The Wish (The Blooms of Norfolk Book 3)

by Angelina Jameson

  “Are you all right?” His words were said in a husky tone.

  “Oh yes. No harm done.” She looked up at him. His dark brown eyes were fringed with luxurious dark lashes. He was such an attractive, amiable man. But uncommonly stubborn as he’d said.

  He smiled softly down at her. “Shall we continue?”

  “Yes, please.” She tore her gaze away from him and stepped forward, loosening her grip on his forearm. She would have released his arm but was afraid of stumbling again. At least that was the excuse she told herself. Despite their rocky start that morning she wanted to enjoy the day.

  A few yards ahead appeared another shallow hill. Once they were on the other side the water was only yards in front of them.

  “There are swans!” Lady Bowles pointed at the birds. “They are just lovely.”

  There was a pair of white swans among the rushes on the shore of the water.

  “There is a dry spot right up here,” Helena said loudly. “Watch for mud. If you follow Rutley, he should find all the places you don’t want to step.”

  Good natured laughter followed Helena’s teasing of her husband. Rutley found a solid path to the water through trial and error.

  There was room enough along a less muddy area by the water’s edge for them all to see the swans. She released Norfolk’s arm and stepped away from him as her uncle approached.

  “Is it true a baby swan is called a cygnet?” Lady Bowles asked from close beside them.

  “Yes. A male swan is called a cob and a female a pen,” Lord Norfolk replied.

  “Really? I had no idea. That is fascinating.” Lady Bowles put her arm through the marquess’s. “Is it possible to tell which one is the female just by looking at them?”

  Camellia realized Lord Norfolk’s attention was still on her rather than the woman grasping his arm. Lady Bowles frowned and her lips thinned. It seems Camellia wasn’t the only one aware she’d drawn the marquess’s rapt attention.

  Chapter Ten

  When Ambrose informed Lady Camellia he suffered from a brain tumor he was struck by the distress on her face. Then Isabel grasped his arm. Camellia turned to speak to her uncle and stumbled.

  He politely disengaged himself from Lady Bowles and stepped forward to help Camellia.

  “Oh my!” She looked up at him as he reached out a hand to take one of hers. “I’m stuck.”

  The lady had her left foot in the mud. She would need a bit of a tug, so he took both hands and pulled. Her left foot came out of the muck and Camellia took a few steps forward onto drier ground. She held on to his hands as she rubbed her boot on some grass to clean the bottom of her footwear as best she could.

  Helena came to her sister’s aid, commandeering handkerchiefs from the men present to help with the cleanup effort.

  A cart carrying some benches arrived. Servants from another cart unloaded the benches and set them on dry land.

  He escorted Camellia to a bench, Helena’s collected handkerchiefs in one of his hands.

  “Let me see that muddy boot, Lady Camellia,” he said lightly, kneeling before her.

  The lady proffered her foot, her color rising in her cheeks. He gently took the top of the boot in his left hand, careful not to touch above the boot where her stocking covered leg was. He took one of the handkerchiefs from the pile beside him where he’d placed them and wiped the mud from the side and bottom of the boot, rapidly using the rest of the linen provided.

  So intent was he on his task and listening to Camellia’s uneven breathing-and his own-that he forgot they were surrounded by the rest of their party.

  “I think you’ve got all of it by now,” Lady Bowles said in a high-pitched voice.

  “Are you all right, Lady Camellia?” he asked softly, as he looked up at her. His hand was still on her boot. He was reluctant to let her go.

  “Yes, thank you, Lord Norfolk,” she replied, her voice a mere whisper.

  “Did you hurt yourself?” Mr. Simpson asked, breaking the spell between Ambrose and his niece.

  “Not at all, uncle. I was merely being clumsy,” Camellia replied.

  Ambrose released her foot, gathered the dirty linen, and stood. A servant came forward to take the linen from him. Mr. Simpson assisted Camellia to her feet. Ambrose wandered back to the water’s edge where Lord Rutley was passing out scraps of dry bread to toss to the waterfowl.

  Lady Bowles expressed an interest in assisting Lady Rutley with the setting up of their luncheon. He was relieved to have a moment away from her watchful eye.

  Rutley handed Camellia several pieces of bread which she threw with a horrible aim. One piece barely reached the water. He chuckled from his place beside her.

  “It is ungentlemanly of you to make fun of my throw, Lord Norfolk.” Although she raised her chin, there was a smile on her face.

  “I apologize, Lady Camellia. Your aim is well… a bit off the mark.”

  She replied with her hands on her hips, “Can you do better?”

  Rutley was listening to their exchange with interest. He handed Ambrose a piece of bread. He took it and threw it squarely in front of a swan.

  Camellia sniffed. “A lucky throw.”

  Rutley handed him another piece of bread. He repeated his throw with the same result.

  “Now you’re just showing off.” Camellia tried again and her piece of bread landed on one of the swan’s backs. She laughed. “I am hopeless.”

  “Ladies are not taught the art of throwing bread?” he asked.

  “Sadly no.” She dimpled.

  “It is a lost art,” he replied with his own smile. Would that he could court the lovely, sweet woman beside him.

  He became aware Rutley was still watching them, Mr. Simpson on his other side merely gazing out onto the water.

  A footman walked to Rutley and said, “Luncheon is served, my lord.”

  “Come along, everyone!” Helena stood by a long table and waved to her guests.

  He extended his arm. The lady beside him took it. It felt natural to lead her to the table. He thought they had reached a genial accord. A nice day had turned even nicer.

  * * * * *

  A long table under a wide oak tree was set with tablecloth, china and cutlery. Platters of food were placed on the cloth along with bottles of lemonade and ale.

  The lemonade was a welcome sight after their exercise. Her parasol deposited on an empty bench, Camellia sipped her drink. The coolness of the shade was welcome as she felt slightly warm after the time she’d spent near Lord Norfolk.

  She was seated on one side of the marquess, Lady Bowles on his other. The servants had retreated to the carts.

  “These prawn sandwiches are delightful,” she said to Helena who was seated across from her.

  Helena replied, “It is a recipe from Rutley’s mother. She supposedly copied one of the Duchess of Devonshire’s receipts.”

  If only Camellia could stay in this moment forever. No problems. Her mother not crying or wailing when the melancholy or some imagined illness struck her fancy. Her father by her side, sad but loyal. She shook off unhappy thoughts.

  “Shall we play a game after we eat?” Helena asked.

  “That would be delightful,” Lady Bowles replied. “I do love games.”

  When they were finished, several blankets were put on the ground. They took up places in a circle as the servants cleared their meal away. Lord Norfolk ended up beside her. Lady Bowles across from them, her attention focused on Lord Norfolk.

  Helena clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “The game is called Riddles. I Have sheets of paper and everyone will get a paper with a riddle on it. Whoever guesses the riddle must tell the next riddle. You can only win once.”

  Helena passed around folded pieces of paper and everyone took one.

  “That sounds uncommonly hard,” she replied. “I do hope they’re easy, Helena.”

  Her sister shook her head. “My dear husband thought up the riddles so I would guess they are very difficult. I
will go first.”

  “You witness in my beauteous first

  The wonders of creation;

  My next is blessed or cursed,

  As he fulfills his station:

  My total (whole) dances round the year;

  The present soon will disappear.”

  She had no idea what the riddle meant.

  There was silence for a short while until Ambrose said, “Season. It’s a season.”

  “Correct!” Helena nodded. “Now you must share a riddle.”

  “This one should be easy enough,” the marquess replied.

  “My first descends from yon eternal skies;

  A winged weapon from my second flies;

  And in my whole these colors may be seen,

  Yellow and blue, as well as red and green.”

  This time the silence went on for a while longer.

  “We need a hint,” Helena said.

  “Something colorful you see in the sky,” Norfolk replied.

  More silence.

  She asked tentatively, “A rainbow?”

  “You are correct,” the marquess replied with a grin.

  She looked at her riddle. The answer was not included on the sheet of paper.

  “Oh! dear loved first, without thy useful aid,

  This my charade would never have been made.

  My second modern misses think the fashion,

  By giving way to an imprudent passion;

  My whole in Homer's Odyssey you'll find,

  A noble pattern for all womankind.”

  When the silence went on for some time, Ambrose sighed loudly.

  “You can only answer once,” Helena said as a reminder.

  Finally, Rutley whispered something into Helena’s ear. A moment later Helena asked, “Penelope?”

  “Correct!” She didn’t mind at all that Rutley had given the answer to his wife. Camellia wasn’t used to being the center of attention and wanted someone else to read a riddle.

  There was some gentle teasing of Helena.

  “Very clever, Lady Rutley, if not quite within the rules of the game,” Lady Bowles said. “Now you must tell us your riddle.”

  Helena’s eyes widened as she looked at the piece of paper in her hand. Her cheeks became flushed. “I must defer to my husband.”

  Lord Rutley shrugged and said,

  “My first the lawyer and the beggar urge,

  And when they've gain'd their point they are my second.

  And if you look the world all round and round

  My whole, man's chief pursuit is too much reckon'd.”

  “I take it that Lady Rutley knows the answer.” Lady Bowles looked around the group. “I do not. Do you, Mr. Simpson?”

  Her uncle shook his head. Helena giggled and put a hand over her mouth.

  From Lord Norfolk’s smug look, she had an idea he knew the answer to the riddle. “Sir?”

  The gentleman replied slowly, “Pleasure, Lady Camellia. The answer is pleasure.”

  Chapter Eleven

  They were nearly back to the manor house when he started to shake. Very light tremors but enough that Camellia remarked on them from her place beside him.

  “You look pale, Lord Norfolk. Are you all right?” her softly spoken words sounded concerned. She took his arm.

  “I’m feeling rather odd. I merely need to get back to the house and rest.”

  He’d been careful with his food. No alcohol, only a few sips of lemonade. Bread, some meat and cheese. He’d passed up cakes for fruit. Perhaps he’d had too much exercise that afternoon.

  The carts were already back at the manor. He would not ask to be carried by the other men in their party.

  They were in the rear of the group as before. He put one foot in front of the other and made it to the courtyard of the house. To his dismay, he felt a migraine begin.

  “Good heavens, man! Let us get you inside.” Mr. Simpson was the next person to notice his distress.

  The apothecary rushed forward to take his arm. Lady Camellia stepped aside as Rutley took his other arm.

  His vision was starting to blur. He stumbled up the main staircase with assistance.

  Once in his bedchamber, his valet fussed over him. His clothes were loosened, he was placed on the bed and his shoes removed. A few minutes later, he croaked, “A bowl, Livingston.”

  Ambrose cast his accounts, in misery not only from the pain in his head but with the realization he had indeed held out a tiny bit of hope the apothecary was right about his diagnosis.

  * * * * *

  Camellia knew something was wrong. The man walking beside her was pale and shaking. She took his arm. She knew Lord Norfolk was too proud to draw attention to himself. He wouldn’t want to ask others for help.

  Once in the courtyard of Rutley House, her uncle noticed the marquess’s suffering. He and Lord Rutley took charge of the situation and led Lord Norfolk to his bedchamber.

  A few minutes later her uncle appeared in the drawing room to tell the assembled party that his lordship was sleeping. The marquess had a migraine and he’d given the gentleman something to help him rest. “I do think Lord Norfolk will be fully recovered by tomorrow morning.”

  Lady Bowles released a great sigh. “Thank goodness! I will leave you now, Lady Rutley. You have other concerns at present. Please allow me to call on you tomorrow to check on the health of the patient?”

  “Of course,” Helena replied, with a distracted tone in her voice.

  “I will see you out, Lady Bowles,” Rutley said and proceeded to do just that.

  Camellia and Helena went upstairs to wash away the day’s activity. Helena followed her into her bedroom.

  “I thought Lord Norfolk was over his illness,” Helena said once they were in Camellia’s bedchamber with the door shut.

  Anna was not in the room. Camellia replied, “Lord Norfolk has more than a temporary illness. His physicians diagnosed a brain tumor. Our uncle believes the correct prognosis is diabetes.”

  “A brain tumor? Good heavens that is quite serious. Also, very different than diabetes.”

  Camellia explained why their uncle thought the marquess suffered from the condition.

  “There is no cure for diabetes mellitus?” Helena asked, her brow furrowed.

  “All one can do is manage the symptoms. Uncle says it is possible to lead a full and happy life despite having the illness.”

  “If that is indeed what the gentleman has. You yourself said his physician believes Lord Norfolk has a brain tumor.” Helena walked to the door of Camellia’s bedchamber. “I think I could do with a bit of a rest myself. I will see you at dinner.”

  Once Helena had left the bedchamber Camellia rang for her maid.

  Would Lord Norfolk be all right?

  To distract herself she took up her novel once Anna helped her out of her dress and into a robe. She would read a while before she bathed and dressed for dinner.

  Regardless of what had befallen the marquess, dinner would still arrive. One had to adhere to the social niceties after all.

  Lord Norfolk did not join them for the evening meal.

  “The gentleman is well,” her uncle replied when she expressed concern for the marquess’s health. “He just needs a spot more rest.”

  She looked at the face that so reminded her of her father. Her uncle was as tall as his elder brother but thin where her father had become rather stout. Her uncle was an exceedingly kind man and a highly skilled apothecary. She knew that despite what Lord Norfolk believed, her uncle’s diagnosis was the correct one.

  The marquess might be ready to give up on his life but she must assuredly was not.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Your opinion on my spell, Simpson?” Ambrose asked the apothecary after the man took his pulse later that evening.

  “You have diabetes. Something else is causing your migraines. I’m sure the overabundance of exercise so soon after your recent seizure didn’t help your condition.”

  He bit his to
ngue to keep from retorting something he would regret. “An overabundance of exercise is not causing my migraines.”

  “I agree.” The apothecary frowned. “Perhaps it is something you ate or something you came into contact with. If you provide me with a list of everything you ate today it will give me a place to start. If you experience another migraine, I want you to again write down what you ate before the malady occurred.”

  At least doing so would make him feel like he was doing something productive while he waited to die. Ambrose nodded. “That is an easy enough request.”

  “You will be well enough tomorrow to return to your estate. You need peace and quiet and a chance to follow your diet and develop a routine without onlookers. I assume you still wish to follow the diet I prescribed?”

  He nodded. “If nothing else, my migraine went away quickly.” The apothecary was correct. He needed to concentrate on himself and getting better. His thoughts turned to Camellia. As much as he was attracted to the lady, he was dying and had nothing to offer her.

  “I’m thirsty,” he said.

  The apothecary handed him a glass of water. Ambrose downed the drink in several long gulps.

  “Are you hungry?”

  He nodded. “I am.”

  “I will have a tray sent up. Supper was two hours ago.”

  A knock came at the bedchamber door. When the door opened, he was surprised to see Lord Rutley.

  “You look much better,” the gentleman said and moved further into the room. “Might I have a private word if you feel up to it?”

  “I was just leaving,” the apothecary replied.

  “You may go, Livingston,” Ambrose said to his valet.

  When both men had left the room Rutley sat on the hard-backed chair by the bed recently vacated by Mr. Simpson.

  “Mr. Simpson tells me you will be right as rain by morning.” The earl’s voice was grave.

  “Yes, he has assured me the same.”

  “I must tell you my wife asked me to invite you to the house. She thought Camellia might have a tendre for you.” If anything, Rutley’s words were even more solemn than the expression on his face.