A Night Like This (Smythe-Smith Quartet #2)(54)

“Oh, I’m sure I don’t need a doctor,” Anne said quickly. She still felt awful—sore, and cold, and with a lumpy explanation for her raging headache. But they were temporary sorts of ailments, the kind one instinctively knew needed nothing but a soft bed and hot soup.
But the maid just shrugged. “She already sent for one, so I don’t think you’ve got much choice.”
Anne nodded.
“Everyone is right worried about you. Little Lady Frances was crying, and—”
“Frances?” Anne interrupted. “But she never cries.”
“She was this time.”
“Oh, please,” Anne begged, heartbroken with worry. “Please have someone let her know that I’m all right.”
“A footman will be up with more hot water soon. We’ll have him tell Lady—”
“A footman?” Anne gasped, her hands instinctively covering her nudity. She was still in her chemise, but wet, it was practically transparent.
“Don’t worry,” the maid said with a chuckle. “He leaves it at the door. It’s just so Peggy doesn’t have to carry it up the stairs.”
Peggy, who was pouring yet another bucket of water into the tub, turned and smiled.
“Thank you,” Anne said quietly. “Thank you both.”
“I’m Bess,” the first maid told her. “Do you think you can stand up? Just for a minute? This slip has got to come off over your head.”
Anne nodded, and with help from Bess she rose to her feet, holding onto the side of the large porcelain tub for support. Once the chemise had been removed, Bess helped Anne into the tub, and she sank down gratefully into the water. It was too hot, but she didn’t mind. It felt so good to be something other than numb.
She soaked in the bath until the water faded to lukewarm, then Bess helped her into her wool nightgown, which Bess had brought down from Anne’s room in the nursery.
“Here you are,” Bess said, leading Anne across the plush carpet to a beautiful canopied bed.
“What room is this?” Anne asked, taking in the elegant surroundings. Scrollwork swirled along the ceilings, and the walls were covered in damask of the most delicate silvery blue. It was by far the grandest room she’d ever slept in.
“The blue guest bedroom,” Bess said, fluffing her pillows. “It’s one of the finest at Whipple Hill. Right on the same hallway as the family.”
As the family? Anne looked up in surprise.
Bess shrugged. “His lordship insisted upon it.”
“Oh,” Anne said with a gulp, wondering what the rest of his family thought about that.
Bess watched as Anne settled in under the heavy quilts, then asked, “Shall I tell everyone that you’re able to receive visitors? I know they’ll want to see you.”
“Not Lord Winstead?” Anne asked in horror. Surely they would not allow him to enter her bedroom. Well, not her bedroom, but still, a bedroom. With her in it.
“Oh, no,” Bess reassured her. “He’s off in his own bed, asleep, I hope. I don’t think we’ll see him for at least a day. The poor man is exhausted. I reckon you weigh quite a bit more wet than you do dry.” Bess chuckled at her own joke, then left the room.
Less than a minute later, Lady Pleinsworth entered. “Oh, my poor, poor girl,” she exclaimed. “You gave us such a fright. But my heavens, you look vastly better than you did an hour ago.”
“Thank you,” Anne said, not quite comfortable with such effusiveness on the part of her employer. Lady Pleinsworth had always been kind, but she had never attempted to make Anne feel like a member of the family. Nor had Anne expected her to. It was the odd lot of the governess—not quite a servant but most definitely not of the family. Her first employer—the old woman on the Isle of Man—had warned her about it. Forever stuck between upstairs and down, a governess was, and she’d best get used to it quickly.
“You should have seen yourself when his lordship brought you in,” Lady Pleinsworth said as she settled into a chair by the bed. “Poor Frances thought you were dead.”
“Oh, no, is she still upset? Has someone—”
“She’s fine,” Lady Pleinsworth said with a brisk wave of her hand. “She insists, however, upon seeing you for herself.”
“That would be most agreeable,” Anne said, trying to stifle a yawn. “I would enjoy her company.”
“You’ll need to rest first,” Lady Pleinsworth said firmly.
Anne nodded, sinking a little further into her pillows.
“I’m sure you’ll want to know how Lord Winstead is,” Lady Pleinsworth continued.
Anne nodded again. She did want to know, desperately, but she’d been forcing herself not to ask.
Lady Pleinsworth leaned forward, and there was something in her expression Anne could not quite read. “You should know that he very nearly collapsed after carrying you home.”
“I’m sorry,” Anne whispered.
But if Lady Pleinsworth heard her, she gave no indication. “Actually, I suppose one would have to say he did collapse. Two footmen had to help him up and practically carry him to his room. I vow I have never seen the like.”
Anne felt tears stinging her eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
Lady Pleinsworth looked at her with a queer expression, almost as if she’d forgotten who she’d been talking to. “There’s no need for that. It’s not your fault.”
“I know, but . . .” Anne shook her head. She didn’t know what she knew. She didn’t know anything any longer.