Page 7 of A Housekeeper for the Earl of Drinkwater
Before Edward could say anything more, Emily slipped past him and hurried down the stairs. Edward took a deep breath and, without hesitation, entered his mother’s bedchambers.
A small moan escaped his lips as he took in the room. After everything he had seen so far, he’d still been expecting to see his mother’s room looking every bit the bright, cheerful room it always had been. But, just like the rest of the house, it looked abandoned. Haunted almost.
Once rich, bright tapestries were faded by sunlight and stained with what Edward could only guess was dirt and soot. Those not torn were in tangles, letting in only thin streams of light that made the shadows in the room seem somehow more ominous. The furniture was threadbare, some of it broken, and all of it covered in thick layers of dust. And, of course, there was his mother.
The countess was lying in a bed with a destroyed canopy, the colour of which was no longer recognizable. The blankets were colourless and filled with holes, and the few remaining pillows were leaking feathers everywhere.
The countess herself looked deathly thin and as pale as the threadbare dressing gown she wore, though her face was at least clean of the stains on the front of her robe which he guessed were from failed attempts at feeding her.
She was perfectly motionless, her eyelids closed. If it were not for the subtle rising of the blankets pulled up over her chest, Edward would have easily believed she was no longer alive. Her breaths were shallow and slow, and Edward thought she might not be too far off that point.
It was only as he was standing over her that he realized her hair was completely white. She had looked bad enough as he’d approached, but when he looked directly down at her, he could see how careworn her face was.
If he did not know he was in his mother’s bedchambers, he would not recognize the woman lying in the bed. She looked nothing like the vibrant, attractive woman whom he knew as his mother.
“Mother?” he asked softly.
The countess did not awaken, but her eyelids fluttered for the briefest of moments. Edward sighed with relief, realizing then that part of him had believed she was dead, that the moving blanket was some sort of wishful hallucination.
“Mother?” he repeated, a little louder.
This time, the countess opened her eyes, so suddenly, it startled Edward. He jumped, then composed himself enough to reach down and put his hands on top of his mother’s. He nearly flinched again when he felt how cold they were. It was difficult for him to believe that anyone with skin so cold could, in fact, be alive.
After blinking a few times, the countess turned her head toward her son. When their eyes met, Edward smiled, preparing to lean down to kiss her. But suddenly, she gasped, her eyes growing wide and her face twisting into shock and fear.
Before Edward could say anything more, the countess fainted. Edward stared in horror, certain she had just taken her last breath. But after a long pause, her chest began to rise and fall again; still shallowly, but more rapidly than before.
“Mother?” he asked, giving her a gentle shake. This time, however, she would not come around. He stared at her, overwhelmed with worry. He had no idea why she had reacted to him in such a way, or what could be done to help her. But he was certain she would not survive whatever it was she was going through without urgent help.
“Milord?” Emily said timidly from the doorway.
He turned to see the maid holding a tray of tea things, standing beside a man he recognized as Clarke. The butler’s hair had once been light-brown and neatly trimmed, but it was now laced with silver and unkempt. He was tall, and he had always been lean, but Edward thought he looked little more than a skeleton beneath his faded black suit.
Edward strode over to the servants, looking at the butler intently.
“What has happened?” he demanded, his worry and fear pouring out of him at last through his tone. “Where is Father? Where aremy brothers? What has happened to Mother? Why is the manor in such a state?”
Clarke glanced at Emily, then turned back to Edward.
“Milord,” he said, pointing toward the bed where the countess lay. “We must not disturb your mother. Her mental state is far too delicate.”
Edward snorted.
“I can see how delicate she is,” he said. “I doubt we will disturb her, though, as I could not rouse her for more than a second. I want answers, Clarke, and I want them now!”
Clarke nodded, and Edward finally saw how old and haggard the butler looked. He was determined to get answers, however, and he would not give way.
“Let us talk somewhere else, milord,” the butler said softly. “I will be happy to answer all your questions, I assure you. But even thoughthe countessis unconscious, we cannot know for sure whether she can hear us.”
Edward started to argue, but his mother made a quiet sobbing sound in her sleep. He turned, hoping she was awake, but her eyes did not open, and she did not move. His heart ached, and not knowing was maddening.
At last, he nodded.
“Very well,” he said. “We can go to my bedchambers.”
The butler nodded, looking relieved.
“Very good, milord,” he said.
