Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(98)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“She’ll be all right, won’t she?” Lucy paced the Persian carpet of Aunt Matilda’s suite, endlessly circling the blue-and-gold pattern. “She has to be all right.”

Hetta squeezed each of Aunt Matilda’s hands in turn. “Lucy, your aunt is eighty if she’s a day,” she replied from the bedside. “She won’t live forever, you know.”

“I know, but—”

“Shhh.” Hetta laid her ear to Aunt Matilda’s chest. Lucy ceased her pacing and held her breath until Hetta straightened. “You must face facts, Lucy. Your aunt cannot be expected to live much longer.”

Lucy shut her eyes and whimpered softly.

“But,” Hetta continued, “she isn’t going to die today. So far as I can tell, at least.” She helped the old lady into a sitting position and plumped the pillows behind her. “In fact, she seems to have suffered no lasting effects from her little spell.” She began repacking her black valise. “Just make certain that she rests. Give her some beef tea; solid food, if she’ll eat it. She’ll be wandering around again in no time.”

“All right.” Lucy sniffed and swiped at her nose with the heel of her hand. “Thank you for coming. Shall I see you out?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Hetta said briskly, standing and smoothing the wrinkles from her fawn-colored skirt. “I know my way. I know this house better than you do, I’d wager.”

“How so?”

“I practically grew up here.” Hetta draped her pelisse over her shoulders and tied it in front. “My father was the late Lady Kendall’s personal physician. Didn’t you know?”

Lucy shook her head.

“That was the whole reason he moved our family from London,” Hetta explained. “To treat Lady Kendall’s ‘nervous condition.’”

“Nervous condition?” Lucy handed Hetta her bonnet.

“Well, that would be what my father called it. He always was rather generous. ‘Incurable grief,’ the Lady herself would have said.” Hetta knotted the bonnet ribbons under her chin. “Personally, I was inclined to think of it as ‘insufferable moaning,’ but then—I never was the sympathetic type.”

She picked up her gloves from the bedside table. “Anytime her ladyship went into one of her fits, my father would be summoned to the house. Twice, three times a week. Sometimes daily. I didn’t mind—he’d bring me along and I’d explore the Abbey while he bled her or dosed her with sedatives.” She lowered her voice. “Have you found the naughty tapestry yet? The one with all the depictions of sinners in Hell, being …sinful? ”

Lucy shook her head. She wasn’t interested in tapestries—not at the moment, anyway. “Lady Kendall had fits? What sort of fits?”

“Oh, all sorts of fits. The more dramatic, the better. A word, a look, a sudden change in the weather—the slightest provocation sent her into hysterics. And then she would go on and on, crying for hours until my father could calm her. I don’t know how he had the patience to treat her for eight years. And she’d been that way for ages before we even came here.” She stepped away and began pulling on her gloves.

A chill crawled down Lucy’s spine. She thought of her own helpless bout of tears, and Jeremy’s panicked reaction. Was it any wonder he had left for London? He must have thought she was becoming another hysterical female. Perhaps shewas becoming another hysterical female.

“My father said one must feel sorry for her,” Hetta continued. “She had a fragile constitution, he said. She married a very harsh man, and then she lost a child.” She looked up at Lucy with a wry smile. “But as I said, sympathy isn’t my strong point. So if you’ve a mind to develop a nervous condition of your own, you’d better send for my father. The best you’d get from me is a smart slap across the cheek and a slug of brandy.”

“I think I need both.” Lucy sank down on the side of Aunt Matilda’s bed. “I don’t know what’s to become of me, truly.”

Hetta looked at her sharply. “Oh, no. Don’t ask me for counsel, Lucy. I’m brilliant with poultices, but I’m not at all accustomed to giving advice.”

“Believe me, I’m not accustomed to needing it,” Lucy replied. She looked up at the whimsically painted ceiling, where gilt-haired cherubs peeked down at her from billowing white clouds. “What am I doing here? I don’t belong here.”

With an air of resignation, Hetta sat down next to her. “Your husband seems to think you do. If you want to know what you’re doing here, I suggest you ask him. Unless you came with pots of money,”—she eyed Lucy dubiously—“he must have had some reason for marrying you.”

“I didn’t come with any money.” Lucy picked at the lace trim of her sleeve. “He had to marry me. I bullied him into it.”

Hetta burst into laughter.

“No, really,” said Lucy. “I was perfectly shameless.”

Hetta only laughed harder.

Lucy began to feel a bit indignant. “I’m telling you the truth! I threw myself at him like … like a wanton dairymaid!”

At length, Hetta caught her breath and wiped her eyes with a gloved hand. “Lucy, please. First, your husband is an earl, ridiculously wealthy, and—if you won’t mind my noticing—not unpleasant to look at. He couldn’t have remained unmarried this long without learning to deflect unwelcome advances. Even from wanton dairymaids.