’s keeping his thoughts to himself. The rest of the staff believe you are recovering from a riding accident.”

Jonas placed a hand to his head. It was beginning to pound in unison with his arm. “It’s safer for everyone if that detail remains concealed,” he said.

“Who shot you?”

“Government men,” he said.

She reeled back, her eyes wide. “Heavens above, Jonas! What have you done?”

“Nothing that merits an older-sister lecture,” he mumbled. He could not maintain this conversation much longer. Tiredness was overtaking him. Battling to keep his eyes open, he saw her expression soften.

“Very well,” she said. “I will take your word for it. For the time being. But when you are stronger, I shall demand a full explanation.”

“Of course you will,” he said as his eyelids drooped closed.

She laughed softly, and her fingers pressed gently on his forehead one more time before sleep captured him again.

Chapter 9

Vowing that he would never again take navigating the stairs unassisted for granted, Jonas slowly made his way down the wide staircase and into the great hall. It had been five days since he’d awoken to find Rosalind in his bedchamber. For three days afterward, he’d received daily visits from his sister and mother, and although they no longer sat vigil at his bedside, their fretting over his condition had persisted. Mrs. Beecham had doggedly continued her ministrations of fresh poultices and foul-tasting teas, and between the three women, he’d been henpecked almost to madness. On the fourth day, he’d put an end to it. He’d declared himself well enough to rise from his bed and had sent them away so he could dress.

It was probable that he could not have achieved that relatively simple feat without Hancock’s help. His valet had patiently waited while Jonas had rested between putting on his shirt and shoes, and Hancock had somehow managed to concoct a sling from an old scarf that stabilized Jonas’s arm well enough to meet with even Mrs. Beecham’s approval. It was a seemingly small thing, but the sling had helped Jonas’s discomfort immeasurably, and he’d felt well enough to spend a couple hours in his study and to take a short walk with his mother through her rose garden.

Today, he’d been invited to join his mother and sister for tea. He rather thought it was Rosalind’s way of testing whether he could manage a social setting that involved eating and drinking with one arm out of commission. Little did she know he’d practiced all manner of activities that way while in the schoolroom. Keeping one hand in his pocket was the only way to prevent a newly caught frog or newt from escaping.

He crossed the black and white marble tile floor and approached the drawing room. A murmur of voices came from within, and when he reached the doorway, he paused to observe the two women. Although of similar stature and build, his sister and mother did not look particularly alike. He and Rosalind had inherited their father’s dark hair and eyes. Their mother was gray haired now, but her blue eyes and fair complexion hinted at the blonde beauty she’d been in her youth.

Rosalind was sitting beside their mother on the settee and seemed to be regaling her with a story about a recent garden party she’d attended in London. Wearing a fashionable turquoise gown, she virtually hummed with energy. Their mother, on the other hand, exuded an aura of calm. She sat with her hands gently clasped upon her pale-pink floral gown, listening to his sister’s chatter with an indulgent smile.

He watched his mother more closely, concern niggling its way to the forefront of his mind as he saw the way she gazed vacantly at the wall whilst his sister spoke. Her eyesight had begun failing several months ago, but he had not realized how rapidly it had deteriorated until this week. He’d noticed the change when she’d first come to his bedchamber after his fever had broken. She’d needed to run her fingers across his coverlet to locate his hand on the bed and had stumbled over the edge of the rug on her way out of the room.

Later, when he’d pressed Mrs. Beecham for more information on his mother’s condition, the housekeeper had admitted that Lady Langton was no longer able to read or work on her stitchery—activities that had provided her hours of pleasure in the past—and that when the light was dim, she had taken to using a cane. This was not because of any sense of imbalance but because she was unable to clearly make out the objects before her.

In the drawing room, his mother laughed, and Jonas pulled himself back to the present. It was good that Rosalind was here. She had the ability to enliven any gathering—no matter how small—and her tales of life in London and at Finley Park would entertain their mother for hours. Notwithstanding Rosalind’s buoyancy, however, he knew that her anxiety over their mother’s welfare was as great as his, and sometime in the near future, he would need to discuss the matter with her.

“Jonas!” Rosalind had caught sight of him and called him into the room.

His mother turned and, without truly focusing on him, gave him a welcoming smile. “It’s good to have you up and around again, Jonas. Come and sit with us.” She gestured in the general vicinity of the armchair across from the women. “Rosalind, be good enough to call for tea, would you?”

Rosalind complied, and Jonas took his seat.

“How are you feeling?” his mother asked.

“Remarkably well,” he said. “I’m regaining my strength, and the soreness in my arm improves every day.”

“Good,” Rosalind said. “Then you are fit enough to tell us how that particular appendage came to sport a bullet hole.”

Knowing full well that his mother could not see his expression well enough to comment on it, Jonas scowled at his sister.

“I confess I have wondered the same thing,” his mother said.

Rosalind smiled widely and gave him an expectant look. For one madcap moment, Jonas wished he actually had a toad in his pocket that he could unceremoniously drop onto his sister’s lap. His amphibian-collecting days were long gone, however, and the timely arrival of the tea tray gave him a moment to think through a more mature response. Somehow, he must strike a balance between assuaging Rosalind’s curiosity and not distressing his mother.