by Abigail Agar
She heard a scoff and a sigh but continued to wait.
“Very well, then. You may enter,” he finally said.
Lavender did just that, and she saw a young man lying in bed, his legs under the blanket, his dark curls framing his face. They were not fashionably slicked back as most men did, but she found the effect rather striking.
“So, you are the new maid? Miss Philips? I shall be calling upon you often,” he said by way of warning.
“That is what I am here for,” she replied, curtseying.
“To begin with, I would like my tulsi,” he said.
Lavender squinted and turned an ear in his direction.
“Begging your pardon, My Lord, but your what?” she asked.
“Tulsi. It is a very fine tea that is brought from the far east. I would like a cup at once,” he said.
“Very well, My Lord. Would you like me to add the milk and sugar as well? Or do you prefer that I bring it to you in a pot with the accoutrements on the side?” she asked.
“It is tulsi, Miss Philips. If I were drinking Earl Grey, I would expect you to bring everything so that I am not limited by your comings and goings. This particular tea is best enjoyed as it is,” he said, mild irritation in his voice.
She was at once struck by his rudeness. This man was deeply unpleasant. He was every bit as awful as she could have imagined. Worse. He was quite arrogant in a rather extreme way.
Still, she knew that she had come for a reason. This was her duty, and she needed to do her best to be friendly and to speak with him openly.
“As you wish, My Lord. I shall bring you your tulsi,” she said.
“Then I believe we finally understand one another,” he said.
And there it was. He cared nothing about her or her diligence in assisting him. He simply wanted his tea.
She had never heard of it before. But she was intrigued and simply nodded and departed to find her way to the kitchen to get it for him.
Of course, she did not know where the kitchen was.
She wandered ever so quietly until she saw another one of the maids. After asking the other woman where the kitchen was, Lavender made her way in that direction and stumbled into the cook.
“Oh, hello,” she greeted.
“Hello, luv,” the elderly woman greeted. “Are you the new one, then?”
“Indeed, I am. Lavender Philips,” she said.
“Luv’ly name that is. Oof, I do love me the smell of some lavender,” she said in her sharp cockney.
“Thank you, ma’am,” she replied with a laugh.
“Now, wot’s it you want then?” she asked.
“Begging your pardon, but the marquess is requesting his tea. Tulee? Tusee?” she asked, not quite recalling the name.
“Ah! Tulsi. ’Ere it is luv. I’ll just go and put on the kettle for you,” she said.
Lavender chatted with the cook for a few minutes before the pot was full of the most exquisite aroma Lavender could imagine. She was certainly desperate to try a bit of this tea but knew she would get in a great deal of trouble for it. And with the marquess being such a dreadful man, that was not something she wanted to risk.
At last, she returned to her patient with the tea.
“Ah, excellent timing,” he said.
“I am glad that I have not kept you waiting,” she replied.
“Indeed, you did not. You cannot imagine how slow some of these maids are. Now, you must tell me something about yourself,” he said as she poured the cup.
Tell him something about herself? What could she possibly tell him? He was so unlikeable that she could not think of even a moment’s peace between them. Lavender simply did not wish him to know anything at all about her.
“Come, now. Surely there must be something,” he said.
“I fear that I am painfully dull,” she said.
“I cannot believe that is true. I have heard that you are schooled in medicine. For a young lady, that is not dull at all,” he said.
“Oh, no. I am not schooled. I am experienced. They are two very different things,” she said.
“Hmm, I imagined as much. The idea of a woman of your station having any form of education would be rather unusual,” he said.
Choosing to ignore the slight, she steadied herself. Melora had said the marquess had got worse during this injury, but was it possible he had grown so much worse as to be like this? Surely, he had to have been rather cruel before. Character could not change on such a whim. It appeared as though he was not even aware of his harsh behaviour or his insults.
“As it happens, I was the daughter of a learned man. I was a member of society and had schooling through an excellent governess. It was upon my father’s death that I found myself without any of the former fortunes,” she said.
The marquess was quiet for a moment, but then his eyes narrowed at her, and then again shifted until he laughed and shook his head.
“That is an excellent tale you have spun,” he said.
“Tale?” she asked.
“Yes, to make people think that you have some sort of clout within society. Anyway, regardless of how you came by your skills or did not, I suppose I am soon to learn. If you do, indeed, have a knack for the healing arts, I trust that I shall see it soon enough,” he said.
“Yes, well, I do believe that I shall be able to assist you, and if there is anything the doctor wishes me to do, I shall do all that I am able,” she said.
He took another sip of the tea and made a somewhat disgusted face.
“This is far too weak,” he said.
“Would you like me to go and make it stronger?” she offered, keeping her emotions at bay.
“I would like you to have done it correctly the first time,” he said.
Lavender simply pursed her lips at his tantrum. She would not be baited into an argument, nor would she express any approval of his lack of character. However, this man behaved in the past; she was meeting him now, at this moment, when his attitude reflected only irrational entitlement and the sort of callous nature she might have anticipated from a prince rather than a simple marquess.
Then again, she could never tell him how little she thought of his station. That would be sure to leave her cast out from the home entirely.
It was no wonder to her that his mother had decided to hire someone to assist him. She could not imagine such an unlikeable person to exist, and yet, here he was.
Unfortunately, it appeared as though she would not easily be rid of him. He was every bit as awful as she thought a person could be.
But this was her lot in life. This was where she now belonged. At least it was a position. That was something. And it was the only choice she had.
Chapter 4
He was alone. Ronan was completely on his own in the room.
The curtain was drawn, and everything was dim and dark. There was hardly any light seeping in through the windows. It was the dark night of his soul.
How had it come to this? How had he ended up in such a terrible position in which he was literally at a loss for peace?
He could hardly believe that all of this had happened. He had lost the excitement of the days to come. He had lost the use of his legs. Possibly for now, possibly forever.
Ronan had lost so many things. He had even lost the woman he had intended to court.
It was difficult to be so vulnerable, but he was on his own. He was sad and upset, and knowing that she had all but abandoned him was devastating.
Lady Foster’s letter, nothing more than a poetry note, meant nothing. She had simply told him that she wished him well with his recovery and his future. It was nothing more than a notice that she had no interest in a future together.
It was strange to be rejected in this way. After all, Ronan had not initially cared for Lady Foster. Rather, she had been the one to merge the match along. She had done everything within her power, everything that was appropriate for a young woman, to ensure that they spent time with one another.
Throughout that time, he had come to see that she was certainly an adequate match. She had a high rank, and she was beautiful. Was there really anything else equally important?
Unfortunately, she no longer seemed to care about him. With his injury, he no longer mattered to her.
It seemed as though he was losing everything because of the filthy robbers. Those highwaymen had taken everything from him. They had stripped him of his dignity, his mobility, and now even the potential for love and marriage.
But it was also exhausting to feel so upset all the time. He could not help himself, but that did not mean that he enjoyed it.
There were times when Ronan wanted nothing more than to feel happy. And yet, he felt that he could not.
There was a knock on the door, and he called for the guest to enter.
“Come in,” he instructed.
It was his maid again. She was beautiful, but what did that matter?
He did note the way that she pursed her lips at his behaviour. Every time there was something that she found to disapprove of, she would simply purse her lips, continue looking at her work, and move on.
Something was charming about it. Even if she only did it out of disgust for his behaviour, he found it intriguing. Quite lovely, actually.
“Are you here for a purpose?” he asked.
“Yes. I was told that your bandages need to be changed each day,” she said.
“Indeed, they do. Are you willing to be the one to do so? It is quite a grisly injury I have sustained. Not many are willing to look upon it,” he said.
“That does not repel me so easily. I am perfectly fine with assisting you in this and your entire recovery. Now, you must hold still,” she said, taking the fresh linens from where they sat in the corner of the room.
“Have you thoroughly cleaned your hands?” Ronan asked.
“I have, indeed,” she replied.
“Are you quite certain that you have done so adequately? I have seen how some of the maids do not even take care to ensure they have removed the dirt from under their fingernails,” he said.
Miss Philips held out her hands for him to inspect. Her jaw was clenched and held a clear annoyance. Her eyes seemed to glaze over with irritation. But her hands were spotless, and there was nothing beneath the nails.
“Very well. I am glad that you have taken care to ensure that you are clean,” he said. “I expect that you shall always do your best to remain so for my sake.”
“Yes, Lord Beckman. But, if I may, I shall be doing it for my own sake,” she replied.
For a moment, he was shocked by her retort. Looking up into her green eyes that sat amidst a freckled complexion, he could hardly believe that she had been willing to say a word in contrast to his own.
But then, Ronan began to laugh.
“So you are, in fact, unafraid to share your own thoughts,” he said.
“My thoughts are unoffensive,” she replied.
“Unless I had taken offence to your retort of my own suggestion,” he said.
“I was not aware that you made a suggestion. Rather, I understood your statement to be a command. I wished to inform you that you have no need to command what I already intended to do,” she said.
He realised that he was actually being quite awful. Humbled by her quiet disdain, Ronan decided to hush himself.
Perhaps he did not need to put her through all of this. Even if he found it amusing to torment her in this way, maybe he did not need to do so to find fulfillment. Perhaps, he could even be nice to her. After all, she was there for his own sake. She was there to help him.
And if, indeed, she had some medical schooling, perhaps he was better off garnering her affection. If they could be friends or at least be perceived that way, she might take better care of him.
And even as he thought this, he saw her lips purse together.
“Well, Miss Philips, I daresay that I find you to be a surprise,” Ronan said as she removed the final bandage from his legs.
He recognized then that she had shown not one sign of disgust. There had been nothing in her expression, nor demeanor, to display a grievance against changing his bandages when his legs were so grossly maligned.
“I do apologize for that,” she said. “I know that, as a maid, I am meant to be predictable.”
“On the contrary, I do not mind it so much. I find it rather intriguing. I am fond of unique things, and you have proven that you are exactly that,” he said.
“Do you mean to say that you prefer intrigue over predictability? I imagine that is a dangerous line to straddle for a maid,” she said.
“Yes, it probably is. For that reason, I shall not urge you further in a direction that you may find uncomfortable. But you ought to be aware that I am enjoying your conversation a good deal more than I had anticipated,” he confessed.
“It would appear that our conversation amuses you as opposed to enjoying it,” she observed.
Ronan stopped for a moment before speaking. She was right. She had noticed the gentle undertone of mockery that he had retained as he spoke with her. There was not simply banter; there was an element of his authority which he relished in times like these.
“Are you bothered by our interaction?” he asked.
“I am unbothered by anything, Lord Beckman. As a maid, I wish to be predictable. I wish to be unnoticed. If you should like something different, I fear that I shall disappoint you. As it is, I do not wish to stand out,” she said.
“But I have already told you that you do,” Ronan said.
“For which I am grateful. Now, I know that I must be better at keeping silent,” she replied.
Just then, Miss Philips opened a bottle. This was Ronan’s least favourite part of having the bandages changed.
“This is going to hurt,” she said.
“Yes, I know,” he replied.
She poured the liquid onto a cloth and gently patted the skin, which was beginning to heal over nicely. It caused a burning sensation, and Ronan gritted his teeth. It was awful.
But then, she reached the part on his left leg, which was still an open wound. There were stitches to close the skin, but he felt the fire of the alcohol race down to his bone whenever it was cleaned. It was no different, even with the touch of this intriguing maid with medical knowledge.
Ronan groaned, unable to stop himself. But she finished soon enough.
“Are you all right?” Miss Philips asked.
“As well as I could possibly be, given the circumstances,” he said.
“Very well. I shall rewrap your legs,” she said.
He was quiet and observed as she did just that, taking her time to carefully wrap each leg in fresh cloth. There was such care taken in her work, such diligence in ensuring that she was not hurting him, even though he had been quite harsh with her.
In truth, Ronan was starting to feel somewhat ashamed, humbled by her quiet disdain and matter-of-fact determination not to be drawn into an argument. It was admirable, and he wondered if he would ever be strong enough or brave enough to admit it aloud.
