afternoon Mairi helped Mrs Cross close down the guest bedrooms. They were rarely used and it would save the two maids much work to take down the curtains and cover the furniture with dust covers.
Davina came to tell her the dressmaker had arrived. ‘Mama wants us to come straight away.’
‘Very well.’ Mairi closed her eyes for a moment to calm herself before removing her apron and cap and brushing off her dress.
As they walked to their mother’s dressing room, Davina asked, ‘Can we really not afford new dresses, Mairi?’
At fourteen, Davina was old enough to know the reality of their situation. ‘We should not order new clothes,’ Mairi responded. ‘Papa has been unable to pay our servants for some time. That is why so many have left. He has many unpaid bills. He will not be able to pay Mrs Webster for anything we buy.’
Davina turned her head away and did not speak for a few moments. Finally she said, ‘Then I will say I dislike all of the new fabrics and the fashion prints. Mama will not make me order a dress I do not like. And I will try to convince Mama that the fabrics and designs will not do for her either.’
Mairi put her arm around her sister. ‘Very clever, Davina. Mama will not like to be embarrassed that way. We can show Mrs Webster some of our old dresses. I believe Mama will be satisfied if we have something that looks new.’
* * *
Lucas took another sip of tea as young Niven peppered him with questions about himself—about his time in the army.
‘What regiment were you in?’ Niven asked.
‘The First Royal Dragoons,’ he replied.
The boy’s eyes brightened. ‘The First Royals? Were you in the charge with the Scots Greys at Waterloo?’
The memory of it came back. The thundering of the horses, their screams, the contorted faces of the French soldiers, the blood.
His brother.
By Jupiter, he needed whisky.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I was.’
‘Wait until my father hears about that!’ Niven beamed. ‘He is excessively proud of the Scots Greys. To hear him, you’d think they won the battle for the Allies.’
The Scots Greys were brave, no question, but they also had been untried in battle. They’d ridden too far ahead of the main charge and, as a result, too many had been cut down.
Like Bradleigh.
‘Were you in the Peninsula, too?’ Niven asked. ‘What other battles did you fight? Was it glorious? I cannot imagine such a sight. A cavalry charge!’
Lucas’s answers were terse and he hoped the boy did not notice the trembling of his hands, the stiffening of his shoulders. It was the anguish of remembering. Enough of this. He wanted out of this place. The boy forced him to remember and the sister made him care when all he wanted was to shut off his emotions and be alone.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ Niven called as if this was his room, not Lucas’s.
Miss Wallace peeked in, her gaze riveting on her brother. ‘Niven! I was afraid you were here.’
Lucas rose to his feet, but braced his hands on the table. She gestured for him to sit down. He wanted to remain standing, but his legs threatened not to hold him. He sank back into the chair.
Niven lifted his chin. ‘I brought Lucas some tea and biscuits. I’m keeping him company.’
‘He is still ill, Niven,’ she scolded. ‘You should leave him in peace.’
Niven seemed to ignore what she said. ‘Did you know? He was in the First Royals! Fought at Waterloo. That’s a cavalry regiment, you see. He was in the charge with the Scots Greys.’
Her gaze caught Lucas’s briefly and he fancied she could somehow see the pain he wanted to hide. From himself as well as everyone else.
‘You should not trouble him, Niven.’ She peered at Lucas even more closely and crossed the room to him. ‘Are you feverish again, Mr Lucas?’
He felt hot and perspiration dampened his face.
She placed her bare hand on his forehead. ‘You are a little warm.’
Her touch filled him with yearning, but he did not wish anyone to care about him—or to care about anybody himself. Obviously seeing to his care merely added one more burden to her slim shoulders.
‘I am well enough,’ he insisted.
Her brows knitted. ‘You should rest.’ She turned to her brother. ‘Let us leave Mr Lucas now. I need your help in the garden. Cook wants some turnips and onions.’
Niven stood. ‘How delightful! Digging in the dirt.’ He smiled at Lucas. ‘I’ll bring your dinner later, Mr Lucas. Do not be surprised if it includes turnips and onions.’
Lucas’s stomach revolted at the thought.
‘Thank you.’ Lucas rose. ‘I will rest a while.’
Miss Wallace gave him a worried look before she and her brother walked out of the room.
* * *
When Niven had returned some time later with the dinner tray, Lucas had simply told him to leave it on the table, but he fell asleep before touching it.
He woke again when the clock in the room struck eleven. The door opened and, through slitted eyes, Lucas watched Miss Wallace enter, her face illuminated by a candle. Her brother was behind her.
‘See, he is still abed,’ Niven said to her. ‘I do not think he ate any of his dinner.’
Miss Wallace approached and gingerly placed her palm on his forehead. Her hand felt soft and cool and he was taken aback with how much he desired her touch.
He opened his eyes and she jumped back with a cry.
‘Miss Wallace?’ He sat up.
‘Niven was concerned. You did not eat dinner,’ she said.
‘I was not hungry.’ He’d made up his mind. He’d leave in the morning.
‘You still feel warm.’ Her brows knitted.
He refused to worry her. ‘I just need sleep.’ Their gazes caught as before. She needed sleep as much as he did. ‘Please. Return to your beds.’
She stared at him a while longer. ‘Are you certain?’
‘Go to bed, Miss Wallace,’ he murmured. ‘Do not trouble yourself with me.’
* * *
The next morning, Lucas woke as dawn was just breaking. His fever continued, but he was clear-headed. All he needed to do was walk to the nearest village and seek a room in an inn. Then he need not impose on this family—on Miss Wallace—any further.
He’d slept in the clothes he’d borrowed from the departed butler, so he rose and bathed his face in the cool water from the room’s pitcher and basin and shaved his face. Wiping his face again, he searched for his toothbrush and brushed his teeth, rinsing the foul taste of illness from his mouth.
As he turned away from the basin, he noticed his untouched evening meal still on the table. His stomach was no better than the night before, but he knew he must eat and drink something. He buttered the bread and drank the ale. It would have to be enough until he could purchase a meal from an inn.
If his appetite ever returned.
He dressed in his own clothes and repacked his satchel, then picked up the tray so he would not leave extra work for Miss Wallace. He carried the tray to the door and managed to open it. In the hallway, he could hear sounds from what he presumed was the kitchen. Butlers’ quarters were typically near the kitchen. He followed the sounds and entered a