Page 51 of A Murder on London Bridge
“Remarkable, really, Lady Rutledge, that you’ve suffered no lasting damage.”
“How do you explain it? As I recall, I was struck on the head.”
“Your sturdy hat saved you from worse.”
“I’ll have to send a thank-you note to the designer. Perhaps they can use my endorsement to sell more hats.”
He laughed. “I see your sense of humor hasn’t been affected.”
“Heaven forbid!”
Once he left, boredom set in. Robert had been called to a meeting at Scotland Yard, leaving me without his company. Grace brought fashion journals, but my eyesight soon tired. Doctor Spencer had warned me that it was likely to be affected.
Late morning, Grace attempted to read me a sentimental novel about a governess with improbable dimples. After the first chapter, I begged for a cup of tea with honey and lemon—something I never drank. But it took her away from me.
Once she went off to fetch it, I swung my legs over the side of the bed. The room tilted slightly. I waited until it steadied, then wrapped myself in my dressing gown, slipped on slippers, and slowly made my way along the corridor to my parlor, where a mountain of correspondence awaited me. That would have to wait. What I wanted was the telephone.
I asked the operator to connect me to the Ladies of Distinction Detective Agency. Doris, our receptionist, was startled to hear my voice. “Lady Rutledge! How are you?”
“As well as can be expected, Doris. May I speak to Lady Emma?”
“Of course.” Seconds later, Emma’s warm voice came on the line. “Kitty, how are you? We were so worried. I wanted to visit, but Robert advised against it.”
The receiver was plucked neatly from my hand. Robert, my lord and master, had returned. “I apologize, Emma,” Robert said, speaking into the mouthpiece, his tone clipped. “Catherine is under strict instructions to rest. So we must cut thisconversation short. As soon as she’s ready to receive visitors, I will telephone.”
He replaced the receiver on the hook and frowned at me.
“I was bored,” I protested.
“You’re also white as a sheet. Come. Let’s get you back to bed.” He slid his arms beneath me, lifting me as though I weighed nothing, and carried me to our bedchamber where a red-faced Grace waited.
“Lady Rutledge is not to leave her bed again.”
Grace bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, my lord.”
“What if nature calls?” I muttered.
“Then Grace will help you to the lavatory. Otherwise, you stay put.”
“You’re being an ogre.”
“Insults will get you nowhere,” he said in a strict tone. But then his gaze softened slightly. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
He tilted his head, unconvinced.
“Very well,” I admitted. “A little dizzy. My eyesight tires quickly. I can’t focus for long.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Talk to me. Tell me about your day.”
While Grace left to fetch more dreaded broth and a sandwich, he pulled up a chair and obliged, recounting his interminable meeting at Scotland Yard. I meant to listen, but within minutes my eyelids drooped, and his voice faded into dreams.
Two days later,I was chomping at the bit. The headaches were now a dull thing, felt only occasionally. My eyesight had returned to normal—mostly. My energy was back—almost. I wasnow able to walk back and forth across my room unaided, with only minor dizzy spells. On the third day, I deemed myself ready to face the world. After my morning bath, I dressed with Grace’s help and walked on my own to the morning room. I pushed open the door to find Robert at the table, a newspaper folded beside him, breakfast laid neatly to hand. He looked up, startled, then rose at once, crossing the room with his swift, economical stride.
“You shouldn’t have walked here by yourself,” he said, not unkindly, as he took my elbow and guided me to the chair next to his. “You could have fallen.”
