Chapter Nine
While the duke was being cossetted by his aunt, Martha showed Jane to her guest room. The whole way there, Martha chattered about her stay at Rushton Hall: how pretty the gardens were; how comfortable the house was; how kindly she’d been treated by Lord Chumford and his mother.
The emphasis on Lord Chumford was not lost on Jane. He seemed to have made a strong impression on Martha. Jane could not remember the last time she’d seen Martha so excited about something—or, rather, someone.
When they reached Jane’s guestroom, Martha pulled a sealed letter out of her reticule. “Before I forget, this arrived for you this morning! It was sent by magic.” Her voice dropped to a whisper on the last word.
“Magic?” Jane accepted the letter with trepidation. In her experience, urgent news was rarely good.
Once Jane was alone, she broke the seal.
Amelia, Roderick’s wife, had written to inform Jane that the children were sick with what might be smallpox, though she hoped it was only chickenpox.
Amelia wasn’t terribly worried, but she confessed to being a little anxious about the baby, Roddie.
He had not broken out in blisters, but he seemed fussier than usual.
Amelia’s letter would have been concerning enough on its own, but the note that Susan Taylor had slipped inside the letter was outright alarming.
Susan was worried about both Roddie and Samuel, the son she and Abigail Carrington had adopted.
Sam was nearly a year old now, but still very delicate, and Susan was not sure whether the local apothecary would know how to treat so fragile a child.
Jane’s heart lurched when she read the line: Have you any idea when your visit might end? She recognized that as a plea for her swift return. More than anything else, it told her how serious the illness must be. Susan rarely panicked. If she was worried, there must be something to worry about.
She folded up the letter and turned to her maid, Bessie, who had begun to unpack Jane’s baggage. “You can leave that, Bessie. I do not need to unpack after all. And you had better help Martha pack her things.”
Bessie’s eyes widened. “Pack her things, ma’am? I thought we weren’t leaving ’til tomorrow.”
“That was the plan,” Jane agreed. “But things have changed. We need to get home as soon as possible. I will go make my apologies to Lady Chumford.” She straightened her shoulders and stood as tall as she could, but she could not banish the frown on her face.
She never enjoyed disappointing people, especially people who had been as generous as Lady Chumford.
Bessie shook her head. “Miss Howell isn’t going to like leaving in such a hurry,” she predicted. “She and Lord Chumford were getting quite comfortable together, if you take my meaning.”
Jane soon discovered that her maid was right. Martha usually bore disappointments with quiet stoicism, but this change of plan overset her. She sat down on her bed with an audible thump and stared bleakly at Jane.
Jane sat next to Martha and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She hated crushing her cousin’s happiness. “I am sorry to have to take you away so suddenly. But we would have left Rushton soon, anyway.”
Martha shook her head vehemently. “We cannot leave so abruptly! He will think us rude and ungrateful and. . . and. . .” She choked up as tears spilled down her face.
Jane handed Martha a handkerchief. She did not need to be told who “he” was.
“He will think no such thing. Lord Chumford seems to be a sensible, responsible young man. He no doubt understands about familial obligations and will not blame you for having to leave in a hurry.” She would do her best to make certain any blame fell on herself rather than Martha.
Fortunately, Lord Chumford and his mother responded to the emergency with sympathy, concern—and, in His Lordship’s case, obvious disappointment.
He asked a few confused questions about their travel plans, and Jane wondered if he was trying to ask whether they anticipated returning to the north of England in the future.
She wished she had a better answer for him.
Could she manufacture a reason to return to Yorkshire?
“It is a pity Lawrence is still resting,” Lady Chumford said. “Ought we to wake him? He will not be happy to have missed your departure, Lady Carrington.”
That stopped Jane in her tracks. She had nearly forgotten about the duke. Or, more accurately, she had tried to avoid thinking about him.
She would have liked to bid him a proper farewell, but she still remembered her last glimpse of his face: white and lined with fatigue and pain from rattling in a carriage all morning. Jane had feared Lawrence might collapse when his niece descended upon him in a storm of repentant tears.
“No,” she told Lady Chumford. “Do not disturb His Grace. I am sure he needs to rest. Please tell him how sorry I am not to see him one more time, though.”
As she walked away, Jane told herself that it was foolish to grieve over the end of such a brief friendship.
When all was said and done, she was merely a gentlewoman who preferred a quiet life in the country.
The Duke of Belmont, on the other hand, was one of the most important figures in the aristocracy.
She had little to do with his world, and she preferred it that way.
So she told herself.
*
It took four days to travel from Rushton Hall to Carrington Abbey. By the time Jane and Martha returned, it had become clear that the Carrington children were ill with chickenpox rather than smallpox. Both babies were already on the mend, but the disease had spread throughout the household.
Chickenpox! Jane shook her head at the sight of the familiar blisters. It might not be as deadly as smallpox, but it was bad enough. Especially now that Roderick had it.
“I could have sworn I already had chicken pox,” her son fretted. “Didn’t I have them when I was five? I am sure I remember being stuck inside for weeks during the best part of summer.”
“That was measles,” Jane corrected. “You were away at school when the younger children had chickenpox.”
At least, Abigail and Peregrine had had them. Probably Cosmo, too. She could not remember whether Hannah had ever had chickenpox, but it did not really matter. Hannah was safely away from home. Amelia had already written to tell her to stay in Bath until everyone recovered.
“I am sorry you shortened your trip on account of us,” Amelia said. “Especially as it turned out to be nothing more than chickenpox—”
Jane swiftly interrupted her. “No need to apologize, my dear. Chickenpox can be quite serious for adults. Especially for adults who keep insisting that they do not need to stay in bed while they recover.” She looked pointedly at Roderick.
“But I don’t need to stay in bed all day,” Roderick insisted. “It’s a just a little fever and a few spots.” He scratched at a spot on his arm.
Amelia caught Jane’s eye and smiled ruefully, as if to say, “You see what it’s been like?”
“Nonsense,” Jane told her son. “Chickenpox is even worse for adults than for children. You will heal more quickly if you rest. And you should not scratch yourself!”
Roderick glared at her, but at least he stopped scratching.
“Why don’t I fetch my embroidery?” Jane suggested. “I can keep you company while I work.” Amelia undoubtedly had her hands full with the children.
But where was her workbag? A single glance in Jane’s satchel confirmed it was not there.
It might yet be buried somewhere at the bottom of her trunk, but she couldn’t imagine how it would have gotten there.
She’d used it frequently during her stay at the farmhouse.
In fact, that’s where she last remembered seeing it: resting on a table beside the duke’s bed.
Her heart sank. She’d left her embroidery at the Lofthouse farm, hadn’t she? At least, she had no memory of packing it. Hours of stitching, lost! Her fingers ached just thinking of all the work she’d have to redo.
Was it too much to hope that Lilias forgot all about the promised beetle dress?