Chapter Eleven
“Do not tell Lady Mary that Miss Winthrop has been injured unless you are prepared to survive the questions that follow.”
Mrs Holroyd’s voice carried through the half-open door of the small sitting room, firm enough to halt whichever maid had been unlucky enough to attempt optimism in the corridor.
Petalia sat in the chair nearest the fire, wrapped in a loose morning gown, with a shawl drawn carefully across her shoulders to cover both the dressing and the humiliation of requiring one.
“I was only saying, Mrs Holroyd,” came Annie’s anxious reply, “that perhaps the children ought to know she is not dying.”
“The children ought to know what they are told by a responsible adult, not what you invent in a passage because silence makes you nervous. Take the fresh linen to the blue room and do not come back by way of the nursery.”
“Yes, Mrs Holroyd.”
Footsteps retreated with guilty haste.
Petalia closed her eyes for a moment, not from pain alone.
The burn near her shoulder and collarbone throbbed beneath the salve, sharp when she breathed too deeply, sharper still when she forgot herself and moved as if her skin had not been scalded the previous evening.
Yet the physical pain was at least honest. It announced itself plainly.
It did not pretend to be anything other than what it was.
The rest of the matter was less merciful.
Nothing improper had occurred, and still she had woken to a house that had changed its breathing around her.
Doors closed too softly. Conversations stopped too quickly.
Servants entered rooms with eyes lowered and left them with cheeks flushed.
Mrs Holroyd had not said what had been overheard below stairs, but she had changed the dressing that morning with a set jaw and hands gentler than her expression.
Petalia had been a governess long enough to know the shape of damage before anyone was polite enough to name it.
A knock sounded, and Mrs Holroyd entered without waiting long enough for a refusal. She carried a covered pot, two folded cloths, and the air of a woman determined to defeat scandal through order.
“The physician is below, miss. Lady Maria is receiving him in the hall with enough volume for the footmen to be cured of curiosity before luncheon.”
Petalia opened her eyes. “Is there any chance the footmen will be cured permanently?”
“No, miss. Men are rarely cured of anything that gives them a subject over supper. But they may be made afraid of the symptoms.”
Despite herself, Petalia smiled, then winced when the movement pulled at her shoulder.
Mrs Holroyd set the pot on the table. “You must not laugh.”
“I shall inform all amusing persons to keep their distance.”
“Begin with Lady Maria.”
“I fear Lady Maria does not keep her distance from anything.”
“No,” the housekeeper said, and there was a faint warmth under the dryness. “She does not.”
From below stairs came Lady Maria’s voice, clear and deliberate.
“A scald, Mr Meredith. A tea tray accident in the library, and a very painful one, though Mrs Holroyd assures me Miss Winthrop behaved with more composure than any of the furniture. His Grace sent for assistance immediately, of course.”
Petalia looked towards the door. “She is staging the truth.”
Mrs Holroyd unfolded one of the cloths. “Sometimes truth requires staging, miss, if fools are determined to prefer theatre.”
“That is not a comforting thought.”
“It was not meant to comfort. It was meant to prepare.”
Petalia drew the shawl a little tighter. “I have done nothing wrong.”
The words came before she could prevent them. They sounded young to her own ears, almost childish in their appeal to fairness. Mrs Holroyd’s face changed, not into softness exactly, but into something older and more companionable.
“No, miss,” she said. “You have not.”
“Then why does the truth feel so frail?”
Mrs Holroyd looked towards the door before answering. “Because truth is often strongest in the mouths of those with power. That is the difficulty.”
It was not a new lesson to Petalia, but it had never sat quite so close to her skin.
The physician, Mr Meredith, entered five minutes later, ushered in by Lady Maria, who had removed her travelling gloves but retained the expression of a general who intended to remain on the battlefield.
He was a round, grey-haired man with kind eyes and the brisk tact of someone accustomed to injuries in respectable houses, where pain was permitted so long as no one named the circumstances too plainly.
“Miss Winthrop,” he said, bowing. “I am sorry to find you in discomfort. Her Ladyship tells me there was a scalding accident.”
“There was,” Petalia replied. “A teapot behaved with very poor judgment.”
His eyes twinkled. “Teapots are notorious for it. With your permission, Mrs Holroyd will assist me in examining the burn. I shall be as quick as care allows.”
Lady Maria moved to the window and turned her back without fuss.
Mrs Holroyd helped Petalia loosen the shawl and the neckline of the morning gown enough for the dressing to be examined.
It was a relief, in a strange way, to have the matter reduced to skin, salve, and medical instruction.
The physician did not care about servants’ eyes or the hour of the accident.
He cared whether the burn had blistered, whether the skin had been cooled, whether the linen stuck, and whether fever threatened.
“Painful,” he said after a few careful moments, “but not dangerous if treated sensibly. The gown absorbed much of the heat, though that will have been poor comfort at the time. Mrs Holroyd acted correctly. Keep the area cool, apply the salve twice daily, and avoid tight stays for several days at least. The skin must not be rubbed or trapped beneath stiff fabric.”
Petalia stared at the fire.
Avoid tight stays. Avoid ordinary dress. Avoid appearing before the household in the armour respectable women wore without thinking.
Lady Maria turned from the window. “You will write those instructions, Mr Meredith. Clearly. I should like every person tempted to form an opinion on Miss Winthrop’s attire to understand that medical authority outranks gossip.”
Mr Meredith looked amused, then thought better of showing too much of it. “I shall write them, my lady.”
“And the salve?”
“I have brought what I carry. It is adequate.”
Mrs Holroyd lifted her chin. “His Grace has sent for the imported ointment from Exeter as well. The one Mr Pritchard said was used for Lady Felton’s kitchen scald last winter.”
Mr Meredith’s brows rose. “That is a costly preparation. Not always necessary.”
“Perhaps not,” Mrs Holroyd said. “But Wrenfield has never been economical where burns are concerned.”
Lady Maria nodded. “A sensible policy. Burns have very little respect for economy.”
Petalia felt heat rise to her face. “That was not required.”
Mrs Holroyd adjusted the linen dressing with care. “His Grace’s instruction was that whatever brings relief is required.”
The words landed too deeply for something carried through servants.
Petalia looked down at her hands. The Duke had not come.
He had not sent some clumsy, overly personal message that could be repeated below stairs.
He had not made her chamber another scene in which people might see too much and understand too little.
He had sent the physician, linen, salve, instructions, and money made invisible by efficiency.
His absence had a shape. It was not neglect.
It still hurt.
After the physician left, Lady Maria remained.
She questioned Mrs Holroyd about who had entered the library the previous evening, who had carried the basin, who had fetched the dressing gown, who had seen the ruined dress, and who was likely to possess a cousin in the village with more appetite than sense.
Mrs Holroyd answered in the manner of a military adjutant, and Petalia listened, increasingly aware that her life had become a ledger of witnesses.
At last, a disturbance sounded from the corridor.
“I do not care if she is resting,” Mary declared, voice rising. “Resting people may still answer questions.”
“Lady Mary,” Nurse Ellis said, breathless and pleading, “you cannot simply burst in.”
“I can if I open the door.”
“Mary,” Declan said, quieter but strained. “You said you would let me ask first.”
The door opened before anyone could stop it. Mary appeared on the threshold, cheeks flushed, curls half-escaped from their ribbon, eyes bright with fury. Declan stood just behind her, pale and still, one hand gripping a book he had clearly forgotten he carried.
Lady Maria turned. “Well. An invasion. How bracing.”
Mary ignored her entirely and fixed on Petalia. Her gaze flew to the shawl, the careful posture, the pale face. For one moment, her anger cracked into fear so naked that Petalia nearly forgot the pain.
“Did Papa burn you?”
Mrs Holroyd made a sound of dismay. “Lady Mary!”
“I asked Miss Winthrop.”
Petalia sat a little straighter, though the movement cost her. “No. Your father did not burn me. The tea burnt me. His Grace sent for help at once.”
Mary’s small mouth twisted. “He did it on purpose?”
“No. It was spilt by accident.” Petalia forced a smile for the child.
Declan stepped forward then. His voice was controlled in a way that troubled Petalia more than Mary’s shouting. “Was he angry with you before it happened?”
Petalia looked at him carefully. He was not asking for gossip. He was asking whether anger had turned into injury, because in a child’s mind, the distance between adult temper and adult harm was not always clear.
“No,” she said. “His Grace was not angry with me. We were discussing your lessons. A tray tipped. That is the whole truth.”
Mary crossed her arms. “You are defending him because he is a duke.”
“I am defending him because blame is not more truthful simply because one is frightened.”
Mary’s eyes filled suddenly, which seemed to enrage her more. “I am not frightened.”
“Very well,” Petalia said gently. “Then you are angry. That is permitted. You may be angry that I am hurt. You may be angry that the house is whispering. You may be angry that adults are speaking in halls and stopping when you enter. But you may not turn an accident into a crime because blame feels tidier than fear.”
Declan looked down at the book in his hand. Mary stared at Petalia as if trying to decide whether to argue with the sentence or crawl into it.
“Are you still our governess?” Declan asked.
Petalia’s fingers tightened around the edge of her shawl. Lady Maria watched her, saying nothing.
“Of course,” Petalia replied. “Though, for today, I may require a little mercy.”
Mary’s face changed at that. “Only today?”
“That is the only truth I can give you. I will not make false promises to comfort you for one hour and frighten you worse later.”
Mary looked away. “I only care because if you die, they will send another governess.”
“Then I shall make a very firm effort not to die and inconvenience your schedule.”
A watery, unwilling sound escaped Mary, not quite a laugh. She wiped her face with the heel of her hand and scowled at the fire as if it had caused the weakness.
Declan came nearer. “Does it hurt very much?”
“Enough that Mrs Holroyd has forbidden laughter, tight clothing, and heroic movement.”
“Mrs Holroyd forbids many things,” Mary muttered.
“Usually with cause,” Mrs Holroyd said.
Mary looked towards the door. “Papa has not come.”
Lady Maria drew in a slow breath, but Petalia answered before the older woman could.
“No.”
“Does he not care?”
The question was cruel because it was frightened, and because Petalia did not know how to answer without telling a truth too large for a child.
“I think,” she said carefully, “that His Grace is trying to be proper. After what happened, he cannot call upon me or sit beside me as if there were no gossip to consider. Sometimes care must take a shape we do not like because the wrong shape would do harm.”
Mary frowned. “That is stupid.”
“Propriety often is, but it is powerful.”
Declan looked at Lady Maria. “Will people say things about Miss Winthrop?”
Lady Maria’s face became unusually grave. “Some people enjoy talking when they do not know what they are talking about. We are doing our best to prevent it.”
“I can tell them Papa did not hurt her,” Mary said fiercely.
Petalia’s throat tightened. “But your task is to get well ahead in your lessons, ask sensible questions, and refrain from biting anyone who says something foolish.”
Mary looked offended. “I was not going to bite.”
“Then we are all improving.”
Mrs Holroyd eventually took them away, though Mary insisted on leaving a badly wrapped peppermint on the table beside Petalia’s tea, and Declan placed his book there too, as if reading might be needed in an emergency. When the door closed behind them, the room seemed quieter than before.
Lady Maria remained standing near the fire. “They care for you.”
Petalia looked at the peppermint, then at the book. “They are afraid.”
“That is often how children care before they learn less alarming methods.”
Petalia leant back carefully. The burn throbbed, and beneath that pain lived the ache of the children’s questions, the Duke’s absence, and the future pressing towards her without permission.
A maid entered later with a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. She placed it on the table with far more ceremony than the object appeared to require.
“From His Grace, miss,” she said, eyes lowered. “Mrs Holroyd says it is the ointment from Exeter, and there is more coming from London if this does not suit. His Grace said you are not to concern yourself with cost.”
After the maid left, Petalia touched the string but did not untie it at once.
Lady Maria’s gaze was steady upon her. “He has not come because he is trying, very clumsily, not to make matters worse.”
“I know.”
“Knowing does not make a thing comfortable.”
“No,” Petalia said, looking at the parcel. “It does not.”
Lady Maria was quiet for a moment. “You have had some effect on him, Miss Winthrop.”
Petalia’s fingers stilled on the string.
“I do not mean that as a burden,” Lady Maria added. “Only as an observation. Edmund has spent years mistaking retreat for restraint. Today, at least, he appears to have distinguished the two.”
Petalia looked down. She said nothing.
Edmund was everywhere in the room, in the physician’s visit, in the costly salve, in the instructions to spare no expense, in the careful absence that protected her while hurting them both. He had learnt, perhaps too late, that care visible in the wrong room could become danger.
Now he was making himself invisible.
Petalia untied the parcel and found inside a small blue jar, cool beneath her fingers and sealed with wax. It was far finer than anything a governess could have purchased for herself.
For a moment, she wished he had brought it himself.
For another, wiser moment, she was grateful he had not.