Page 57 of The Trouble With Titles
Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses
OCTOBER 6, 1821
Madeline awoke midmorning. She had done naught but sleep, drink cold broth, and use the chamber pot with the help of her mother since being put in her bed. Taking stock of her body, she discovered there were aches and twinging pains in her limbs. Her belly hurt, and her throat was raw. There was a definite weakness in her muscles, and a general fatigue that spoke to her troubles of yesterday.
But …
Turning her head, she found Simon watching her with a pleased expression.
“I feel better.”
“You appear better. Your color has improved considerably.”
“What did Lady Trafford say?”
“She assures me you are young and healthy. She will be here soon to check on you.”
“What about my work?”
Simon grinned, lifting a hand to caress her cheek and producing a single red rose from behind his back. Madeline reached for it, sniffing deeply of its fragrant petals before clasping it to the coverlet covering her figure. “Your mother will take care of it. She is sleeping in after helping me take care of you all night, but I think your manufactory is large and productive enough to do without the two of you for a few days.”
Madeline wrinkled her nose, reaching up to check her hair. “This is not my most attractive aspect,” she declared.
“Every aspect of you is attractive. I have no complaints.”
She smiled, pleased at the compliment. “What comes next?”
He chuckled. “You recover.”
“And then?”
“You recover some more. Would you like me to bring you some reading?”
She pouted at his evasiveness. “What about us?”
“Hmm … what about us?”
Madeline huffed in frustration. He was obfuscating, but she was too weak to insist on a proper answer. She assumed Mama would not allow a gentleman to encamp in her bedchamber unless an understanding was to be reached, but she supposed they would discuss it when the time was right.
With all that had happened, she yearned for the future they had discussed in their youth. One where she worked with the artists of the manufactory while Simon worked alongside hermother to handle the business dealings. But she did not wish to require this from him or take advantage of his guilt over what had been done to her. Madeline wished that Simon would offer her their long-discussed imaginings of partnership of his own volition. After all they had endured, all the ups and downs of yesteryear, it seemed meaningless unless Simon raised the issue from his own desire to wed her, and not from some misguided sense of obligation because his mother had attempted to murder her.
She supposed that what she desired was for Simon to demonstrate his commitment to them.
“Is there more broth?”
Simon had been readinghis mother’s journals for several hours, continuing to pore over the pages of her spider scrawl while Madeline was being assisted to bathe in the next room.
There was much to answer, including the inadvertent revelation from Roderick about his father’s death. The more he read, the more disturbed he became, but it was his burden to bear. He needed to absorb the contents so he might brief the people affected by her actions.
This afternoon he would need to go home to figure out what the current state of his entailments were in Scotland. He had no notion if his mother had been a good peeress who took care of her duties, but considering the madness inked on the pages, he assumed that there were tenants up north who sorely needed some attention from a responsible caretaker. It would all depend on the stewards who oversaw the respective estates.
Too many of the nobility treated their titles as a right, but Simon was well aware it was a privilege with accountability.Thus he must ascertain the situation for the people under his leadership, and take steps to confirm the stewardships were in expert hands, or replace them as necessary. Simon hoped he would find some method to pursue his own goals. If the past few weeks had taught him anything, it was that his duty had superseded his own dreams to leave him a lifeless husk. Since learning he was not to be Baron of Blackwood, his vitality and interest had begun to return. He did not wish to live a lifetime of unhappiness, which would put the past dreary decade of misery to shame.
Soon he returned to sit by Madeline, who fell into a deep sleep after the exertions of being up to bathe and change her nightclothes. The sound of her rhythmic breathing as he read on was the most beautiful symphony he could imagine. Lady Trafford had pronounced that Madeline was on the mend during her visit at midday.
When the sun was low in the sky, Simon set aside the most recent journal and looked up to find Madeline had awakened, her amber eyes watching him as he read.
“Do you have your answers?”
