He resisted a desire to check the yard again, see if Gwyneth had somehow appeared, pulled inexorably into the wake of Sproules. One of the baker’s children crossed his path; he sent the boy to the kitchen to request tea in the sitting room immediately for Miss Beryl and friends. Then he went upstairs to tap on Ridley’s door.
He got no answer but what sounded like a book crashing to the floor. He opened the door, puzzled. Ridley was on his bed with a book over his face; a History of Sealey Head with Anecdotes and Recipes lay askew on the floor. Ridley still hadn’t changed his clothes from the previous evening. A tray with a half-eaten bowl of chowder and some drying bread sat on his desk. More books had been added since morning to the general clutter, randomly strewn like driftwood on a beach.
Judd said softly, “Ridley?”
A hand rose after a moment, pushed at the book on Ridley’s face until an eye became visible, partially open and not entirely aware. Then Ridley grunted a question, shoved the book away, and sat up.
His face had the sort of greenish pallor of someone lurching endlessly from wave to wave in a boat without a rudder. It disappeared for a moment behind Ridley’s hands.
“You look terrible,” Judd said. Ridley murmured something incomprehensible. Judd added, “I am sorry to have to tell you that the Sproules and Miss Miranda Beryl request your company in the sitting room.”
Ridley’s hands parted; he looked incredulously at Judd. “She came here?”
He nodded. “With her grandmother’s cure for a chest cold.”
“Her grandmother’s—Oh.”
“Do you want me to extend your apologies?”
“No.” Ridley stood up after a moment. He swayed, but managed to stay on his feet. “Just tell them I’ll be a moment.”
“All right,” Judd answered dubiously. “Don’t fall down the stairs.”
He checked on his father along the way, apologizing for missing their afternoon reading and promising to send some cheese and ale to keep him company. A thump on the stairs cut short his visit; he found Ridley, in clean clothes at least, clinging to the newel post.
He said apologetically to Judd, “If you could just help me to the sitting room.”
“I am at a loss,” Judd told him, as they limped down the hall, “to fully appreciate the attractions of Miss Sproule, but love, they say, only the lover understands. Do you want me to send for Dr. Grantham?”
“No,” Ridley murmured, as Judd opened the sitting room door. “I have a better idea.”
His appearance brought cries of sympathy and distress from Daria Sproule, and a wide-eyed glance of astonishment from Miss Beryl, who looked as though he had dropped a jam tart on her kidskin boot.
“Mr. Dow, you are quite unwell,” she told him accurately.
“Oh, poor Mr. Dow, this will help you,” Daria cried, pushing the rosy concoction in its glass jar into his hands. “A tea of wintergreen leaves and juniper berries will cure most ailments; my aunt Florida swears by it. I’ll bring you some tomorrow.”
“Daria, Miss Beryl,” Raven said hastily, “I think we must leave Mr. Dow to rest, especially since we have no idea of the nature of the illness.”
“Wisely spoken, Mr. Sproule,” Ridley said. “The ladies should indeed stay away from me. I do have a favor to ask of Miss Beryl if you will be so good.”
“What?” Miss Sproule and Miss Beryl demanded together.
“Would you be so kind as to ask Lady Eglantyne’s housemaid Emma to ask her mother to pay a visit to me? I think she will find a remedy as quickly as Dr. Grantham, who has far better things to do.”
“What a peculiar request,” Miss Beryl remarked to the air. “Well, I suppose I might remember if I do it immediately upon returning.”
“I would be so grateful.”
Ebon Baker entered, staggering under a tea tray laden with delicacies; Judd caught it as it slid toward a table.
“Tea?”
“I’m afraid I must decline,” Ridley said, backing a step and growing greener at the sight.
“I think we must be going,” Raven said with alacrity. “But another time, certainly, thank you, Judd. I’m sure I can persuade Miss Beryl to ride up again; she said there is nothing like such a view in Landringham.”
“I’ll come with them,” Daria said stubbornly, “and bring my aunt’s medicinal tea.”
“I’m sure I will be grateful,” Ridley managed, and backed quickly out the door, nodding at them wordlessly. The Sproules and Miss Beryl followed shortly after, Miranda Beryl wondering absently, as they walked out, why they had even bothered to dismount.
Judd took the tray back to the kitchen, where Mr. Pilchard was stirring a great stew of spring vegetables to go with the lamb on the spit.
“They didn’t stay?” he asked Judd with surprise. “My walnut cake put them off?”
“No.” Judd broke off a piece, tasted it with pleasure. “Your cake is wonderful. Mr. Dow, unfortunately, is feeling no better, and it was he whom they came to see.”
“Ah. And here I just made up a tray for him, thinking he was recovering. Some hot roast chicken, a salad dressed in herbs and oil, leeks braised in sherry.”
“Is that it?” Judd asked, eyeing dishes covered by a cloth on a tray. “I’ll add a mug of ale to it and take it up to my father.”
“Most likely he’d be disappointed by something so delicate,” Mr. Pilchard objected, moving the tray off the table and out of reach. “I have some peppered chops cooking for him, and the roast potatoes he likes. I’ll bring his supper up to him as soon as it’s ready.”
“You’re probably right, Mr. Pilchard. And Mr. Dow might like the chicken later,” he added, but dubiously, “after Hesper tends to him.”
“Hesper?” Mr. Pilchard queried, flipping a chop.
“Hesper Wood. He asked to see her. Our local version of a wood witch. She knows everything there is to know about both the dangerous and the healing properties of anything that grows out of the ground.”
“Ah.”
“Even Dr. Grantham consults her.” He took another bite of cake, then paid heed to the shouts and laughter rolling down the kitchen stairs. “I’d better go and help Mr. Quinn in the taproom.”
He spent the evening ensconced behind the bar, except to escort Hesper Wood upstairs when she came, and back out again, when Mrs. Quinn said she was leaving.
He met her at the door; she told him, “I think he’ll sleep peacefully now.”
“What was it?”
“He said it was a kind of family ailment,” she said only. “Something he inherited.” She shook her head when Judd offered payment. “He’ll pay me when he’s well, I’m sure. Don’t fret, Judd. He’ll be all right now, as long as he is careful about what he eats.”
“All right. Thank you, Hesper.”
The long evening finally drew to a close. Visitors called for their horses to ride back to Aislinn House by lantern light; guests drifted to their rooms, or were carried by their friends. Judd left the mess for Mrs. Quinn in the morning and locked the taproom, feeling the weight of the long day and the brief previous night. He went upstairs, berating himself for not having sent a note to Gwyneth, a wildflower, a book, anything to tell her he had thought about her. Tomorrow, he told himself. Without fail.
He saw the light under his father’s door and opened it, surprised. His father, put to bed by Mr. Quinn, rolled sleepily toward him.
“Judd?”