Dorothea winced. “Was it that bad?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Dawson said plainly. “But worse—my dear, you haven’t blinked once since you started.”
Dorothea blinked rapidly. “Better?”
“Now it looks like you’ve got dust in your eyes.” Mrs. Dawson sighed. “Oh, dear. We’ve got work to do.”
Dorothea slumped back in her chair, her shoulders sagging. “I am hopeless, aren’t I?”
Mrs. Dawson leaned forward, shaking her head emphatically. “No one is hopeless, my lady,” she said. “Though—if I may be candid—while people might enjoy a well-timed rock joke, perhaps we keep those to ourselves.”
Dorothea’s lips twitched, but it was quickly overtaken by a sudden sneeze that she barely managed to catch in her handkerchief. “Excuse me,” she murmured, dabbing her nose. “I’m still fighting off this cold. It doesn’t seem eager to leave me.”
Mrs. Dawson immediately pushed up from her seat, her expression turning from amused to concerned. “You need tea,” she declared. “A nice strong brew with a generous spoonful of honey. Maybe even a slice of lemon.”
“The doctor already gave me something,” Dorothea replied. “A little laudanum, just to help me sleep. I might pour a bit into my tea and head to bed early tonight.”
Mrs. Dawson paused, glancing pointedly at the barely touched bowl on the table. “You should eat something first. You’ll need strength if you’re feeling unwell.”
“I appreciate the thought,” Dorothea said, “but I’m not hungry.”
With a frown creasing her brow, Mrs. Dawson stepped closer and pressed the back of her hand gently to Dorothea’s forehead. “You’re a little warm,” she said. “Not feverish, but warm enough to worry me. Should I fetch the doctor?”
“That won’t be necessary, truly. But I thank you for your concern.”
Mrs. Cameron spoke up. “I’ll send a servant up to your bedchamber to light a fire. The last thing you need is to catch a chill on top of that cold.”
Dorothea pushed back her chair and rose. Her body felt heavier than usual, the exhaustion not just physical but emotional. “I’ll be fine. I think I just need more sleep than usual.”
Mrs. Dawson nodded with a sigh of acceptance. “Very well. I’ll see that the tea is brought up to your room straightaway. With honey. And no rock jokes,” she added with a wink.
“Thank you,” Dorothea responded. She glanced around the kitchen, the warmth of the hearth and the fading clatter of earlier activity lingering like the memory of a conversation. “And I’m sorry about dinner.”
Mrs. Dawson waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, pish-posh. Don’t trouble yourself. The staff will be positively thrilled to enjoy such a fine spread. Nothing here will go to waste, I assure you.”
Dorothea managed a genuine smile then, touched by the kindness that surrounded her. “I appreciate you,” she said, looking between them. “Both of you.”
Mrs. Dawson lightly touched Dorothea’s sleeve. “Before you go,” she started in a conspiratorial whisper, “do ask Lord Warwicke if he has a favorite chicken.”
Mrs. Cameron let out an exasperated huff. “Good heavens, Mrs. Dawson. I truly doubt Lord Warwicke has even noticed the chickens.”
Dorothea let out a genuine laugh, the first in what felt like days. “Goodnight,” she said, then turned towards the hall, the warmth of the kitchen following her into the shadows beyond.
The sun had long since dipped below the horizon as Dominic stood before a heavy oak door, his hand suspended midair, knuckles poised to knock—but unmoving.
He stared at the door, willing himself to act, yet something held him back. Why had he come here? What was he hoping to hear?
Before he could summon the courage, the door swung open with a creak. His uncle, tall and white-haired with a few black streaks, stood on the threshold.
“Did you intend to knock at some point,” he asked dryly, “or simply haunt my doorstep like a brooding ghost?”
Dominic let his hand fall to his side, offering a wry half-smile. “I was debating.”
The older man’s mouth lifted at one corner, deepening the creases in his wrinkled face. “Come in, then. You look like a man in desperate need of a strong drink and sturdier counsel.”
Dominic stepped inside. He followed his uncle down the dim corridor, past portraits of long-gone ancestors, and into the study—warmly lit and cluttered with books and old maps.
Without a word, his uncle made his way to the drink tray, decanter in hand, and poured two generous glasses of brandy. “So…” he said, the word stretching out in the silence. “I heard you got yourself married.”
