Chapter Fifteen
The storm raged on.
Nathaniel settled into the chair beside Rosie’s bed, the little girl tucked securely beneath her blankets, her grip on Marianne only slightly less desperate than before.
Each crash of thunder made her flinch even in sleep, small whimpers escaping her lips, and each time Nathaniel reached out to smooth her hair or take her hand, murmuring reassurances until she settled once more.
It was exhausting work. It was also, he discovered to his surprise, deeply satisfying.
This was what guardianship meant. Not the ledgers and correspondence and endless estate business into which he had buried himself for two years, but this—sitting beside a frightened child, offering comfort, being present when presence was required.
He should have been doing this all along.
The hours passed slowly. The storm showed no sign of abating; if anything, it seemed to intensify, the intervals between lightning and thunder shortening, the rain battering the windows with renewed fury. Nathaniel remained where he was, watching over Rosie, his thoughts drifting despite himself.
They drifted, inevitably, to Miss Collard.
Was she resting? Was she comfortable? Had she what she needed to manage her… condition?
He should check on her. The thought arrived unbidden and refused to be dismissed. He should ensure she had reached her room safely, that she had not collapsed from exhaustion, that she was not lying alone in pain with no one to assist her.
It was not an appropriate impulse for an employer. Nor, if he were being honest, an appropriate one for a gentleman at all. Ladies’ indispositions were matters to be politely ignored, discreetly unremarked upon—certainly never addressed directly.
But—again—propriety had been a discipline Nathaniel seldom observed with much success.
He checked on Rosie once more—still sleeping, her breathing deep and even despite the storm—and slipped quietly from the room. He left the door ajar, so that he would hear if she cried out.
Miss Collard’s chamber lay just along the corridor—near enough for her to reach the children quickly if needed, yet far enough to afford a semblance of privacy. Nathaniel approached it with caution, uncertain even now of his purpose.
He could not simply knock and ask whether she was well. That would be—well. Entirely improper. Quite impossible to justify if anyone were to observe it.
But he might stand there a moment, he told himself. Might listen. Might satisfy himself that she was not in immediate distress before returning to Rosie.
A thin line of light showed beneath the door; her lamp was still lit. Perhaps she was awake. Perhaps, like him, she found sleep impossible beneath the fury of the storm.
He lifted his hand to knock—then lowered it again.
This was madness. What would he even say? Good evening, Miss Collard; I wished to confirm that your monthly discomfort has not rendered you incapacitated? The very thought made him wince.
He turned to go—
—and heard a sound from within.
A gasp. Quickly stifled, but unmistakable.
A gasp of pain.
Nathaniel knocked before he could reconsider.
“Miss Collard? Are you quite well?”
A pause. Then, her voice strained: “My lord? I—I am quite well. Please, return to the children.”
“You are not well. I heard you.” He rested his hand against the door, as though he might somehow reach her through the wood. “Miss Collard, if you require assistance—”
“What I require, my lord, is privacy.” Her voice sharpened, edged with embarrassment or pain—or both. “This is not a matter in which a gentleman can be of service.”
“Perhaps not. But I cannot simply walk away knowing you are suffering.”
Another pause. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter.
“What would you have me say? Yes, I am in pain—considerable pain, if you must know. But it is familiar pain. One I have endured before and shall endure again. There is nothing to be done but wait for it to pass.”
Nathaniel closed his eyes, frustration and helplessness warring within him.
“Mrs McConnor mentioned warmth,” he said. “Hot water bottles. Do you have one?”
A brief silence. “No. The servants were fully occupied with preparations for the storm, and I did not wish to trouble them further.”
Of course she had not. Of course Miss Collard—who never asked for anything, who endured discomfort without complaint—had declined even so small a kindness.
“I shall fetch one,” he said.
“My lord, that is quite unnecessary—”
“Miss Collard.” His voice emerged firmer than he had intended. “I am going to fetch you a hot water bottle. You are going to accept it. And if there is anything else you require—anything at all—you will tell me, so that I may see to it. Is that understood?”
A long pause. Then, very quietly: “You are remarkably imperious for someone offering to act as a lady’s maid.”
“I am a marquess,” Nathaniel replied. “Imperiousness is something of an occupational habit.”
He heard what might have been a laugh, quickly suppressed. “Very well, my lord. If you insist upon being useful, I shall not prevent you. Though I confess I have no idea where you propose to find such a thing at this hour.”
“The kitchen,” Nathaniel said, with confidence he did not entirely feel. “Kitchens contain… useful objects.”
“An admirably precise grasp of domestic arrangements.”
“I am going now. I shall return shortly.”
He did not wait for her reply, but turned and strode down the corridor, his purpose fixed.
A hot water bottle. He would find one, deliver it, and—he would do whatever else might be required.
How difficult could it possibly be?
***
The kitchen, as it turned out, was in a state of considerable chaos.
The storm had caused minor flooding in the scullery, and several servants were engaged in a flurry of activity involving buckets, mops, and a good deal of muttered imprecation. Mrs McConnor stood in the midst of it all, directing operations with the calm authority of a general in the field.
“My lord!” She looked up, startled by his appearance. “Is something amiss? The children—”
“The children are well. Rosie was frightened by the thunder, but she is sleeping now.” Nathaniel surveyed the scene with what he hoped resembled competence. “I require a hot water bottle.”
Mrs McConnor blinked. “A hot water bottle, my lord?”
“Yes. For Miss Collard. She is… indisposed, as you are aware, and the warmth would be of benefit.”
Understanding dawned in the housekeeper’s eyes, followed by something that might almost have been approval
“Of course, my lord.” She turned at once to issue brisk instructions to the nearest maid, then added, “They are kept in the cupboard near the hearth.”
Nathaniel moved with her, as though the decision had already been made. She opened the cupboard and gestured briefly to its contents.
“One is usually filled from the kettle,” she said. “The water must be hot, but not boiling, and the bottle wrapped well before it is carried upstairs.”
“Right. Not boiling. Wrapped in cloth.”
“And, my lord—” Mrs McConnor hesitated, then continued, lowering her voice slightly. “Miss Collard may also benefit from tea. Raspberry leaf, in particular. It is kept in the blue canister on the third shelf. It assists with…” She gestured vaguely.
“With the—yes. I understand.” Nathaniel felt his face warm, but pressed on. “I shall bring her tea as well.”
Mrs McConnor glanced at him, then back toward the still-chaotic scullery. “I can have one of the maids bring it up to her room as soon as we have matters here in hand—”
“No.” The refusal emerged before he had quite examined it. “I shall see to it.”
He was not entirely certain why he insisted—only that something in him baulked at delegating this task. Miss Collard was in pain. He wished to be the one who brought her some measure of comfort, however small.
It was irrational. Probably improper.
He did it regardless.
Ten minutes later, armed with a hot water bottle wrapped in a clean towel and a cup of raspberry leaf tea prepared under Mrs McConnor’s vigilant supervision, Nathaniel made his way back along the corridor.
He knocked again, more tentatively this time.
“It is Lord Greystone,” he said. “I have the bottle. And tea.”
A pause. Then the door opened a few inches.
Miss Collard peered out at him. She had exchanged her day dress for a nightgown and wrapper—plain, serviceable garments—and her hair had been taken down, falling in loose waves about her shoulders.
Nathaniel had never seen her thus. The sight lodged unexpectedly in his chest.
“You truly did it,” she said, sounding faintly incredulous. “You went to the kitchen in the midst of a storm to fetch me a hot water bottle.”
“I—I said I would.”
“I assumed you would come to your senses and dispatch a servant.”
“Mrs McConnor proposed much the same. I declined.” He held out the bottle and the cup. “May I come in? This strikes me as a singularly awkward mode of delivery.”
She studied him for a long moment. Then, with a small shake of her head—half disbelief, half resignation—she stepped aside and opened the door wider.
Nathaniel entered before he could reconsider.
The room was modest but comfortable: a brass bed with a faded yet cheerful quilt, a washstand in one corner, a chair by the window, a small writing desk. A single lamp burned upon the bedside table, casting a warm, subdued glow.
Miss Collard crossed to the bed and sat with evident care, her movements betraying the pain she strove to conceal. Nathaniel followed and offered the bottle.
“Mrs McConnor advised placing it at—” He gestured vaguely, colour rising to his cheeks. “At the affected area.”
“Thank you.” She accepted it, their fingers brushing briefly, and pressed it to her lower abdomen with a soft sigh. “That is… extremely helpful.”
“I am glad.” He set the teacup beside her, suddenly acutely conscious of where he stood. Her chamber. Late at night. While she wore her nightclothes.
This was, without question, the most improper situation of his life.