Chapter 11
Eleven
The morning air bit sharp against Nell’s cheeks as she walked toward the grocer’s, her basket swinging empty at her side.
Lily had woken in the night, coughing. It was that wet, rattling sound that made Nell’s heart seize every time she heard it.
Edmund’s tonic helped; it always helped.
However, the cough had returned with the weather, and Nell knew from bitter experience that tonics alone were insufficient.
Her daughter needed building up, for she required warmth, nourishment, and rest.
Soup was the remedy. That was what Nell’s mother had always made when someone was poorly.
Chicken broth with root vegetables, simmered low and slow until the kitchen filled with steam and the whole house smelled of comfort.
Good for the lungs, her mother used to say while stirring the pot. Good for the soul.
Nell had been making soup for her children since before they could walk. Some traditions were worth keeping.
She’d been avoiding thinking about him. She tried to push away the memory of the storeroom, of the shelf digging into her back, and the taste of blood on her tongue. She tried to forget the way he’d smiled when she bit him, the way she’d given him exactly what he desired.
The avoidance didn’t work.
She thought about him constantly. She woke in the night with her lips tingling and her body aching for something she refused to name.
She caught herself staring at the storeroom door during quiet moments, remembering the force of his body against hers and the desperate sound he’d made against her mouth.
Two days had passed, and she could still taste him.
The grocer’s shop was warm and dim, smelling of dried herbs and sawdust. Nell gathered what she needed.
She selected carrots, onions, and a parsnip that was slightly soft but suitable for broth.
The butcher next door had chicken, and she managed to haggle him down a penny on a piece that was smaller than she liked but would have to do.
Daphne was with the children this morning while Martha was fitting a dress for Mrs. Pemberton.
Nell could almost see Martha now, pins held between her teeth and a measuring tape draped around her neck.
These were the women who helped Nell survive, day after day, holding her fragile life together with their capable hands.
She counted her coins carefully outside the butcher’s, tucking them back into her purse with the familiar ache of never quite having enough.
The shop did well, better than she’d dared hope when she first opened those doors five years ago, but there was never extra. Every penny was spoken for twice over.
Coming out of the grocer’s, her basket heavy on her arm and her mind wandering to broth and the ghost of a kiss, she nearly collided with a passerby on the pavement. “Oh!” Nell stumbled back, clutching her basket to her chest to steady the contents. “Forgive me, I was not looking where I stepped.”
Lady Philippa Westmore stood before her, silver hair gleaming beneath a deep blue bonnet. A maid hovered at a respectful distance behind her, though the older woman’s face lit up with surprised delight.
“Mrs. Ashford!” Philippa clasped her gloved hands together near her chin. “What a happy accident. I was just thinking about you.”
Nell dipped into an awkward curtsy, her heavy basket making the gesture feel graceless. “Lady Philippa. Good morning to you.”
“None of that.” Philippa waved away the formality with a brisk, impatient motion of her hand. “I have been meaning to call at your shop, but my nephew has been...” She paused, her lips pressing together in a thin line. “Difficult. I haven’t had a moment to myself.”
Her nephew.
Heat crept up Nell’s cheeks before she could catch it, and she fixed her attention on a point somewhere past Philippa’s shoulder, praying the older woman wouldn’t notice the flush.
“Provisions?” Philippa eyed the carrots peeking out of Nell’s basket with open curiosity, her head tilting. “You are not baking today?”
“Soup.” Nell shifted the crush of the basket to her other arm, her muscles straining under the weight. “My daughter is unwell, and I am making broth.”
Philippa’s expression shifted, genuine concern replacing her curiosity as she stepped closer. “Unwell? The little girl you mentioned at Sir Huxley’s?”
“Lily, yes.” Nell found herself answering honestly, smoothing the edge of her cloak with restless fingers.
There was something about Philippa that invited confidence—a warmth beneath her aristocratic bearing and a directness that felt more like friendship than condescension.
“She has asthma, and the damp weather makes it worse.”
“Poor child.” Philippa shook her head, her brow creasing with a heavy sigh. “My friend’s boy had the same affliction—it is a dreadful thing to watch them struggle for breath. Is she being treated?”
“Dr. Hartley has been very attentive.” Nell adjusted her grip on the wicker handle, the weave biting into her palm.
“The good doctor.” Philippa’s eyes sharpened slightly, a knowing flicker appearing in their depths as she tilted her head. “Yes, I noticed he was quite attentive at Sir Huxley’s.”
Nell didn’t know how to respond to such an observation and changed the subject instead, gesturing vaguely toward the end of the street. “She is resting today—my lodger is sitting with her.”
“Your lodger?” Philippa prompted, raising a curious eyebrow.
“Martha. She’s a friend and a seamstress.” Nell tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers lingering there as though they needed something to do. “She rents a room above the shop and helps with the children when I am working.”
“A seamstress, a doctor, and a loyal assistant.” Philippa’s voice softened as she reached out to touch Nell’s sleeve, studying Nell’s face with something that looked almost like admiration.
“You have built yourself quite the little household, Mrs. Ashford. But I suspect the weight of it still falls squarely on you.”
“I manage.” Nell lifted her chin, her spine lengthening as she claimed every inch of her height. “We manage.”
“Of course you do.” Philippa studied her for a long moment, her expression settling into something both gentle and resolute. “But even capable women deserve an afternoon’s rest now and again.”
“My lady?” Nell’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“You must come to Bramwell Park for tea tomorrow.” Philippa stated it as though it were the most natural suggestion in the world, smoothing the front of her elegant pelisse with one gloved hand.
Nell’s stomach dropped through the cobblestones. Bramwell Park—his house, where he lived and slept, where he probably sat in some grand study at this very moment turning over the same memories she couldn’t bury.
“I couldn’t possibly.” The words came out too fast, tripping over themselves as she took a step backward. “Lily is unwell, and I couldn’t leave her bedside.”
“Bring her.” Philippa waved a hand as though Nell had raised no objection at all, her silk scarf fluttering in the autumn breeze. “The gardens are sheltered from the wind and quite mild even in this season—the country air will do her lungs a world of good.”
“My lady, that’s very kind, but...” Nell’s grip tightened on the basket handle until the wicker creaked. “Bramwell Park is Lord Westmore’s estate, and I couldn’t presume to intrude upon his hospitality.”
Philippa laughed, a warm and resonant sound that turned heads on the pavement. “My dear, I practically raised that boy and have been managing his household since he was in short coats.” She adjusted her bonnet with a confident pat. “He won’t mind.”
He will mind, Nell thought. Or worse—he wouldn’t mind at all.
“Bring your son as well.” Philippa continued, steamrolling over Nell’s hesitation as she counted off the benefits on her gloved fingers. “Children need room to run, and the grounds are extensive—thirty acres, if you can believe it. Far too much space for one man and his elderly aunt.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday.” Nell seized on the excuse, her eyes brightening as she finally found a foothold. “It is the one day we all have together—Martha, the children, and myself. I couldn’t break our little tradition.”
“Bring her too.” Philippa decided with a nod, as though the matter were already settled and entered into a ledger. “And Miss Wells—we shall make it a proper outing, tea on the terrace if the weather holds.”
“Lady Philippa, truly...” Nell began, shaking her head.
“I have been rattling around that great house with only my nephew for company, and the man has all the conversational charm of a stone wall.” Philippa took Nell’s arm and began steering her down the pavement, her grip gentle but inexorable as she leaned in with a conspiratorial glint.
“You would be doing me a kindness, Mrs. Ashford. Truly.”
A kindness—she was framing it as a favour to herself, and Nell looked at the woman’s earnest face and realized how terribly clever she was.
“Tomorrow at two.” Philippa released her arm and patted her hand with brisk affection. “I shall send the carriage for you.”
“Lady Philippa, I really must decline...” Nell tried one last time, reaching out as though to catch the invitation before it solidified into fact.
“Two o’clock.” Philippa was already walking away, her maid hurrying to keep pace. She called back over her shoulder without slowing. “Don’t make me come fetch you myself, Mrs. Ashford—I will, you know, and I am not above causing a scene in the middle of the village.”
Nell stood on the pavement with her basket heavy on her arm and her heart heavier still, watching the older woman disappear around the corner with the satisfied stride of a general who had won a battle without drawing a single weapon.
She could still refuse—could send a note in the morning claiming Lily had taken a turn for the worse. Philippa would understand, and Philippa would forgive.
But Philippa had been kind, genuinely kind, in a way that had nothing to do with rank or obligation.
And she was right about the children. Lily had been cooped up for weeks, trapped between the shop and her sickbed, watching the world through rain-streaked windows while her brother worked too hard and carried burdens too heavy for a boy of nine.
They deserved an afternoon of freedom and beauty and something that was not merely survival.
And perhaps he wouldn’t be there—perhaps he would be out riding or visiting tenants or called away to London on business that couldn’t wait.
Nell didn’t believe it for a moment.
He would be there. Standing too close, saying too much, watching her with those steely eyes that saw everything she was trying to hide. She could still see that wicked smirk—blood on his teeth and not a shred of shame on his face, as though she had given him exactly what he wanted.
Don’t come here again. Ever.
She’d spat those words at him in her own storeroom, and now she was going to willingly walk into his house, accepting his aunt’s invitation, drinking his tea. The irony was enough to choke on.
She knew she was a fool—for agreeing, for not running, and for wanting, despite everything, to see him again.
God help her.