“Yes. I imagine the heat must have affected you severely without a parasol. We must not let that happen again.” The confidence in Louisa’s voice and stance did little to reassure Jane. The fear that the maid had shown earlier had been replaced by a familiar bitterness.
She could think of nothing to say to counter the young woman, and that, in itself, was reason enough to avoid Lord Verbury. Jane’s mind turned too slowly to be of any real use.
“Louisa.” Frank glowered at his daughter. “Has the doctor arrived?”
“I settled Sir Ronald in the white parlour to await Mrs. Hamilton.”
The chill that Jane felt had little to do with entering the cool air of the long gallery. The idea of being attended by Lord Verbury’s surgeon gave her no comfort. “Thank you, but I have a doctor who is already familiar with my history. I would prefer to be attended by her.”
Footsteps sounded, then, on the polished wood of the gallery. Jane turned to look towards the parlour, from which a white man with thinning grey hair strode towards them. He wore a naval uniform, all polished buttons and sharp corners. “Doctor? I presume you are speaking of the negro Jones. She is no more a doctor than my hound.”
“Sir. You overstep yourself.” Vincent turned Jane away from him. “Frank, please send for my wife’s preferred physician.”
“Are you really going to trust your wife’s health to someone without training?”
Vincent’s stride faltered. Jane gripped his arm and murmured, “Not him.”
He gave the slightest of nods and continued down the gallery.
“Well, I tried. Let it be on your head if her health suffers.”
The floor creaked, accompanied by a slight squeak of a metal rubbing against metal. “Vincent? Jane. Please wait.”
At the sound of Lord Verbury’s voice, the tension in Vincent’s figure changed. His posture remained absolutely the same, but it hardened, as though he were keeping himself from running by sheer force of will.
“Please—please do not let your anger at me stop you from making use of Sir Ronald. I owe my life to his care, and can vouch for his skills. Please … at least speak with him.” The tremor in Lord Verbury’s voice seemed remarkable, even to Jane.
Vincent came to a halt, head erect and staring straight ahead. The blue parlour lay not ten feet in front of them. Nothing on his face showed that he was aware of what he was seeing.
From behind them again, that voice. “I am sorry. I do not expect either of you to accept my apology, but I beg you not to let the lines between us put Jane’s health at risk.”
A tremor ran through Vincent’s features, and he squeezed his eyes closed. The disturbance smoothed, leaving his face composed again. “Apology? Beg? These are novel words.” If he had spoken so coolly on the road, Jane would not have needed a coldmonger.
A ragged chuckle sounded behind them. “I know. I am sorry for that as well. The loss of Garland was an unexpected blow, and I have been behaving badly.”
“I think your behaviour precedes my brother’s death.”
“It does, which is why I do not expect you to accept my apology. I do not think I can atone for what I put you through with the coldmongers or as a child. I have no right to expect you to trust me, but my physician…” His voice trailed away. “Roll me closer, please. It is difficult to speak so loudly.”
Jane looked back, then. Lord Verbury sat in a wheeled chair, wrapped in a blanket in spite of the heat outside. A tall, stately woman stood behind him, pushing his chair. One could not call her elderly, though her hair was white through, but her clear brown skin had little in the way of lines around the eyes, and her carriage gave an elegant grace to her bearing. She wore a simple white gown, topped with a dress of black net, which was ornamented with embroidery at hem and neck. A cloud of lace formed her fichu and perfectly framed the column of her neck. As she pushed Lord Verbury forward, her gaze darted briefly to Frank, who met it with a slight contraction of his brows. Seeing the three of them together, the resemblance was unmistakable. Her features accounted for those parts of his face that were not from the Hamilton line.
Vincent was still facing the blue parlour, eyes shut. His breath was fast and shallow, but nothing in his posture indicated that he felt any emotion at all.
“That is close enough, Sarah. I do not want to alarm them.” Lord Verbury’s chair came to a stop just past the front door. Sir Ronald, Louisa, and Frank remained behind, strange stage dressing to this tableau. “Vincent, I am beyond grateful to you for coming here to run the estate. Even though you thought I was dead, it was still generous. That you have remained was unexpected.”