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The maid was already on her way to the door when Daisy added, “I think after my walk I shall have a nap.” The arrival of Mr Radcliffe’s rejection in the form of his letter was enough to make her feel more exhausted than ever, and as she hadn’t been sleeping well since their moment in the carriage, she decided that while she was angry with him, it might be the very best time to try and get some sleep. Maybe then she wouldn’t dream of kissing him all over again.
The next morning, Daisy had barely awakened from her bed before her maid arrived in the room to pull back the drapes and announce, “My Lady, Mr Radcliffe is downstairs.”
Daisy rolled over in her bed and glared at the maid. In her dazed, half-asleep state, part of her wondered whether the woman was playing a cruel trick on her. After an almost entirely sleepless night, tossing and turning and wondering what she could possibly have done wrong that he would not come to their session, Daisy couldn't even begin to imagine why Mr Radcliffe would arrive now. Her head hurt to even try to figure it out, and she half sat in bed, propping herself up against the mountain of pillows that rested against the headboard.
Thinking quickly, Daisy cleared her throat, deciding there was only one thing for it.
"Please go and make Mr Radcliffe aware that I am unwell," she told her maid with a gentle shake of her head. Though she was likely well enough to dress and go downstairs, to sit in the library and listen to one of his teachings, it wasn't entirely a lie. Her head was aching, and there was a pain behind her eyes, likely from the weeping she had done the night before.
Even without looking in the mirror, she guessed her eyes would be red-rimmed and puffy. He would notice the moment she went down there, even if she did try to cover it with a layer or two of powder and other eye makeup, such as her stepmother had proudly taught her long ago so that she might always be ready to entertain a suitor or two. "I am unfit for a tutoring session today. Mr Radcliffe should return once I am well."
The maid did not leave immediately but instead waited as if she wished her mistress to say something more. After a moment's silence, the maid asked, "When might I tell him that will be, My Lady?"
Daisy gritted her teeth, unable to stop feeling that even her maid was against her this morning. A part of her wanted to snap that she had no idea. But instead, she shook her head and admitted, "I do not know."
She wasn't entirely sure whether she would ever be ready to face him again, not after the humiliation she had felt sitting in the library awaiting him the day before, not when her lady's maid had seen her weeping at his absence.
I am a fool,she realised,a complete fool.
"Please, tell him I am unwell, and that I shall send word when I am recovered enough to see him," Daisy instructed firmly. Though the maid didn’t look entirely convinced, Daisy was pleased that she did not question her further.I can’t very well have you tell him I do not wish to see him because I feel hurt and betrayed by his absence yesterday, can I?she thought as her maid dropped into a curtsey and left the room, promising to return to bring her something for her discomfort.
Though Daisy was grateful to her for it, she wasn’t sure there was anything the woman could bring her that would make her feel better. Her heart still ached, worse now that she knew Mr Radcliffe was practically right below her, within reach, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to see him.
Why should I fawn all over him when he clearly does not feel the same way?she demanded to herself, sinking back into her bed because she truly did not have the energy to get up. Whatever he had done to her was starting to take its toll on more than just her heart.
Chapter 13
It had been over a week since Philip stood in Lord Balfour’s library awaiting Lady Lockhart only to be told that she was unwell and unable to see him. The young maid had promised that the lady would write to him as soon as she was well enough to begin their tutoring sessions once more, yet he had heard nothing.
Every morning he awoke with the hope that there would be a letter waiting for him, that the butler would knock on his door with the usual silver tray containing all correspondence. But when he arrived and Philip looked through the letters, he never found one from Lady Lockhart. Each time his heart sank just a little further, and he found himself growing more embarrassed at his decision to avoid her.
But then he reminded himself of what had happened in the carriage. He remembered how he had taken advantage of the poor woman, having lustful and quite inappropriate thoughts before finally acting upon them. His lips still tingled whenever he thought about it, and his heart sank deep into his gut, remembering how wrong he had been to ever lay hands upon her. No wonder she was so determined to avoid him. For he was sure that was all this was; he couldn’t imagine that Lady Lockhart could be quite so ill all this time.
After all, she was a young and vibrant woman, and if she were to be this ill, surely news and gossip of her would be all over Oxford by now. Someone somewhere would be whispering about how Lady Lockhart was close to the end of her days or that poor Lord Balfour must be beside himself with worry, yet he had heard nothing, not a single peep about the Lockhart family.
“Are you well, son?” The concern in his father’s voice as he sat studiously in the library with a book in hand caused Philip to almost jump out of his skin. He had quite forgotten that his father had been sitting at his desk, going over paperwork while he was studying on a couch across the room. “Whatever it is you are staring at out of that window cannot be nearly as important as what is in your hand.”
Philip recoiled at his father’s words and looked down at the book in his hand, which had begun to close over his thumb, leaning unread as he stared absentmindedly out the nearest window. All his thoughts had been on Lady Lockhart, her beautiful face and her soft, rosebud lips and how it had felt to kiss her, even more so how it had felt to miss her the day he had decided not to turn up for their tutoring session.
At the time, he had regretted not attending but now, having missed her for nearly a week, he regretted it ten-fold.
“You are right,” Philip sighed, knowing it was no use trying to tell his father how he was feeling. Even worse, he couldn’t even admit how he was feeling himself. All he knew was that he had felt dreadful since his last meeting with Lady Lockhart. “Though I believe I have spent too much time staring at these pages. They are beginning to jumble together. I think I shall take some air.”
He closed the book he had been reading and placed it on the table at his side, ready to pick it up again once his mind felt clearer. When he looked up once more, his father was staring at him from behind his monocle with one raised eyebrow and a stern expression.
“Is something the matter, Father?” Philip asked, a lump forming in his throat at the thought that the earl might ask a mightily awkward question, one that he had no intention of answering even if he could find an answer.
“I think I ought to be the one asking you that,” the earl pointed out, his eyebrow still raised. He leaned forward in his seat, the papers in his hand falling, forgotten, onto the desk in front of him.
“All is well,” Philip responded quickly, hoping to avoid any more unpleasant questions. “I fear I have spent too much time in here this morning. I shall clear my head with some fresh air and perhaps something to eat, and then I shall return.”
The earl grunted and scoffed slightly as if he knew there was more to the story than his son was letting on, but he did not question him any further. Instead, he waved him away with a hand and shook his head. “Off you go then before you entirely distract me from my work.”
Philip bit back the urge to protest that he had never tried to distract him, that he was the one who had questioned him, making him jump as he did. Deciding it was far better not to reopen the conversation, Philip bowed and straightened his green and brown waistcoat before pulling on his jacket, which he had left hanging over the back of his seat.
“I wish you well in your work, Father,” Philip told him, and all he received in response was another grunt. Leaving the room, Philip headed down the hall, his heels clicking on the tiled floor. The noise echoed in the vast hallway, making him feel small and insignificant, and once more, he found himself thinking of Lady Lockhart, wondering whether perhaps he had messed things up irreparably.
No, no, she truly is ill,he told himself, exiting the hall into the house entryway, where he grabbed his overcoat from the peg beside the door and draped it over his arm. Though the day seemed bright outside, and he was almost certain it wasn’t going to rain, he didn’t wish to get caught out in it as he had last week.
