Chapter 2 #3
“York, probably. English doctors, both our physicians and surgeons, are regarded as little better than quacks on the Continent. Our physicians don’t truly examine the patient, and our surgeons don’t study medicine.
The best medical professionals we have are trained in Scotland, where they are taught to do both. ”
To Richard’s amazement and relief, Miss Fielding finished her drink.
“I am not on the Continent, my lord. Have never been and will probably go to my eternal reward in the same state. I have done what I can for Orla—and what she allows me to do. As the newly fledged head of the Blackstock family, and Orla’s nephew, you are welcome to order her about all you wish.”
Said with a bland smile.
“Will the staff be laying bets on my success?”
The smile warmed. “By sundown. Farthing points only, with a tally at month’s end. The senior parlormaid, Clementina, is heading the pack thus far. Kepler, the butler, pretends not to notice, but the housekeeper holds an occasional bet for him.”
“Like an office full of clerks, and we must not begrudge them their amusements. The gingerbread is quite good.”
“Thank you. I will convey your compliments to Cook.”
Richard let a silence spring up, hoping that Miss Fielding might ask him a question or two.
What is it like, being fired into the peerage like a Congreve rocket missing its tail stick?
Where is your home? Did you truly just make the acquaintance of a half-brother you’d never met previously? Do you miss Portugal?
She instead took another visual inventory of the room, as if the flowers might have sneaked a few inches away from the center of the sideboard, or the porcelain shepherdess might have perched in the grass beside her pair of adoring lambs.
“Miss Fielding, we are to be family of a sort. Is there anything I ought to tend to first, any pressing need nobody will explain to me until the worst has occurred?”
When Richard had been new to the business of shipping port wine, he’d neglected to ask that sort of question—what don’t I know that I need to know?—and nearly failed before he’d begun.
Miss Fielding’s gimlet gaze paused on her empty glass of lemonade, though calling that drink lemonade was akin to calling a lethal, four-barreled pistol a peashooter.
“You already don’t trust the solicitors,” she said.
“You are worried for your aunt, and you intend to do your duty by your sister. I’d say you’ve reconnoitered the terrain fairly accurately, my lord.
The steward is a good sort—he’s been on the job for ages—and Kepler is more loyal to the house than an old dog to his hearth rug.
“The whole household,” she went on, “the entire estate, for that matter, has been on tenterhooks for years. Now that you’re here, you should anticipate a positive reception. You are better than nothing, and that’s about all that’s required of you.”
What a lowering assessment, and yet, it revealed that Miss Fielding had learned to keep her expectations modest. Very modest.
“I realize I am imposing,” he said, taking another piece of gingerbread and dabbing extra butter atop it. “I should have sent word ahead, but I didn’t want one of those ancient domestic rituals with everybody lining up on the drive or all the village boys dragging the coach in from the gateposts.”
“Hauling the coach up the drive is the ritual for a new bride and groom, my lord.”
“My coachman will be relieved to hear it. He does fret about his cattle. What I’m saying is…”
Miss Fielding brushed a puzzled glance over him. “Yes?”
“If I might have a bath, a tray of sandwiches, and a nap, I would be most obliged. I’d like to meet my aunt this afternoon.”
“Orla won’t slip away just yet, my lord. Even the quacks on hand say she has appreciable time left.”
“But then she will slip away, and she was well acquainted with my mother. I know not one other soul who can tell me of Mama’s younger years.”
“Hence the mad dash from London?”
Richard nodded. No point prevaricating with this woman, much less attempting to lie.
“I see.” Miss Fielding rose. “When would you like to meet your sister?”
Richard stood, not only because manners required it, but also because after sitting in a coach for hours, he needed to move. “Aunt Orla first, Wealtha before supper.”
“Very well. I will escort you to Orla’s sitting room at, shall we say, three of the clock? She will be overjoyed to meet you, but you must promise not to tire her. Do I tell her that you’ve arrived?”
“If you think it best. The same with Wealtha.”
“I will inform them both, then. The staff will learn you’re on hand if they’re to ready an apartment for you, and they are not proficient at keeping secrets.”
She crossed the room and took down a volume bound in green leather.
“Orla is a talented artist. You will be pleased to know that our former vicar, Mr. Whidman, accepted the living at St. Bevan Underhill more than forty years ago.
He knew your mother, and his memory is sharper than diamonds.
Mr. Fothergill, our local folklorist, is equally blessed with vivid recollections.
“Granny Wexler is nearing eighty,” Miss Fielding went on, passing the sketchbook to Richard, “and she will have some stories for you as well. Wealtha at her best puts all the elders in mind of a young Marie Tuffington, though Wealtha, of course, bears no resemblance to your mother. I’ll send the housekeeper along, and she will show you to your rooms presently. ”
Richard bowed. “My thanks. Until three of the clock.”
With a final visual sweep of the room, Miss Fielding departed. Her heels beat a firm tattoo on the runner, while Richard resisted the urge to maintain eyes front, parade inspection posture in her absence.
In a brisk, direct way, Miss A-as-in-Awesome Amabel Fielding could be kind. Richard had no doubt she could also be stubborn, opinionated, relentless, and rigid. Heaven help the man who tracked mud onto her carpets or wore his spurs into her parlor.
He locked the door, took the chair nearest the window, and opened the sketchbook.