“I beg your pardon?” I asked. “You do not seem quite so desperate.”
She gave a small laugh. “It happened just after I had finished reading a collection of Greek myths. Somehow, I had gotten it into my head that I could fashion a pair of wings and fly like Daedalus—I believe it was my brother, Henry, who convinced me. I could think of nothing else after the idea took root. For several nights, I constructed a set of wings by gluing together all the paper that could be found in the house. By dawn on the third night, I was ready and supremely confident.
“I climbed out the window on the third floor, crawled my way over to the edge of the roof, slipped on the wings, and never gave the danger a second thought. I wholeheartedly believed it would work. So I prepared to jump—”
“And Mr. Braddock heroically caught you at the last second,” I said, with wicked pleasure, sure to my bones that I was correct.
Miss Lodge grinned at my impertinence. “Yes, exactly! I was just above his room, and he heard the racket. And I must mention that when he pulled me back, he tore the wings in the process. I was furious with him!”
“It seems Mr. Braddock has had years of practice, then.”
Miss Lodge looked curiously at me. “Practice saving people?”
“Acting like a dark, brooding hero,” I said, wondering if she could not see it herself.
A wrinkle appeared between her light brows. “I . . . suppose I can see it. But really, he’s not like that at all, Miss Wyndham.”
At that moment, Cushing returned with the willow bark and a boiling pot of water on a tray, and I left her bedside and set the willow bark to steep. The simple act only occupied a minute of time and needed a half hour to steep. Thoughtfully, Cushing had also brought us two cups of good strong black tea, and I decided they certainly could not worsen Miss Lodge’s condition. I returned to her side and helped her prop herself up in the bed, her breath coming too quickly for the slight effort.
“How did the two of you first meet?” I asked as she took a shaky sip. “It sounds as though you have many years of acquaintance, but he has an incurable condition that keeps him from answering questions.”
“He was best friends with Henry. They were schoolmates from a young age, and our families were also close.”
“And your brother, is he away at school?”
Miss Lodge looked grave as she put down her spoon. “Henry passed away almost two years ago.”
Not the pleasant teatime conversation I had expected. I choked on a sip and coughed it away. “I did not mean to—”
“No, no apologies. I am simply not used to telling others. It doesn’t seem real, still.”
“I’m sorry, it must have been . . .” I trailed off, for what does one really say?
“It was hard for all of us. And Sebastian had just lost his parents the prior year—”
“I beg your pardon? He—how . . . is that possible?” I asked, cold settling in my stomach.
“His parents were both stricken by the same illness. He lost his father first and then his mother a few months later.”
“What sort of illness?”
“Consumption. The same as my brother.”
I shook my head, as if that could change everything. “And now you have this . . . this Addison’s disease. How horrible.”
“You could also say I’m lucky,” she replied with a smile. “I showed some of the symptoms of consumption myself after Henry, but I managed to recover. I’m still here despite the dismal odds.”
I agreed but felt a little sick myself. Neither one of us spoke for some time. The faint sounds of traffic seeped inside. Miss Lodge’s eyes glimmered in the glow of the sinking sun.
“Thank you for bringing him back, Miss Wyndham,” she said.
“He brought me here to help you,” I insisted, placing our empty cups back on the tray.
“Yes, but you see, when he was younger”—she paused to shift uncomfortably in the bed—“Sebastian was always the responsible one. The way Henry talked about him at school, he was the one other boys looked up to. But after all this happened, he was— he was distraught. He retreated further into himself. He never said it, but I know he feels guilty that Henry fell sick while they were traveling together. He’ll hold himself responsible no matter what you say. He seemed quite lost after the funeral, and he rarely visited or wrote.”
She looked up and gave me an earnest smile. “He must have faith in you if he decided to bring you here personally, and I’m glad of it. I want him to remember that this is a home for him. That he does not need to run away again.”
“I doubt he will,” I replied, unable to name the particular emotion running through me. “His desire to see you was apparent to me the moment he stepped in here.”