Page 44 of The Nabob's Designing Daughter
“Yes, well, and should you have second thoughts, if I die, Ann won’t get any money until she’s five-and-twenty; won’t get it at all unless the trustee approves her choice of a husband. My solicitor will keep an eye on her. Wouldn’t trust those fool cousins of hers.”
“That’s too bad. Her cousins care a great deal for her.”
And so do I.And what could he do about that? Since her father’s return from India, she’d lived like a princess. Like the titled lady the man hoped to make her. All he could offer her here were the keys to a broken-down tower and an estate needing to be restored on the slimmest of budgets, while he tended the sick for a pittance. If she came with him to London, she’d share humble rooms with him, while he worked long hours to improve their lot. She’d be friendless and alone in a big city. There’d be no garden for her herbs, no still room for her concoctions.
She deserved more. She deserved a life of ease.
The footman knocked and entered with a laden tray. Like a dog slavering in a knacker’s-yard, Strachney licked his lips. “Bring that here now,” he said.
Errol slipped out, and went to check on his other patient, the duchess. She was in her private sitting room, stretched on a chaise. Mrs. MacDonal sat next to her, a book open on her lap.
The duchess said she was tired, and irritated, and the same backache that had plagued her for weeks still bothered her, but she begged off from a closer examination and sent him off to the village.
As a groom led his mount out, another horseman trotted up.
“Dr. Robillard,” he called.
It was Will, the groom who’d come to get him when Strachney was injured.
“Sir,” he said, staying mounted, “that fellow Gillespie’s been seen in t’ village.”
“Where?”
“Passin’ through.”
Errol swore. Gillespie would be heading home to his cottage. “Come with me, Will,” he said.
Will tipped his cap. “There’s more, sir. Miss Strachney headed out that way in a gig with a basket of food. Offered to go with her, and she wouldn’t have it.”
Will didn’t have to explain whatthat waymeant. The lad and his mother would be in danger, and Ann, dear Ann.
Errol prodded his horse and took off down the lane.
“I miss me da.”Rolly picked at the tartan covering his legs, his lower lip quivering.
“You love him,” Ann said.
“Aye. He’s not allus beatin’ on us. ’Tis t’ drink makes him wild.”
She rose from her stool and stirred the fire. Her father didn’t beat her, yet she knew what it was like to still love someone who didn’t treat his own child kindly.
“And worryin’,” he said, words too wise for a small child. Maggie must have told him that.
And why shouldn’t Gillespie be worried? The last baron was a negligent recluse. The current one wanted to shirk his duties, to… to hand them off to someone else.
While she busied herself bringing the fortifying broth sent by Cook to a boil, her own insides roiled, despair warring with a building anger. Why couldn’t these people be helped? Why wouldn’t Errol help them?
She wrestled her composure back into place and picked up the battered dipper. She’d begged off from gathering more greenery with Edme, Cottingwith, and Penelope for a chance to leave the castle altogether and avoid the smug, ingratiating marquess. The last few days, one servant or another had stuck to her like glue when Edme or Penelope were otherwise occupied. Perhaps she ought to have let Will accompany her today, but she couldn’t keep disrupting the work of the Castle’s servants. The marquess had still been abed when she’d left, and he’d never soil his hands visiting a crofter’s cottage.
Maggie had gone off to tend their chickens and see to their few sheep while Ann unpacked the food basket and watched over Rolly.
The door flew open with a bang.
“Da,” Rolly whimpered, and seemed to curl into himself.
THE BARON DECIDES
Gillespie wobbled in the doorway and the reek of whisky filled the whole of the cottage’s one room.
