Page 19 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“My leg,” Miss Delancey chimed in. “Send the bill to me.”

Trentham led the doctor into the hallway. Henson appeared; he had not gone far. The man could run the whole house without ever being absent from where he was most needed at the moment.

“Henson, have the carriage brought round.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Thank you again, Dr. Ballantine. And…”

“Yes, of course, Your Grace. Your window. Your bill.”

Chapter Seven

Bored, bored, bored.

Ophelia sat in a sturdy, well-cushioned armchair, angled to catch the sliver of morning sunlight that filtered into the Lynchford library. She needed the light for her embroidery. She could have used more, but the lamp was out of reach.

It was a smallish library, with what she understood to be an excellent selection of histories, political treatises, and maps, as well as a half shelf of novels that she suspected had been acquired lately, expressly for her, since, for the most part, the pages had not yet been cut. Because of her aching leg, she hadn’t been sleeping well, so she’d risen early the last few mornings rather than lying in bed, fretting. Dessie rose late, or at least stayed in her room until she felt well enough to come out. Lynch was gone most of the day, doing whatever it was that he did so assiduously.

The boredom was worse than the pain in her leg. She wished she could play the piano, but Lynch’s instrument was so out-of-tune it was apparently merely decorative.

Ophelia picked up her embroidery scissors from the end table and snipped a thread from the final rosebud, then laid the baby bonnet aside. That was number two. She didn’t know much about babies, but she did know they possessed only one head a piece. If this went on much longer, she would end up embroidering caps for all Trentham’s enmarbled ancestors.

No. She wouldn’t. He’d sent a card and a bouquet of hothouse tulips the morning after her accident and nothing since. Not that it was his duty to entertain her.

And, thank God, that was Dessie’s voice in the hall.

A moment later, her sister entered the library, carrying a stack of calling cards and envelopes. Her hair was softly combed and unbound. She was casually dressed in a loose cotton gown, a bed jacket, and slippers. She had never looked so beautiful.

“Good morning, Dess.”

“Hmm. And how are you faring?”

Ophelia grunted.

“I know the feeling,” Dessie said. She sat in a chair next to a side table, set down the cards, and sighed. “I’m going to have to start paying calls again. And I should go to Lady Everly’s tea this afternoon. I told her I would go.”

“You could plead indisposition.”

“No, it’s too soon for that.” She lit the oil lamp, then plucked up a handful of cards and sorted them listlessly. “Besides, it’s important for Lynch that I make an effort. They are making an effort, thank goodness. I have to, too.”

Ophelia knew better than to say anything negative. This was Dessie’s world now, and she was right to do what needed to be done to support her husband, to be an asset rather than a liability.

However, it wasn’t Ophelia’s world, and she didn’t want to be a pesky tagalong. Two Americans at once might be too much for the ton to absorb. Since she was going to be here a while, she’d have to find her own purpose and activities to give Dessie breathing room. Once she could walk again.

“Lynch says—” Dessie halted, wide-eyed, and set the cards down. “Good Lord. Please tell me I haven’t become one of those.”

“One of those what?”

“One of those women who prefaces every statement with ‘my husband says.’”

Ophelia smiled. “Not yet. I’ll let you know when. So? What did he say?”

“Well, now I’ve forgotten.” She picked the cards back up again. She looked cross. But then her brow unfurrowed. “But there is something Lynch said that might actually interest you. Mr. Cameron has not left for Prussia. It seems he has come down with a head cold and is unable to travel.”

“A head cold? Sniffles?” She shook her head. What a baby. “Has he taken to his bed? Is Trentham tucking him in and serving him toddies?”

“I’d like to see that. But no. Robin is spending time at his club and in Parliament, listening to speeches like a good boy. Lynch says he—” Dessie stopped abruptly and slapped her own cheek.