Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
He’d made sure that Lady Evangeline was settled comfortably in the suite of rooms on the upper floor. They were newly renovated specifically for her. Who could have known that his betrothed would see them well before their wedding?
He’d laid Evangeline down on the bed and her face had been flushed and feverish against the pillow. He snapped an order to send for Dr Huber, a military doctor in whom he held greater faith than the quack who’d seen to her earlier at the inn.
When the maid had brought in a bowl with water and a cloth, he’d personally taken it and bathed her forehead.
She was restless, tossing and turning, murmuring something under her breath.
When he leaned forward, he could decipher some unrelated words, English, no doubt, but he could make neither head nor tail of them.
He took her hand, muttering that everything was going to be all right and that she would be well soon, but she startled at his touch and his voice and pushed his hand away, and turned her head back and forth, anguished.
That’s right, to her he was a stranger, still. He could not offer any comfort, any solace. That made him feel oddly helpless, a feeling he was entirely unfamiliar with.
He ran his hand through his hair with a frustrated huff.
How could he be so entirely unable to comfort his own future wife?
The doctor, who’d arrived promptly, confirmed the diagnosis of measles. “Thankfully, it doesn’t appear to be a severe case, and with proper rest and care she should be back on her feet well within a fortnight.”
Georg stayed with her until dusk, when he finally left the room, leaving Clara in the care of two maids. He felt unsettled and in strong need of a drink.
Georg found Miss Honeywell interrogating Dr Huber in the hall below, as he was pulling on a coat, clearly preventing him from leaving.
“But I do not understand why you would not administer Dr James’s fever powder to her. It is said to cure all manner of illnesses, especially fever. They say it is a miracle powder, indeed.”
“I have heard of that powder, miss. And let me reliably state that the only miraculous element about it is its persistent use in England given that it has been created by a quack and does one thing: namely, nothing at all.”
“But surely Dr Robert James is not a quack! And the fever powder is a household staple. It is widely used in England. I do not understand why you, a doctor of medicine, are not acquainted with it.”
“As I said, miss, this Dr James is a quack.” He pressed his hat on his head.
“And instead of ingesting that fever powder, you might as well ingest a spoonful of flour. It has the same effect. If you truly want to help Lady Evangeline recover, stay away from such treatments and stick to mustard plasters, elderflower tea, and the most reliable remedy of all: rest. Ich empfehle mich.”
He gave her a curt nod and left.
Miss Honeywell remained standing in the hall, looking after Dr Huber, perplexed. “Flour indeed!” she huffed.
“Dr Huber is the best medical man in the entire Austrian army, with decades of experience in his field. His approach to medicine is no-nonsense and practical.” Georg looked down at her and found that her head barely reached his chin.
“I doubt it.” Miss Honeywell sniffed. “His experience in chopping off men’s limbs in the middle of battle is hardly the same thing as curing a gentle lady of the measles. Don’t you have any other doctor nearby? Someone who is a little more…refined?” She lifted her nose.
“Doctors don’t grow on the premises, Miss Honeywell,” he retorted sharply. “As to their level of refinement, as you so delicately put it, rest assured that when it comes to curing someone of an illness, that is the least important characteristic I look for. I value competence and practicality.”
She sniffed.
A drink! Where was his drink? He strode towards the sideboard and lifted the decanter, which was empty. That only increased his irritation. “Franz, bring me some Schnaps.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.” Franz was somewhat old and not the fastest on the premises. Yet he disappeared and promptly reappeared with some good Schnaps.
The woman followed him every step, chattering incessantly.
“Still, what he said about the fever powder can’t be right.
We use it all the time. In fact, when the entire house was down with the fever last winter—that is, everyone but me had it, I never fall ill, you know—our doctor administered the fever powder and everyone was up and about again within two days.
I swear it works, so I am certain that doctor of yours must be wrong.
Flour, indeed! I would never give flour to an ill person.
” She paused. “Although, I must say they did drink gallons of elderflower tea.” She paused again.
“Never say that it was the tea that cured them? Surely not.”
One, two glasses of Schnaps. It burned its way down but it was precisely what he needed. When he was finished, the poppet was still chattering.
“How very vexatious if that were the case. Has Clar—I mean, Lady Evie been given elderflower tea? And mustard plaster? And oh, I have recalled yet another method that we can try: Dr Rothely’s Purging Elixir. I am told it is the newest miracle cure. Do you happen to have some of that at hand?”
“Never heard of that, and unless you want to poison Lady Evangeline with these so-called miracle cures, I’d say stay well away from it.
Lady Evangeline is well taken care of. In fact, here is the maid bringing her supper.
” He stepped up to the maid, who was passing through the hall a bowl of broth on a tray.
He stopped her, lifted the spoon and tasted it.
“It is still too hot,” he informed the maid.
“Make sure to wait until it has cooled and use a fresh spoon. And make sure that whatever plaster you administer isn’t too cold.
She is frightened easily, so keep anything that might startle her to a minimum.
Lower your voices and keep the window darkened so the light doesn’t hurt her eyes. ”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
There was an odd expression flitting over Miss Honeywell’s face. But maybe he imagined it, because the very next moment, she schooled her face and it was perfectly amiable.
She folded her hands and smiled blandly. “How well you take care of Lady Evangeline. It is most commendable.”
The butler appeared, sparing him the necessity of a reply. “Supper is served, sir.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Miss Honeywell?” He gestured to the dining room.
She passed him, looking up at him through veiled eyes.
A whiff of violets entered his nostrils. Sweet, light, fleeting.
He wrinkled his nose.
To his relief, Schneider joined them for supper, so he did not have to entertain Miss Honeywell alone. But his initial relief quickly turned to annoyance. The man was far too eager in his attention towards Miss Honeywell, Georg found.
He had no clue why that would bother him.
And why he spent so much time observing the minutiae of Miss Honeywell’s appearance: the fine, copper hair that curled around her face, the slightly pointed chin, the little mole on her jaw close to her left ear, the heart-shaped mouth that was in constant motion, when all he could remember of his bride’s appearance was that she was vaguely fine looking.
That was rather intolerable, that he should find himself noticing such details about the companion rather than the woman he was to marry soon.
He frowned into his goulash soup.
It must stop. Now.
He managed to avoid Miss Honeywell for the greater part of the coming week, by locking himself in his study and devoting himself to estate work.
There was much to see to, for estates were not run on their own; while he had a capable steward, there was a great deal that needed to be attended to.
Then, there was the matter of the missing agent, and by now it was clear that something had happened to him; there was no word from him and he had not reported back to the War Council, either.
That was inconvenient, but there was nothing to be done about it.
As for Lady Evangeline, after the fever had broken, she began recovering nicely. The doctor predicted another week and she would be back on her feet. Just in time to return to Vienna for the official announcement of the engagement at the embassy.
At the thought, he felt his neckcloth was tied too tightly and he tugged at it. He would get the thing done and over with, as swiftly and efficiently as possible, as if it were yet another operation to get out of his way.
Afterwards, he’d return to his headquarters on the Rhine.
They would be seeing little of each other as it was. She would remain in Vienna, he would be in Germany, and he supposed that was the way of things.
He drummed his fingers on the tabletop.
He heard a bright, female voice from below.
His fingers stopped.
Then there was Miss Honeywell.
He was really quite busy and there was no need at all for him to get up from his desk and be thus irresistibly drawn to the window, to see what she was up to.
She was in the garden, frolicking with his dogs.
He watched her throw a ball and blinked in surprise when, rather than a weak toss, she threw it clear across the meadow, his dogs panting after it.
The woman had a strong arm, grant her that. Quite unusual for a duke’s sister’s English companion. Or maybe not?
This Miss Honeywell. She was a bit of a puzzle, was she not?
He frowned.
He couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but something was off with that woman. He felt it in his bones.
She embodied everything he despised in a woman.
Artificiality, vanity, silliness, helplessness, a tendency to swoon and weep.
Yesterday after supper, she’d declared that she had eaten so much she could not possibly take another step, and asked whether he would be so kind as to carry her upstairs.
For the steps on the stairs were so very many and her room was so far away.
Schneider had snorted into his glass, and he nearly had as well. Instead, he’d barked back that she had a perfectly healthy pair of legs which she’d better make use of.
Then he’d caught her batting her eyelids at him with a smirk, which gave him the feeling that she was mocking him.
Then she’d fainted more times than he could count, for the slightest thing would set her off into a swoon, with the cursed Schneider by her side, ready with hartshorn salt.
“I recommend you tie the vial around your neck,” he’d advised her.
Which, to his infinite exasperation, had caused her to burst into tears.
Really, every single thing would set the woman off, it was ridiculous.
Then, out of the blue, she was romping about the meadow wilder than a boy. He watched her lift her skirts and, in a shockingly hoydenish manner, race the dogs to the farther side of the garden.
He rubbed his eyebrow, perplexed.
That evening, after supper, Schneider suggested they play cards in the drawing room.
“Since there are three of us, let’s play L’Hombre.” He held out the card deck to Evie. “Miss Honeywell, why don’t you deal?”
“You are acquainted with the game, are you not?” Georg gestured for her to sit on the small sofa while he pulled up a chair for himself.
She threw him a withering glance. “Naturally. It is an old-fashioned game for elderly ladies.” She picked up the pack of cards and split the deck, but instead of the quieter, more elegant shuffling that ladies were wont to do, she held each pack down with a thumb and forced the edges together in a rapid riffling of cards.
It was a masculine, aggressive way to mix cards that was executed usually only by practised gamblers in men’s clubs.
It was rather improper for a gently bred lady to do this.
Georg’s eyebrows rose into his hairline.
Schneider’s jaw dropped.
Then she began shuttling them rapidly, tapping one pack on top of the other after every third shuffle, creating an interesting tonal pattern: snap-snap-snap-clap. Snap-snap-snap-clap.
“I will show you how a proper English gentlewoman plays cards.” She lifted the corner of her mouth into a small, lopsided smile.
Snap-snap-snap-clap.
Riffle.
Snap-snap-snap-clap.
Riffle.
Georg became very still.
A very old memory of a seedy little inn in the middle of the Alps resurfaced. Georg closed his eyes. He saw a boyish pair of hands perform precisely the same shuffling trick. The same peculiar rhythm.
“I will show you how a proper English gentleman plays cards.” It was clear the stiff-mannered youth had very little experience when it came to serious gambling, but the lad did know how to shuffle cards, even though he did so in a very unusual way.
First, he riffled them in a waterfall, then he shuttled them together rapidly, interrupting each shuffle by tapping one deck against the other, which created a peculiar rhythm: snap-snap-snap-clap. Riffle.
She dealt the cards into packets of threes, so that each player received nine cards. The tip of her tongue peeked out at the corner of her mouth as she immersed herself in her cards.
“You appear to be unusually adept at handling cards,” Schneider said with half a laugh. “One could think I’m sitting at the table of some gentleman’s gambling club.”
Georg narrowed his eyes. “Indeed. Where did you learn to play cards?”
“My brother taught me, naturally.”
She fanned her cards, Schneider picked up his cards and studied them, and Georg, for the life of him, felt like not only the rug, but the entire floor had been pulled from underneath him.
“Naturally,” he said with difficulty.
Her brother had taught her.
Her brother.
Himmelherrgottkreuzdonnerwetternochmal!
He lifted a shaking hand to cover his eyes and sat back with a repressed groan.
“Are you well, Your Excellency?”
“He doesn’t seem so well. He probably has an upset stomach. I thought he looked somewhat pale earlier. Maybe he ate too much of that hideous fishy fare for supper. For the life of me, I fail to understand why you would insist on eating such evil stuff.”
“Caviar is usually considered a food fit for emperors, Miss Honeywell,” Schneider said.
“No, it’s not. It’s the worst kind of food one can possibly eat. It is utterly foul. You might as well swallow fish eyes whole.”
A groan escaped him.
“Your Excellency?”
He finally lowered his hands and turned to Schneider. “Please, shoot me at dawn.”
“Is it that bad? I ate quite a bit of it myself and appear to be fine.”
“For my unparalleled idiocy.”
“What an excellent idea,” Lady Evie said cheerfully as she handed him his pack of cards. “I’d love to watch. But before we do so, can we finish this game? What are the stakes?”