Chapter 11
Alice ran through her list of pleasantries as she waited in the entryway for her guests to arrive, her fingers twisting in the folds of her gown.
Breakfast had been laid out for them that morning; then the guests had been given space to explore the house and grounds until lunch.
Now all who were interested would be gathering to partake in the beginning of an amateur theatrical.
Alice breathed deeply through her nose, then out through her mouth. This was one of her least favorite parts of the party, but it was generally well received and had been beloved by George. As long as she did not get pressured into performing as she had the year before, she would be just fine.
No was a single word; it ought to be easy enough to say if asked.
Miss Fawcet descended the stairs, a bright smile on her comely face.
Here was a woman that Alice was surprised had not married.
She had connections enough, money enough, and beauty enough.
But her aunt’s closest friend lived on the island and had recommended her; having met her very micromanaging mother, Alice was beginning to understand.
“It seems I am the first to arrive?” Miss Fawcet asked, surveying the otherwise empty area.
Alice nodded.
“Wonderful. My mother desperately hates it if I am late—she will be pleased.” She reached the foot of the stairs, her light gown swaying. “I have to say, I am more than a little excited for this adventure. A theatrical? How fun. What will we be enacting?”
They always did the same play—Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Though it was not terribly en vogue, it fit well with her theme of matchmaking, and was generally entertaining to all those who took part.
The two Mr. Warrens, brothers a handful of years apart, entered the room. The younger came to Miss Fawcet’s side, while the elder looked to Alice. “And will you be joining us, Mrs. Seymour?” he asked, his voice deep.
No was a single word.
Alice gave a smile that to her felt rather painful, but would appear serene to anyone else. “If I’m desired.”
“Of course you are,” Miss Fawcet chimed in.
“Oh, well—” No was proving a rather difficult word, it would seem.
A flood of others joined, and surprisingly, Sir Henry was with them. His skin was pale, and beads of sweat seemed to dot his forehead. Just that morning, Miss Ainsley had been to the kitchen again for more tisane for the man.
Why had he come down?
A commotion at the front door signaled the arrival of more of the party from the grounds.
Alice felt torn between greeting them and watching Sir Henry.
He truly looked terrible. Should she insist he return to his room?
When another guest descended the stairs, she felt even more divided.
But by then enough of the group was there that she recommended they sojourn to the drawing room, where they might begin doling out parts.
Miss Watts and Lord Danbury led the way, and Alice—with nods and smiles for the people walking past her—hung back, eyes flitting continually back to the baronet.
He appeared one strong breeze away from toppling.
“Sir Henry?” Alice whispered, as the last of the group filtered past. “Are you well?”
His cravat was askew and loose and she had to refrain from adjusting it for him.
“I, yes—” He pressed his eyes closed and swayed on his feet.
She looked around; they were the only two remaining. “Forgive me, but you do not seem healthy, Sir Henry. I think you should—”
His eyes rolled back, and he slumped to the ground.
Alice jumped away, stunned. Only moments after he’d fallen, he began to stir. “Sir Henry?” she asked even as she looked around for a servant to help. “Sir Henry,” she said a little louder.
He blinked, unfocused eyes opening. His hand lifted to his head. “What . . . ?”
She knelt beside him. “You fainted, Sir Henry. If you are able, I will help you to your room.” No footman had magically appeared to assist, and she could not leave him prone on the stone floor of her entrance hall.
He nodded, the action slow. Then he began to push himself up to a stand.
It was an arduous process, but eventually he was upright and she grasped his elbow, not certain if he would need her support, and equally uncertain if holding his arm would provide any.
A maid appeared down the hall, and Alice called to her to see that refreshments were brought to those in the drawing room.
That would detain the group long enough for Alice to see Sir Henry settled.
He hobbled along beside her, breath labored as he traversed the stairs.
He stumbled to the side, and, worried, she wrapped her arm fully around his waist to support him.
His head was several inches above her own, and his solid weight dragged on her until they made it to his room.
She pushed the door open with her free hand and saw him to the bed.
He collapsed onto it, pulling frantically at his neckcloth.
“Mrs. Seymour. I-I am so sorry. I—” His words turned to a groan.
Alice couldn’t look at him—together in his room as they were—but she couldn’t leave him either.
She busied herself pulling his curtains closed and pouring cool water into the basin on the dressing table.
When she could avoid it no longer, she dipped a cloth in the water and turned, bringing the wet rag back to him.
His eyes caught hers—pain and desperation in their depths.
She stilled, her gaze darting to the cloth in her hand and remaining glued there as if it would fly away should she stop her vigil.
This was a highly personal moment she was intruding upon.
She needed to get him settled and be on her way. Immediately.
She forced her feet back into movement and her hands to remain steady as she approached the bed and laid the cloth across his forehead.
Some of his hair became stuck beneath it, and she brushed it away with quick fingers.
“Do not worry yourself. Just stay in bed.” Her voice was exasperated, but she suspected she was leaning into frustration in order to avoid fixating on the feeling of being here beside his bed, touching his head and hair in far too familiar a fashion.
She pulled her hand back, taking several steps away. His eyes were still closed. He might even have fallen asleep.
But then his raspy voice touched her ears. “Thank you.”
She didn’t trust herself to respond.
Martha looked at Alice with pitying eyes as she entered the kitchen that evening. “A difficult day, dear?”
Alice dropped onto a stool, shoulders slumped.
Sir Henry’s had been the first—and most memorable—in a string of disappointments.
The theatrical practice had not gone well.
Somehow, the group had learned of Sir Henry’s episode, and most of the attendees had been more interested in that than in Shakespeare.
The majority of them had spoken of him and his becoming sick with disdain, as if somehow it were his fault.
It frustrated her. Despite how little she knew of the gentleman, she found herself wanting to stand up for him in the face of their derision.
As it was, she said nothing, not wishing to ruffle any feathers nor knowing exactly what to say. Which then left her disappointed in herself.
Dinner was fine enough, but two footmen had not arrived for their posts, and when Alice had gone to find them, she’d been informed that they were given the evening off.
Which might have been fine, except Alice had not been told.
Then hardly anyone touched the dessert and nearly everyone had retired early following the meal.
Which meant they’d not been interested in the reading she’d planned.
A failure. The entire day.
At last, she’d returned to her room to find Mercy pulling dresses from her wardrobe, claiming they were out of date and ought to be donated.
The maid might have been right, but Alice could not take the clear usurping of her power on top of the rest of the day, so she’d turned on her heel and fled to the kitchen.
Instead of giving her something to help prepare for the next day, Martha slid a bowl of pudding in front of Alice and patted her on the shoulder. Alice looked up with a grateful expression. “You are a godsend.”
Wiping her hands on her apron, Martha said, “I don’t know about all of that, dear.”
Alice picked up her spoon and ladled some of the treat into her mouth.
She sighed with pleasure, letting her shoulders hunch forward and forgetting her propriety for a moment.
This was partly why the kitchens always drew her.
Certainly she’d grown to enjoy helping with the meals and being with the person who seemed the least judgmental and the safest to be around.
But it also reminded her of when she’d sneak to the kitchens growing up and be given that biscuit she hadn’t been allowed because of performing poorly in her lessons.
Or just finding a listening ear in the servants that she’d not had in her mother.
Without Martha, Alice was unsure how she would survive.
“I am certain tomorrow will be better,” her cook said. “Now I’ve got to gather some herbs for tomorrow, but you stay right there and tell me everything when I’m back.”
Alice stopped her with her words. “Why are you working alone so late, Martha? Where are the maids to help you?”
A surprisingly cross look flitted through her cook’s expression. She twisted her hands in her apron but just said, “Several of the girls are unavailable. I . . . I believe they may feel unwell.”
Alice pushed her pudding aside. Unwell? Either Sir Henry’s illness was catching or . . .
“Are they truly unwell, Martha?” Alice asked, her voice quiet.
Martha’s wrinkles deepened, her mouth turning down. “I believe so. But I have not myself checked.”
The women shared a look. Long and tired, the both of them. Tired of this continued fight.
“I do not condone the smuggling, Martha. I pay my staff well enough; they need not seek additional funds elsewhere.”
Martha came closer, letting the twisted apron drop from her hands. “Some have no choice, Alice. You know how it is. If their fathers and brothers and mothers are involved, they have to help.”
“Is that where the two footmen meant to be attending dinner tonight are?” Alice barely held back a sigh.
No matter how much she tried to remove the stain of smuggling from her household, the island was too deeply entrenched.
It seemed she was bailing out a rowboat with a cannon hole in the floor.
But smuggling was illegal. Dangerous. Her husband had fought against it on behalf of the Royal Navy with vigor.
Why could she not keep it from her door as he had?
“I truly do not know, ma’am.”
It was the ma’am that stopped Alice. “You know I am not angry with you, Martha. It just seems so hopeless at times. But I could not forgive myself if one of my servants were hanged for the offense, when I could have put an end to it.” Even if their loyalty still lay at the feet of Alice’s late husband, Alice cared for those in her charge.
This was her home, the first place to feel like such since Papa had died.
“I know it,” Martha said, brushing the front of her apron now. “It is a good thing that you are doing here. Do not give up.”
Alice smiled gratefully. “Do you need help?” she asked, gesturing toward the kitchen garden.
“No, dear, I’ll be but a few minutes.”
Alice nodded, and the woman slipped outside.
Behind her, the door to the house opened. Alice startled, her mind still caught on smugglers and gallows and hopelessness. But it was only Miss Ainsley in the doorway. The woman appeared annoyed, her lips tight and her hand on the door similarly clenched.
Alice stood. “Is everything well?”
“Henry will not admit his stupidity, and yet here I am again getting medicine for him.”
Alice cocked her head, trying to understand. At the moment, she felt nothing but pity for the man. “Certainly he was not in his best mind, trying to join the party when he was so sick.”
Miss Ainsley scoffed. “That’s just it. He is claiming to be sick when it is clear that is not the problem.
The problem”—she put emphasis on her words, as if she’d said them many times and was used to not being listened to—“is that the man is always halfway to drunk. It is vexing in the extreme. I suppose he’s chosen to go off it though, for he said he’s not had a drink since arriving here.
Oh, Ms. Martha, I had hoped for another of your tisanes for my brother, if it is not too much of a bother.
” She directed the last of her words to the cook who had just stepped through the door.
Miss Ainsley relayed the needs to Martha, thankfully unaware of how very cold Alice’s midsection had gone. Drunk? Sir Henry?
That was why he was so sick?
His sister may think he’d chosen to give up drink of his own accord, but Alice knew it was only because he could not get any in her home. Her hand tightened around the spoon.
She ought to have listened to those strange feelings she was having toward the man.
Her subconscious must have known something was wrong and been trying to warn her.
But he’d been so kind to her—so considerate in his actions and conversation thus far.
She took a steadying breath, and it seemed to be filled with the ghostly scent of alcohol from days past. Her eyes closed as the room seemed to swim with memories.
“Are you well, Mrs. Seymour?” Miss Ainsley was back and had her hand placed on Alice’s forearm, expression concerned.
Alice blinked. “Yes. Yes, I apologize. Only, I just realized that I’ve forgotten something. Would you mind if I . . . ” She looked around, trying to find an excuse to leave.
“Do not stay on my account. I need to wait for Henry’s tisanes and take them up to him.”
Alice mumbled something in reply and retreated from the room.
She’d known there was something wrong with the man. Something beyond the occasional lapse in judgment regarding his brotherly duties.
He was a drunk.
And she would not become associated with a drunk. Not again.