Chapter 5 #3
Madeline shivered a little and retreated to an armchair, where she sat and tapped her foot nervously on the thickly carpeted floor.
Noticing a wooden box on the table next to her, she picked it up curiously.
The interior of the box was lined in silver, the top carved with the Shakespearean medal.
On the bottom was the inscription “Presented to Mr. Logan Scott by the Stratford Corporation.”
A voice interrupted her musings, and Madeline looked up to see a pair of housemaids bearing a tray of tea. “That box was carved from Shakespeare’s mulberry tree,” one of the maids said with pride. “The master is always getting awards an’ such, on account of all ’is charity works and benefits.”
Madeline smiled, observing that Scott certainly seemed to have the admiration and affection of his servants.
The maid set the tea tray on a low table. “Mrs. Beecham said for you to ring for one of us whenever you want something.”
“Thank you, but I won’t require anything. Mr. Scott’s welfare is all that matters.”
“Dr. Brooke is coming soon. ’E’ll ’ave the master back in the pink in no time.”
“I hope so,” Madeline replied, picking up an empty china teacup and fidgeting with the delicate handle. She glanced at the door, wondering when the doctor would arrive and how long it would take him to issue a pronouncement on Scott’s condition.
The maids left the parlor, whispering to each other as soon as they crossed the threshold. Madeline couldn’t help but overhear a snippet of their conversation. “Do you think she’s the latest?…”
“Nay.”
“She’s pretty enow.”
“Aye, but she’s only a spring lamb…not ’is sort at all.”
Madeline frowned and set down the empty cup.
She rose from the chair and paced around the room.
The reference to her youth annoyed her profoundly.
Suddenly aware of the straggling locks of hair that had slipped from her pins, Madeline sighed.
No doubt she looked like an untidy child who had been romping out-of-doors.
Wandering to the gilded doors at the other end of the parlor, Madeline discovered that they opened into a music room, two long galleries, and a drawing room with a floor patterned in inlaid wood.
There were art treasures everywhere: portraits and landscapes, marble statues, works of pottery and porcelain.
As Madeline toured the elegant rooms, she sensed that Scott had chosen the decor and the art himself.
It was all a reflection of what he admired and wanted to be.
He fascinated her. Madeline wanted to know him, to be trusted with his intimate thoughts…
to be some small part of the world he had created for himself.
But he had made it clear that he didn’t want her.
Feeling desolate, she made her way back to the main hall.
By now the doctor must be upstairs examining Scott.
The household was strangely quiet, as if the staff was holding its collective breath.
“Is there something you require, Miss Ridley?” the butler inquired, rising from a chair near the staircase.
“Yes.” Madeline approached the marble steps, half-afraid that he would stop her from ascending. “I would like to know where Mr. Scott’s room is located.”
The butler was expressionless, but Madeline sensed his inner consternation. She knew that he and the servants were unclear about her relationship with Scott, whether she was merely an employee like themselves, or perhaps his latest paramour.
“The doctor is with him, miss,” the butler said carefully. “If the parlor isn’t to your liking, perhaps there is another place you would prefer to wait—”
“I would prefer to go to his room,” Madeline said evenly, imitating the crisp tone she had always heard her mother use with the servants.
“Yes, Miss Ridley,” came the reluctant reply. The butler rang for a footman and instructed the servant to show her to Scott’s private rooms in the east wing.
The hall was illuminated by a long row of windows that shed light on four alcoves filled with statues, including one of a nude female bathing, which caused Madeline to color.
Passing through an arch of gleaming mahogany, she entered a distinctly masculine suite of rooms with rich mahogany paneling, a set of antique German maps framed in carved rosewood, and Persian rugs underfoot.
The footman brought her to a closed door, where Mrs. Beecham was waiting. A housemaid stood nearby, ready to go running for any item that might be requested.
Mrs. Beecham’s brows lifted as she saw Madeline. “Miss Ridley…didn’t you find the parlor comfortable?”
“I wanted to find out if there has been any word yet.”
Mrs. Beecham shook her head. “The doctor is still with him. I will inform you as soon as there is any news. In the meantime, the maid will accompany you to the receiving rooms downstairs.”
Madeline prepared herself for an argument. “I would rather—”
She was interrupted by the click of the doorknob as the valet opened it from within. Falling silent, she waited as the doctor emerged.
Dr. Brooke was a man in his thirties, with a receding hairline and a pair of round spectacles that gave him an owlish look. He had a kind face and dark, solemn eyes. His gaze fell on Mrs. Beecham, then Madeline.
“I am Miss Ridley,” Madeline said, coming forward. “I came to ask about Mr. Scott’s welfare. I am his…companion.”
The doctor took her hand and bowed politely.
“How is he?” the housekeeper asked.
Dr. Brooke’s gaze encompassed them both. “Recently I’ve seen many cases like this. I’m sorry to say that this appears to be one of the worst. Rather surprising for a man of Mr. Scott’s usual health…but he does nothing in moderation, does he?”
“I’m afraid not,” the housekeeper replied ruefully.
“I’ll visit again tomorrow, to see how the fever progresses,” the doctor continued. “Unfortunately he hasn’t yet come into the worst of it. Cool him with frequent applications of water and ice. I suggest feeding him jellies, broth, perhaps a spoonful of milk punch now and then.”
“I have an old family recipe that calls for steeping eucalyptus leaves in brandy,” Mrs. Beecham commented. “Might I give him a dose in the evenings?”
“I don’t see why not.” The doctor paused, his gaze lingering on Madeline. “Miss Ridley, may I ask if you intend to help care for Mr. Scott?”
“Yes,” Madeline said firmly.
“Then I suggest that you limit your association with people outside the household. The fever is highly contagious. I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that you may yet succumb to it.”
Mrs. Beecham regarded Madeline with a perplexed expression. “I suppose we’ll have to ready a room for you.”
Madeline understood the woman’s reluctance.
None of Scott’s staff had had any knowledge of her existence before now.
They obviously cared for their master and were wary of allowing someone to intrude on his privacy when he was helpless to prevent it.
“Thank you, Mrs. Beecham,” she said quietly.
“I assure you, my only intention is to help Mr. Scott…Logan…in every way I can.”
The housekeeper nodded, still looking troubled, and gave instructions to the maid. In the meanwhile, Dr. Brooke bid them farewell and departed in the company of the footman. Taking the initiative, Madeline slipped through the half-open doorway into the bedroom.
It was simply furnished and decorated, with no artwork except a view of clouds and sky painted on the ceiling.
The room contained a very large bed with a plum silk counterpane and feather pillows piled three deep at the headboard.
Scott lay covered with a sheet and light blanket, the counterpane folded back to his feet.
He had been dressed in a suit of flannels, the top half unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He slept as if he had been drugged, the side of his flushed face buried in a pillow.
As Madeline entered, the valet placed a jug of water and a pile of folded linens on the bedside table.
A small armchair had been positioned nearby, but Madeline chose to sit on the edge of the mattress.
The slight shift of her weight caused Logan to turn toward her with an incoherent mutter, his eyes still closed. His breath scraped in his throat.
“It’s all right,” Madeline said softly, soaking a linen cloth in the water, wringing it out and laying it on his hot forehead.
The coolness seemed to soothe him, and he relaxed deeper into the pillow.
She reached out and dared to stroke his beautiful hair, as she had so often longed to do.
It was soft and thick beneath her fingers, like dark silk burnished with mahogany.
She studied his face, the pallor of his skin emphasizing the stark beauty of his bone structure.
His lashes lay in feathery crescents on his cheeks, the eyelids trembling slightly as he drifted through fever-induced dreams. Such a proud, solitary man, rendered helpless in sleep, his lips parted like those of a child.
If she were in love with him, it would devastate her to see him this way.
Madeline sat without moving, trying to understand the dull pain that had settled in her chest. If she were in love with him, the ache would never leave. The memories of him would haunt her every day for the rest of her life…because there would never be another man like him.
Briefly she thought of her own dilemma. There was so little time for her.
Perhaps it was already too late, and her parents had discovered that she had left school.
If they had, they would be frantic with worry.
They would look for her—and once they found her, they would browbeat and threaten her until she crumpled under the pressure.
She would end up as Lord Clifton’s bride in spite of her best efforts to resist. Unless she were damaged goods.