Page 6 of His Forgotten Bride
She was young. He would have placed her at her late-twenties, perhaps, especially young for a housekeeper. He wondered if she trulywasa Mrs. It was quite possible she was not, given that that title was offered to housekeepers in general as a matter of tradition rather than a matter of fact—certainly Mrs. Cartwright had never married. Mrs. Hotchkiss’ honey-blond hair had been swept up into a proper bun at the nape of her neck, probably pinned to within an inch of its life. She wore a gown of nondescript grey, properly starched and pressed. Her eyes swept over him, but he could not determine the color at this distance. Still, he had the distinct impression from the slight purse of her lips that she had judged him and found him wanting.
Rather impertinent of her, really.
But Mrs. Cartwright had approved of her, and he supposed that her estimation of the woman’s worth would be better than his own. So long as she was prepared to do her job to his satisfaction, it mattered little to him whether or not she approved of him. Hardly anyone else did, anyway.
“My lord?” Her voice was soft, faintly inquisitive—and yet something in it set his head to pounding once again, and he shaded his eyes against the light of the fire.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hotchkiss,” he managed. “I’m afraid I’ve reconsidered dinner tonight.” And before he could embarrass himself in front of her, he shoved himself out of his chair and headed for the stairs as calmly as he was able, only to make it to his room with just moments to spare before he was violently ill in the chamber pot.
∞∞∞
Claire retreated to the dining room, where she informed the serving staff that dinner would not be served to his lordship after all. To her surprise, not one of them seemed to find anything odd at all about this turn of events—or that his lordship, who had had ample opportunity to warn them that dinner would not be necessary, had elected instead to allow them to go to the trouble of preparing it anyway.
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Cartwright clucked as she entered the room to find the staff clearing away the unused flatware. “His lordship’s migraines have returned.”
“Migraines?” Claire turned, her brows drawing in confusion. Gabriel had never suffered migraines before that she had known of.
“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Cartwright said. “He’s not had one in some time now, but I suppose he was due, then.” She gestured for Claire to follow her into the kitchen, where she had put a kettle on the stove for tea. “You might have noticed the rugs, my dear,” she said. “In the grip of a migraine, his lordship can’t abide loud noises of any sort. Nor light, nor strong scents—he’ll hole up in his room, he will, and just lay there like the dead until it passes.”
“How dreadful,” Claire said, and felt the minutest twinge of something approximating sympathy in her chest. Sympathy—forhim! It was madness.
“Oh, it is,” Mrs. Cartwright said. “Occasionally they’ve lasted for days, the poor lad. Why, there was a time—well, that’s neither here nor there.” She busied herself with drawing a couple of cups down from the cabinet. “Suffice it to say, they are infrequent now, but severe indeed.”
Claire took a seat at the small table and set out the sugar bowl and a tiny pitcher of milk. Hesitantly, she inquired, “Does his lordship have an otherwise delicate constitution? Is there anything I ought to know in regards to his health that would better prepare me for my position?”
Mrs. Cartwright poured the hot water into the teapot and carried it over to the table. “Well, now,” she said. “I wouldn’t necessarily call his constitutiondelicate. He does all manner of things expected of a gentleman—riding, fencing, boxing—but in his youth, he did have a lung complaint.”
“Alung complaint?” Claire echoed.
“Asthma, the doctors called it,” Mrs. Cartwright said. “Spasms and inflammation of the lungs. It doesn’t seem to trouble him now—he outgrew the issue, or so it would appear.”
Claire let out a breath in relief.
“But the doctors suggested that the attacks he suffered in his youth could have caused some damage.” Mrs. Cartwright poured tea into the cups laid out, then dropped a lump of sugar into her own. “You may be certain that if there is a cold to be caught, his lordship will catch it,” she said, with the hint of a smile lingering on her lips. “And he doesnotmake a good patient.”
“I see,” Claire said, placidly sipping her tea.
“He does not appreciate being fussed over,” Mrs. Cartwright said. “Never has, the dear boy. But he’ll drive himself into the ground if he isn’t taken firmly in hand. He’ll bluster a bit, as men do, you understand.” She gave a small laugh, as if fondly recalling a memory from long ago. “And he’ll never admit to falling ill, not even with the migraines—he’ll just disappear as he does, and reemerge when he’s recovered himself. But if he’s falling ill with a cold, you’ll hear the wheeze in his breath, and if he’s not sent off to bed he’ll push himself straight into pneumonia.”
Somehow, Claire suspected that if his lordship allowed Mrs. Cartwright to send him off to bed like a child, it was only due to their longstanding relationship. Surely he’d balk if his new housekeeper tried to do so.
“He should be fed beef tea and bread, no matter how he complains for something more substantial,” Mrs. Cartwright said. “And perhaps he might be allowed hot toddy, with plenty of honey to soothe his throat.” She canted her head. “Should I write this down for you, perhaps?”
Claire shook her head. “I’ve an excellent memory,” she said.
Mrs. Cartwright gave a wry sort of smile. “Good,” she said, “since his lordship has not.”
And that, Claire decided, was the understatement of the century.
Chapter Four
Gabriel groaned as the sun climbed over the horizon and slipped through his bedroom window, cutting cruelly across his face. He hadn’t even had the strength last evening to draw the bed hangings closed before he’d tossed himself face down upon the mattress, much less to close the curtains.
The mornings after a migraine were always the worst. He rarely managed anything even approximating sleep while in the grip of an attack. Usually he simply suffered and sweated, and then rose with the new day as limp as a dishrag and feeling just as dirty. Stretching his arm across the mattress, he flailed for the bell pull and gave it a hearty yank. Though the worst of the migraine had receded, his head felt as though it had been struck with a mallet, like the migraine itself had left bruises in its wake.
He dropped his head back onto his pillow and waited. Only a few moments later he heard a light scratch at his door and called, “Enter,” in a voice that sounded raw and hoarse. The door handle turned, and he felt the change in the air currents that suggested someone had slipped into his room.
“A bath,” he grated out. “Quickly.”
