“I live to entertain you!” he called out as she was walking down the hall, and he was quite certain that if she’d had something to throw at the door, she would have done so. With great vigor.
He settled back down against his pillows and smiled. He might make an annoying patient, but she was a crotchety nurse.
Which was just fine with him.
Chapter 9
… it is possible that our letters have crossed in the mail, but it does seem more likely that you simply do not wish to correspond. I accept that and wish you well. I shan’t bother you again. I hope you know that I am listening, should you ever change your mind.
– from the Earl of Kilmartin to the Countess of Kilmartin, eight months after his arrival in India
It wasn’t easy hiding his illness. The ton didn’t present a problem; Michael simply turned down all of his invitations, and Francesca put it about that he wished to settle in at his new home before taking his place in society.
The servants were more difficult. They talked, of course, and often to servants from other households, so Francesca had had to make sure that only the most loyal retainers were privy to what went on in Michael’s sickroom. It was tricky, especially since she wasn’t even officially living at Kilmartin House, at least not until Janet and Helen arrived, which Francesca fervently hoped was soon.
But the hardest part, the people who were the most fiendishly curious and difficult to keep in the dark, had to be Francesca’s family. It had never been easy maintaining a secret within the Bridgerton household, and keeping one from the whole lot of them was, to put it simply, a bloody nightmare.
“Why do you go over there every day?” Hyacinth asked over breakfast.
“I live there,” Francesca replied, taking a bite of a muffin, which any reasonable person would have taken as a sign that she did not wish to converse.
Hyacinth, however, had never been known to be reasonable. “You live here,” she pointed out.
Francesca swallowed, then took a sip of tea, the delay intended to preserve her composed exterior. “I sleep here,” she said coolly.
“Isn’t that the definition of where you live?”
Francesca slathered more jam on her muffin. “I’m eating, Hyacinth.”
Her youngest sister shrugged. “So am I, but it doesn’t prevent me from carrying on an intelligent conversation.”
“I’m going to kill her,” Francesca said to no one in particular. Which was probably a good thing, as there was no one else present.
“Who are you talking to?” Hyacinth demanded.
“God,” Francesca said baldly. “And I do believe I have been given divine leave to murder you.”
“Hmmph,” was Hyacinth’s response. “If it was that easy, I’d have asked permission to eliminate half the ton years ago.”
Francesca decided just then that not all of Hyacinth’s statements required a rejoinder. In fact, few of them did.
“Oh, Francesca!” came Violet’s voice, thankfully interrupting the conversation. “There you are.”
Francesca looked up to see her mother entering the breakfast room, but before she could say a word, Hyacinth piped up with, “Francesca was just about to kill me.”
“Excellent timing on my part, then,” Violet said, taking her seat. She turned to Francesca. “Are you planning to go over to Kilmartin House this morning?”
Francesca nodded. “I live there.”
“I think she lives here,” Hyacinth said, adding a liberal dose of sugar to her tea.
Violet ignored her. “I believe I will accompany you.”
Francesca nearly dropped her fork. “Why?”
“I should like to see Michael,” Violet said with a delicate shrug. “Hyacinth, will you please pass me the muffins?”
“I’m not sure what his plans are today,” Francesca said quickly. Michael had had an attack the night before-his ‘ fourth malarial fever, to be precise, and they were hoping it would be the last of the cycle. But even though he would be much recovered by now, he would still most likely look dreadful. His skin-thank God-wasn’t jaundiced, which Michael had told her was often a sign that the sickness was progressing to its fatal stage, but he still had that awful sickly air to him, and Francesca knew that if her mother caught one glimpse of him she would be horrified. And furious.
Violet Bridgerton did not like to be kept in the dark. Especially when it pertained to a matter about which one could use the term “life and death” without being accused of hyperbole.
“If he’s not available I will simply turn around and go home,” Violet said. “Jam please, Hyacinth.”
“I’ll come, too,” Hyacinth said.
Oh, God. Francesca’s knife skittered right across her muffin. She was going to have to drag her sister. It was the only solution.
“You don’t mind if I come along, too, do you?” Hyacinth asked Violet.
“Didn’t you have plans with Eloise?” Francesca said quickly.
Hyacinth stopped, thought, blinked a few times. “I don’t think so.”
“Shopping? At the milliner?”
Hyacinth took another moment to ran through her memory. “No, in fact I’m quite certain I don’t. I just purchased a new bonnet last week. Lovely one, actually. Green, with the most cunning ecru trim.” She glanced down at her toast, regarded it for a moment, then reached for the marmalade. “I’m weary of shopping,” she added.
“No woman is ever weary of shopping,” Francesca said, a touch desperately.
“This woman is. Besides, the earl-” Hyacinth cut herself off, turning to her mother. “May I call him Michael?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” Violet replied, taking a bite of eggs.
Hyacinth turned back to Francesca. “He’s been back in London an entire week, and I haven’t even seen him. My friends have been asking me about him, and I don’t have anything to say.”
“It’s not polite to gossip, Hyacinth,” Violet said.
“It isn’t gossip,” Hyacinth retorted. “It’s the honest dissemination of information.”
Francesca actually felt her chin drop. “Mother,” she said, shaking her head, “you really should have stopped at seven.”
“Children, you mean?” Violet asked, sipping at her tea. “Sometimes I do wonder.”
“Mother!” Hyacinth exclaimed.
Violet just smiled at her. “Salt?”
“It took her eight tries to get it right,” Hyacinth announced, thrusting the salt cellar at her mother with a decided lack of grace.
“And does that mean that you, too, hope to have eight children?” Violet inquired sweetly.
“God no,” Hyacinth said. With great feeling. And neither she nor Francesca could quite resist a chuckle after that.
“It’s not polite to blaspheme, Hyacinth,” Violet said, in much the same tone she’d used to tell her not to gossip.
“Why don’t we stop by shortly after noon?” Violet asked Francesca, once the moment of levity had petered out.
Francesca glanced up at the clock. That would give her barely an hour to make Michael presentable. And her mother had said we. As in more than one person. As in she was actually going to bring Hyacinth, who had the capacity to turn any awkward situation into a living nightmare.
“I’ll go now,” Francesca blurted out, standing up quickly. “To see if he’s available.”
To her surprise, her mother stood also. “I will walk you to the door,” Violet said. Firmly.
“Er, you will?”
“Yes.”
Hyacinth started to rise.
“Alone,” Violet said, without even giving Hyacinth a glance.
Hyacinth sat back down. Even she was wise enough not to argue when her mother was combining her serene smile with a steely tone.
Francesca allowed her mother to precede her out of the room, and they walked in silence until they reached the front hall, where she waited for a footman to retrieve her coat.