Chapter Nineteen #2
Another knock on the door revealed two of the housemaids, one bringing in a low wash pan and an empty bucket, the other a kettle of hot water and a stack of thick towels. Judith cocked an eyebrow at Epworth, who directed the maids to place everything in front of the fire.
Epworth then faced her directly. “You will feel better once we get you and the bed cleaned up, resupplied with fresh rags, the hot tea in your belly, and the brick at your back.” As Judith started to speak, Epworth held up a hand. “Do not argue. You know this to be true.”
The two women stared at each other, then Judith let her shoulders sag. “I hate feeling weak.”
Epworth went into action, pouring hot water into the wash pan and retrieving Judith’s soap from her washstand.
“You are not weak. If men hurt this often and this badly, society would crumble.” She motioned for Judith to stand so she could remove her dressing gown and night rail.
“Let us make quick work of this before you catch a chill.”
*
Friday, 12 August 1814
Mark Rydell’s Bloomsbury residence
Seven in the evening
Mark peered down at the woman who had delivered the missive a few moments before.
They stood in the small front parlor of the house, where Howe, with a scowl of suspicion on his rosy face, had led her after she had arrived at the same back door where Judith had stood only last week.
Howe had announced her only as “Lady Sculthorpe’s lady’s maid” and backed out of the room, hovering in the foyer, glowering.
The woman had handed Mark the foolscap without a word. He read it twice as she waited, expressionless, her austere, black muslin dress as still as her body, and now he looked from it to her and back, a little puzzled.
Yesterday’s late-night message had been delivered by a sleepy hall boy who had barely stood upright, and it had left Mark exhilarated.
This, however, was no hall boy. Her posture and her uniform indicated her much loftier position.
Mark read the note again, any sense of anticipation withering into disappointment and confusion.
Unfortunate change of plans. A visitor, expected but forgotten about, arrived two days early during the night. Will send word soon for resumption of plans. Apologies.
He cleared his throat. “Epworth, I presume.”
A single nod.
“You might have sent a messenger.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but I suspected Lady Sculthorpe may have been more self-sacrificing and discreet with her words than she needed to be.”
He glanced at the foolscap. “I am not sure what—”
“I realize I am speaking out of turn, with a liberty I have no right to, but I have cared for Lady Sculthorpe for more than twenty years. She has a long history of putting others first, carefully guarding those around her from any sort of . . . embarrassment . . . even when she should give her own feelings a priority.”
Mark felt as if he were circling a muddy drain. If Judith’s note had not been confusing enough. “I am quite unsure—”
“She is in a great deal of pain, which I doubt she mentioned in her note.”
That got his attention. He stiffened, on alert. “She did not. Why is she in pain? What kind of pain? Is she taking any remedy?”
“Ginger-and-motherwort tea. Yarrow. A hot brick to her back.”
Mark stilled. He had grown up in a household consisting mostly of men, but even he knew why women took those teas.
Stella had been an advocate of them—along with some more potent cures—as had some of his previous mistresses.
“Women’s troubles” were not foreign to him—nor women’s wariness about men during their courses. “She does not want to see me.”
“Because she does not wish to embarrass you. But I know my lady well. She could use some plain comfort.” She cleared her throat, twin spots of red appearing on her cheeks. “If you are willing. Simple comfort. Not, my lord, the kind her gentlemen visitors usually provide.”
“Yes, well . . .”
“And she has clearly missed you. I can see it in everything she does, the way she speaks about you.”
“If she knew you were speaking to me—”
“I might lose my position. Yes.”
“Epworth, my connection with Lady Sculthorpe—”
“She needs something more.”
Mark’s eyebrows arched.
Epworth swallowed hard, her posture sagging somewhat.
“I do understand, my lord, how out of line I am being. But in twenty years, I have never seen Lady Sculthorpe work so persistently to save her family, nor have I seen her so close to her wit’s end.
To feel so . . . alone. Nor have I seen her respond to anyone, anyone, the way she has to you.
It’s as if you have injected some sort of hope into her being.
Something she has never shown before. Ever.
I have prayed it is something she could give to you as well. If you both can see it.”
Hope.
Not a word common in Mark’s life. And that craving within him seemed to expand, clutching his very soul. “You have risked rather a lot in coming here.”
Epworth nodded. “Much more than I had planned to when I decided to bring the note myself.”
“Why would you do this?”
The red in Epworth’s cheeks spread, and she swallowed hard. “Because I am in her debt.”
“How so?”
Her hands clenched at her side. “My loyalty is and always has been to Lady Sculthorpe.” Her gaze darted away to some far spot, then back to his face. “She has been my first priority most of my life. But I”—her voice faltered—“I failed her, when I did not tell her about her son’s . . . iniquities.”
“You knew Lord Sculthorpe was in trouble.”
A single nod. “We all did. The servants. They—the earl and countess—threatened our positions if we spoke out.”
“Or if you told her.”
Another nod. “Even to her. When she realized the . . . duplicity . . . she was furious with me. Rightfully so. I am only telling you because—”
“Because I already know.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And what ‘plain comfort’ do you think I can bring to Lady Sculthorpe?”
She studied him a moment, then cleared her throat. “Women sometimes find a hot brick or a hot water bottle to the back or belly or feet eases the pain. But a brick cools quickly. It cannot provide an ongoing heat. Or pressure. Or soft words.”
Ah. “You think I should return her gift to me in kind.”
“It was a thought.”
“An uncommon one.”
Epworth remained silent.
He glanced down at the note again. “You know her original plans?”
Her hands relaxed at her sides. “I do.”
“And your role in them?”
Another nod.
“Then let us proceed this evening as nothing has changed.” Mark folded the note and tucked it into his pocket. “However, if she expresses any displeasure at my presence, I will leave immediately.” He paused. “This will be a risk for both of us.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mark took a step back. “Howe.”
His valet, now butler, instantly appeared in the doorframe. “Please escort Miss Epworth back to Sculthorpe Manor.”
Both servants looked startled, exchanging quizzical glances that almost made Mark laugh. “It is late, clouds are beginning to gather, and Miss Epworth is a respectable woman. Pretend for the next half hour that you are a gentleman, one who has an umbrella.”
Howe’s face turned almost purple as he cleared his throat, gesturing for Epworth to move ahead of him and glanced once over his shoulder as he closed the parlor door.
Mark retreated to the fireplace and dropped into a wingback chair. He pulled out the note and looked at it again. Madness. This is pure madness. He had seen Judith angry, but this ran the chance of having her push him out of her life entirely. Insanity.
Still . . .
He wanted to do it. If he could offer her comfort of any kind, he wanted to.
And there was a possibility that he could offer more than his presence . . .