Forever My Love (Berkeley-Faulkner #2)(28)

“I’ll be waiting no matter how long it takes,” Alec replied, and Mira gave him a cautious smile before going into the cottage.

It seemed that Rachel Daniel had caught the fever and chest cold that had already afflicted her husband. Her skin was hot and dry, her nose and throat congested… and there was little that could be done except wait for the sickness to run its course. Mira pulled out a bag of dried currants and turned toward the hot fire, casting Rachel a sympathetic look.

“I am very sorry you and your husband are ill at this time—is there someone to help you with your land?”

“We have friends who are helping,” Rachel said, her young face flushed as she lifted a handkerchief to Jier mouth and coughed roughly. “I simply pray that this will go away soon.”

“Try to rest—”

“There is never time to rest.”

“I know,” Mira said with a compassionate sigh. After pouring a half-pint of brandy into a small dented pot, she warmed the liquid carefully and added several handfuls of currants.

“That doesn’t smell very good,” Rachel wheezed, and Mira could not help chuckling.

“When this boils down, it will be a very nasty liquid. But you must force yourselves to take it, because I know of nothing better to help your throats. Oh, and I have a message for you that might make you feel happier. Mrs. Daniel has offered to take her grand-daughters for a few days, to give you more time to rest and to lessen the chance that they will become ill.”

“Oh, that is wonderful!” Rachel exclaimed, her expression lightening. “Please tell her that we would be so grateful—”

“Then someone will arrive later today to take them to Sackville Manor.”

After boiling down the currants, Mira added some herbs, wrinkled her nose at the concoction, and exchanged a resigned smile with the other woman.

“Good-bye. I hope it works.”

“I pray that it does,” Rachel responded, peering dubiously into the syrup-filled pot.

Mira left a handful of dipped candles on the corner of the table, where they would be found after she had gone.

The quiet tableau that greeted her eyes when she closed the door of the cottage was a surprise. Mary and Kitty were unusually well-mannered, perched on a fence side by side with their eyes fixed on Alec. Their high-pitched voices rose and fell with questions, receiving responses from him that must have been vastly entertaining, for they kept giggling and kicking their feet with glee. Mira smiled and drew closer, making the discovery that Alec was sketching the twins, using a scrap of charcoal and the paper that the biscuits had been wrapped in. Engrossed in the new experience of being the subjects of a portrait, the little girls watched him intently.

“I didn’t know you were an artist,” Mira said softly. Alec glanced at her briefly, his hair gleaming with black fire in the cold daylight. His mouth twitched with amusement.

“Hardly. But I do well enough with charcoal and brown paper,” he said, letting the shard of ashy stone fall to the ground and handing the twins the finished picture. “Obviously I sketch only the most attractive young women.” Turning, he helped the twins down from the fence one at a time. It gave Mira a strange feeling to see the miniature hands clutching Alex’s brawny arms as he lowered the children to the ground. They were so fragile, so helpless compared to him, yet they seemed to trust him; he was very gentle with them.

Walking over to Mary, Mira looked down at the sketch and smiled. In a few strokes he had captured the essence of the little girls, Mary’s impishness, Kitty’s shyness, the charm of two children sitting together on a fence, their plump legs dangling and kicking cheerfully.

“You do very well indeed,” Mira said, lifting her eyes to Alec’s. “You have many talents, my lord.”

“Why, Mira,” he replied huskily, a taunting grin tugging at his mouth. “I am pleased by your compliment. But it pains me to realize that you are not acquainted with my greatest talent… yet.”

Chapter Four

The last few days of the hunting party were inevitably the most spectacular, intended to send all of the guests away with memories of glamour and excitement. There were more than three hundred people seated at supper on Saturday. Chandeliers and candelabra filled the manor with blazing light, while the tables almost swayed under the weight of food and elaborate dinnerware. Crystal basins filled with preserved fruit glittered richly, while fanciful sugar figurines adorned each place setting. It had taken more than fifty people in the kitchen to prepare the meal and an army of servants to see to the comfort of those who dined at the long tables. The wine was more plentiful than water, the air warm with the scents of roasted meats and rich sauces, the conversation profuse and merry as Lord Sackville’s guests agreed that this promised to be a highlight of the off-season parties. The meal was similar to the splendorous suppers at Brighton, begun with four different kinds of soup, a variety of fish dishes, and huge platters of ham, poultry, and veal, along with forty side dishes.

The manor was overheated in every room from the excess of light and the multitude of roaring fireplaces. Windows and doors were thrown open to admit the cool evening air, but even taking these measures did little to relieve the stifling atmosphere. The sound of music, conversation, and clinking dishes drifted out into the night, inescapable no matter where Mira wentto avoid hearing it. She walked along the empty hallways, paused at the open windows, and looked out into the courtyard. The supper scene was clearly visible, the huge glass doors of the eating room folded back to present a perfect view of the sumptuous feast. Biting the inside of her upper lip, Mira scolded herself for giving in to a sudden sense of loneliness. She remembered what Lady Ellesmere had called her—”a poor little waif—and suddenly it was difficult not to feel like one. Self-pity, she thought wryly, is surely the most unattractive of all human faults! With a sigh, she folded her arms around her waist and continued to peer out the window.