Chuckling, Dr. Young replied, “A restorative pastime. Far superior to cricket.” He turned to his daughter. “My patient?”
She nodded and showed him into the bedchamber as he murmured, “I do hope you’ve arranged for tea, my dear.”
An hour later, Frelling had returned to his office, and Adam was contemplating an invasion worthy of the Normans. Really, how long did it take to examine a woman? He could have done it in ten minutes. Perhaps twelve. Of course, it would depend on the woman. And how long she preferred him to linger.
With Phoebe Widmore, he suspected even an hour would not suffice.
He blinked. What the devil? She was a poor, wretchedly ill girl. Granted, her eyes were the color of periwinkle flowers and her hair a blend of port and brandy. She was pretty in the way of many Englishwomen—fair and soft-featured. Or, she would be, were she not so thin.
The point was, while she might be an attractive young woman, he had no business regarding her with such lustful thoughts. He was a civilized man, not a beast.
The bedchamber door opened. Dr. Young emerged, alongside Mrs. Frelling, who was frowning at a slip of paper.
“Ginger biscuits and …” She squinted. “What is rabbit’s left toe?”
“Raspberry leaf tea. Add some mint, as well.” Dr. Young noticed Adam and came forward. “Rest easy, dear boy. Miss Widmore will recover in time. Another two or three weeks, I should think.”
Adam glared at the old man, wondering where his wits had gone. “Two or three weeks? She is wasting away!”
Dr. Young nodded. “Be certain she eats regularly, every few hours. Only those foods she can tolerate. She mentioned chocolate. That’s a good start. Perhaps some broth. No onions. Oh, and sleep.” He gave a small smile. “She, too, will need to take up napping.”
“What is wrong with her? Tell me.”
Dr. Young patted Adam’s shoulder. “Do you know, your club serves the finest tea in London. What a pleasure it is to visit.” He moved past him to the door and pulled it open, accepting his coat and hat from Mrs. Frelling. “A pleasure to see you, as well, Adam. Perhaps you will invite me again soon.”
Tugging at his hat’s brim, he left Adam standing in Miss Widmore’s sitting room, wondering how he’d been outmaneuvered by a wisp of a girl and a palsied old man.
“I will discover the truth, Mrs. Frelling,” he said in a low voice.
She raised her brows and folded the paper neatly. “Perhaps, Mr. Shaw. But not today, hmm?”
~~*
CHAPTER SEVEN
“To train one’s servants adequately is an unenviable task rife with peril. Much like training children. Or intractable males of unusual stature.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter exploring the challenges of household staffing.
Anne was a maid-of-all-work and a very large woman. Wiry little Ash hadn’t a prayer.
“Leave off, I said! Ouch! That’s me arm ye’re twistin’, ye great cow!”
Splashing was followed by a thud and a clatter of metal buckets.
“Hold still, mouse, or I’ll be grabbing more than your arms.”
Augusta grinned as she sipped her tea at the kitchen table. Behind the screen she’d placed for the sake of Ash’s dubious modesty, more splashing preceded a gasp and sputter.
“Argh! I’ve soap in me eyes! How it burns. I’ve gone blind!”
“I haven’t used any soap yet,” grumbled Anne. “Now stop thrashing about before I fetch my spoon.”
“S-so’s you can pluck out me eyes?”
A snort. “No, mouse. So I can paddle your backside. Sit still.”
Anne was far more patient than Augusta had been. She glanced down at her own skirts, still damp from her attempts to tame the boy’s theatrics. She wanted to laugh but didn’t want to encourage him.
He needed a bath more than any child she’d ever seen. Who could guess what sort of vermin plagued him? Fleas, indeed. His unreasoning resistance had begun the moment she’d removed his cap. But she could hardly expect Mr. Reaver to keep Ash employed in his household if the boy was both filthy and infested.
She hoped to have at least ten servants hired by the time Mr. Reaver returned, though she hadn’t the foggiest sense of when that might be. He’d spent the previous night at his club. She knew because she’d spent the previous night lying awake in her astonishingly plush bed. Listening. Wondering. Remembering. Around three, she’d finally fallen asleep.
Taking another sip of tea, she brushed at a stray curl and sighed. Being his mistress was a more anxious occupation than she’d imagined.
A loud squawk from Anne echoed through the kitchen. Then came the ripping of cloth. Next, a pink, naked, dripping boy streaked from behind the screen and disappeared into the scullery.
Anne emerged, sopping wet and holding a torn, filthy shirt in her hand. Upon her broad features was an expression of fury.
“Oh, now, Anne. He is just a boy—”
“I am not angry with him, Miss Widmore.” The maid’s voice shook, as did her hand. “You must see his back.”
Cold dread sickened her stomach. She set down her cup and stood. “What is it?”
Anne stripped off her dripping mobcap and tossed it upon the table. Beneath, her hair was the color of almonds. “You must see for yourself.”
Augusta immediately headed for the scullery, intent upon doing just that. She didn’t see him at first. Then she heard a small sigh from inside a barrel.
“Ash,” she said, forcing her voice to remain firm. “Come out of there now. I’ve no time for this nonsense.”
“Don’t want to,” the barrel said.
“And I don’t want to ask Mr. Duff to load that barrel onto the next cart headed for market. But I will.”
“Ye’re a hard woman, Miss Widmore.”
“I am what I must be, to do what I must do.”
The barrel sniffed. “She tore me shirt.”
“Yes, well. If you hadn’t thrashed about like a feral cat, your shirt would be intact, would it not?”
Silence fell.
“Come now, Ash. Out with you. I have many tasks to attend.”
A slick, brown head slowly bobbed above the barrel’s rim. Then, a pair of dark eyes with droplet lashes. Small nose. Square chin.
Good heavens, the boy was handsome without all the grime.
“Come along,” she said crisply. “You’ve had your fun.”
On his narrow chest remained streaks of dirt. He pushed himself free of the barrel, climbing out and standing white, shivering, and dreadfully thin. His smallclothes remained, a disgrace to cloth and thread.
“Very good. Now, back into the bath, if you please. A bit of soap will do you good.”
“But—”
She held up a hand. “Not another word, boy.” Her hand swept toward the kitchen. “Go.”
Much to her surprise, he obeyed, his shoulders hunched as he trudged past her to the kitchen doorway.
She turned to view his back.
And had to cover her mouth to keep from shouting. Or weeping. Or retching.
The flesh was mottled and scarred, stained black and red and sickening yellow with bruises new and old. One mark, in particular, caught her eye.
It was shaped like a boot.