Chapter 20 #2
His droll tone made Sylvie’s smile grow. She actually felt a slight spark of joy for the first time all week. “I shouldn’t stay here long. I’m the unfortunate star of this show, and my mother will notice if I’m gone more than a moment.”
Mr. Kinsey straightened. “Of course. But allow me to go distract her. Then you can breathe freely a little longer.”
Without waiting for her answer, Mr. Kinsey disappeared through the open door, gifting Sylvie with another few minutes of blessed peace. How kind and thoughtful he’d turned out to be. If it weren’t for Miles…
But Miles was there, no matter how hard she tried to dislodge him.
He was stuck in Sylvie’s mind and heart in a way she’d probably never be free from.
Even if he might have abandoned her without explanation, she longed for him to be the one who appeared in the doorway and teased her about the roomful of suitors.
Tears began to rise again, and Sylvie’s throat constricted, making it difficult to draw a full breath.
No. There had been enough crying. Sylvie straightened her spine and swiped her sleeve across her eyes.
She would march back into that parlor and put on the best show of her life.
She’d pretend she was the archer again, with a mask and hood of polite enjoyment instead of green velvet.
She would do what her mother expected until she could free herself.
It was time to return her focus to her own very real future, not a fictional one Miles had caused her to dream about before leaving her alone.
Miles stared at his mother’s ashy complexion with worry worming its way around in his stomach.
He’d been back at Woodhouse for three days, and his mother had hardly roused from sleep during the hours he’d spent at her side.
The village doctor—a man barely older than Miles who was new to the area—had visited that morning and assured Miles that she was doing better and that recovery would happen with time.
It was difficult not to fret, however, when she looked so ill.
Miles rose from a polished chair upholstered with fabric embroidered by ladies from the village and made his way outside for a bit of fresh air.
The familiarity of the sprawling estate comforted him.
The lawns were trimmed, the gardens tended, and the fields Miles had examined so far were bursting with wheat that neared readiness for the August harvest.
As he strolled the grounds, he considered his childhood home with new, adult eyes.
Woodhouse itself was a solid fixture in the middle of the property, boxy in the way old manor houses tended to be, with heavy columns and traditional architecture.
Miles couldn’t help noticing that the exterior of the house needed some repair, though.
It was evident Mr. Brown was doing his job as steward as well as one man could, despite his age.
What would happen when he decided to retire?
Or when his health no longer allowed him to manage the property?
Mother had made it clear over the years that she missed Miles’s presence and hoped he would return home someday.
Miles had always assumed it was more out of wanting him there than necessity, but perhaps he’d been wrong.
As capable as Mother and Mr. Brown were, the future of the estate weighed on Miles’s shoulders.
It was his responsibility, even if he’d chosen to walk away from it.
If people were willing to accept him back, would God expect him to give up his own dreams so he could run the estate?
The idea of not returning to Sylvie was unthinkable.
At the very least, he couldn’t leave her waiting after all he’d expressed in the letter he posted before leaving New York.
A quick mental calculation reminded him that there was very little chance a response from her would have reached him yet.
She would certainly have something to say about the revelation that he was her secret admirer.
He could be patient for a few more days until a response arrived.
But Miles couldn’t help worrying that maybe she hadn’t been glad to find out it was him.
Perhaps she wanted it to be one of the other gentlemen, after all.
Walking along the edge of the wide creek that cut through the fields while begging God to give him patience and peace until he needed to make decisions, Miles found Mr. Brown inspecting the steep bank.
Nearby, a horse hitched to a wagon lifted its head to inspect Miles lazily.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Brown. Is there anything amiss here?”
Mr. Brown waved at the incline with a frown. “Just the bank crumbling in a bit. I’m deciding the best way to shore it up. The village children like to jump in from here, and we don’t want anyone slipping and getting injured.”
“Ah.” Miles endeavored to come up with anything he could add to the issue, but Mr. Brown had already turned back to his work.
Miles watched, the truth that he knew nothing about running the estate starting a dull ache deep inside.
He had a deep well of knowledge about insects and how diseases spread, but no experience in managing everyday, practical issues such as this.
The urge to try one more time, to offer something useful, didn’t wane. Stepping a little closer, Miles craned his neck to see better. “Do you need help? I could hand you supplies or help hold things in place.”
Straightening, Mr. Brown gave Miles his full attention. “Oh, you needn’t worry about this, my lord. It’s a small spot. All it will take is a few rocks and a little digging.”
But at the same time, Mr. Brown rubbed one hand over his chin, looking from Miles to the pile of large rocks on the bank.
Taking the hint that the steward felt ill at ease with asking for help, Miles slid off his linen jacket.
Laying it over the wagon seat, he reached for the shovel on top of the rocks.
“I’m capable of digging, if nothing else. Show me what to do.”
An hour and one heavy coating of mud on his clothing later, Miles returned to Woodhouse with a bounce in his step.
He’d succeeded in helping Mr. Brown reinforce the eroding bank, and the satisfaction of completing a new task had lifted his spirits.
Perhaps he could learn to run the estate if it came down to it.
He didn’t want to give up his research, but if duty called…
well, God might have a good plan in place for him, after all.
Miles no sooner entered the house after brushing off as much mud as he could than the housekeeper rushed to meet him. “Oh, my lord, it’s your mother. She woke and is asking to see you.”
With hope welling in his heart, Miles took the stairs two at a time and all but ran down the hall to Mother’s set of rooms. Inside her bedchamber, one of the maids was pulling back the heavy drapes, allowing sunshine to flood the room.
And his mother was propped up on a mountain of pillows in the bed, still pale, but issuing orders in a manner much more like the Louise Wentworth who managed everyone around her with such efficiency.
She glanced up and saw him in the doorway, and a wide grin crossed her wan face. She held out both hands to him. “Ah, Miles. I hate that you had to see me in such a state. Come sit with me.”
Her voice shook, and her grip when Miles allowed her to squeeze his hands was barely palpable. But she was awake and aware of his presence, which was a vast improvement, indeed.
Miles perched on the edge of the bed next to her, his hands still in hers. He took in her loose hair, which was far more white than blond now. Deep creases lined her features, but her eyes were clear and alert. “Mother, you look lovely as always. I’m glad you’re awake. I was quite worried.”
She released one of his hands to reach up and pat his cheek. “Of course you were. You always did worry more than you needed to. But I’ll be fine. I’m tired still, but I can tell the fever is gone.”
A huff rose in Miles’s throat. “I don’t worry more than I need to. It’s a perfectly appropriate amount of worry.”
Mother chuckled, although it seemed to drain her a bit so that she slumped back farther against the pillows. She fixed a watery gaze on him. “Tell me all about what you’ve been doing, Miles. Letters aren’t the same as hearing your voice.”
For the next half hour, Miles regaled her with details about what he’d been doing in Ohio that summer—living with Alexander and Grace, working at the laboratory, the discovery he’d made, which the team was doing more experiments on while he was gone.
She smiled and responded now and then, but he could see her energy fading as he spoke.
Finally, he rose from the bed and pulled the blanket up around her.
“You need some rest, Mother. I’ll return in the morning, and we’ll talk some more. ”
So the pattern went for the next two days.
His mother regained some strength but was still generally tired and could only be up for bits of time with naps interspersed between them.
Miles would visit her, and they would share stories about their lives since he left.
Then he let her rest until the evening meal, when he would return and share more conversation as they ate together.
Not that she consumed enough to call it a meal.