Chapter 7 #3
Hetty got to her feet and carefully prised the empty wine glass from Mr Bramwell’s increasingly slack fingers.
His breathing was deep and steady, and she felt a little surge of satisfaction that her plan had worked so beautifully.
She had only intended for him to sit still and relax for a moment or two, not fall asleep, but his exhaustion was clearly bone deep.
Setting the glass down on the table, she reached for his coat, which was about to slide off the back of the chair. Giving it a little shake before she folded it with more care than he had, she looked down as an envelope fell from the inside pocket.
Hetty bent and picked it up, about to slide it back inside when the sender’s name caught her eye.
Hollywell House. Horrified at having invaded his privacy, which was the last thing she had intended, she put it back and laid the coat carefully upon another chair, out of the way.
Yet the name of the house stuck in her mind, and she knew very well what it meant.
They’d had a great aunt taken to the place when she was a child.
It had all been hushed up, naturally, but Great Aunt Mildred had been…
unwell. When it had become clear she was a danger to herself as well as others, there had been little choice, but her behaviour had been deeply upsetting, and even Hetty’s indomitable grandmother had been terrified that the servants might talk, and word get around that they’d had her committed to a mental asylum.
She had died years ago now, but the name of Hollywell House had become synonymous in Hetty’s mind with shame and fear and the horror of mental illness of the kind no doctor could cure.
Was Mr Bramwell coping with this too, on top of the pressure of work?
Was the letter about someone he loved? Hollywell House was one of the best private asylums in the country.
It was expensive, and Mr Bramwell did not strike her as a man with deep pockets, else he might not strive so publicly and fiercely to succeed, when gentlemen simply did not do such things.
Or at least, must not be seen to do them.
Compassion swelled in her breast as she looked down at him, fast asleep. The harsh lines of his face smoothed out in slumber, making him look younger, more carefree, perhaps how he might look if he had not taken so much upon himself.
Hetty wished she could help him, could do something practical, not just manipulate and trick him into putting his feet up for an hour or two.
“Well, now you have him, what are you going to do with him?”
Hetty jumped as Gee-Gee’s voice sounded close behind her.
“Let him sleep for a little while,” Hetty said, attempting to sound as though it was entirely normal to have a gentleman caller fast asleep in her presence.
Gee-Gee made her way onto the terrace and looked at Mr Bramwell thoughtfully. “It was well done of you, though I warn you, he may not feel so kindly about it. It will do him good, though. If ever there was a young man with the weight of the world on his shoulders, it’s this one.”
Hetty tore her fascinated gaze from the sleeping form of Mr Bramwell and looked around to see Gee-Gee making herself comfortable. Howard arrived to enquire if she required anything.
“Yes, a glass for that wine, and some of those biscuits, and you may take yourself off, Hetty. It won’t do for you to be here while the man is sleeping, he’ll be mortified for one thing. Far safer if you leave now. I’ll watch over him, don’t you fret.”
Hetty opened her mouth to protest, only to be met with Gee-Gee’s implacable gaze.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said resignedly, and took herself off to get ready for her ride with Cilly.
Gideon sighed, stretching luxuriously. That had been a good night’s sleep for once. He didn’t know how he had managed it, for he slept ill as a rule, waking often during the night, but this time…
He opened his eyes, squinting against the sun, which was sinking with a delicate halo of peach and gold. Totally disorientated, he sat up with a start, looking around him, even more bewildered upon coming face to face with the Dowager Duchess of Hawkney.
Then it came back to him.
“What the devil did she put in that wine?” he demanded.
The old woman chuckled. “Not a thing, and I’ve had three glasses.
A shame to waste it. You were just worn out, as Lady Henrietta could see as plainly as I could.
Men will believe themselves indestructible, however, and so now and then us ladies must be a little underhand to make you see what is obvious to anyone with eyes. ”
“Which is?” Gideon asked tersely, feeling horribly awkward at having fallen asleep in front of Hetty and then stayed that way for God knows how long in the company of the dowager. Good Lord, what if he’d snored?
She upended the last of the bottle of wine into her glass and sat back with it, studying him curiously.
“That you are making yourself ill. I don’t know why you are driving yourself so hard, anyone can see the hotel is in capable hands and the build progressing nicely.
Why you feel the need to work such long hours, I cannot fathom, unless you are of the notion that Mr King is liable to make you disappear if you put a foot wrong?
I’ll grant you his reputation is somewhat…
shall we say, shady, but I believe he has put such behaviour behind him. ”
An unsettling prickling sensation skittered down his back. “How do you know what hours I keep?”
The dowager chuckled. “Never lived in a small town, have you? My housekeeper’s sister lives across the street from you. I’m told there are lights blazing until the early hours of the morning, and you leave the house before six. What do you get, three hours sleep, four at most?”
Gideon pushed to his feet, aware he ought not to stand before such a woman, but too desperate to make his escape to care. “If you will forgive me for speaking frankly, I do not see what business it is of yours. Unless you believe I am unfit to continue in my work? Is that it?”
“Oh, don’t fly up into the boughs,” she said crossly. “You know very well it is nothing of the sort. I like you, though you are stubborn and rude. Hetty likes you too. Neither of us wish to see you fail.”
“You think I shall?” He grasped hold of the indignation that assailed him at the suggestion, rather than latch onto the curiously warm sensation that had flooded him upon hearing the words, Hetty likes you too.
“Don’t go putting words in my mouth. I said no such thing, nor implied it. Only that you might risk it if you don’t take a little care. Go home, Mr Bramwell. Get the sleep you so badly need and start afresh tomorrow. The world will seem far brighter if you do.”
“I thank you for the advice,” he said, striving to sound polite and grateful as he reached for his coat. He gave a stiff bow. “And for your hospitality.”
The dowager’s eyes glinted, clearly aware of his bristling pride and his irritation at not being able to tell her to go to the devil. “You are welcome, Mr Bramwell.”