It seems one cannot take two steps at a London ball these days without stumbling across a society matron lamenting the difficulties of finding good help. Indeed, This Author thought that Mrs. Featherington and Lady Penwood were going to come to blows at last week’s Smythe-Smith musicale. It seems that Lady Penwood stole Mrs. Featherington’s lady’s maid right out from under her nose one month ago, promising higher wages and free cast-off clothing. (It should be noted that Mrs. Featherington also gave the poor girl cast-off clothing, but anyone who has ever observed the attire of the Featherington girls would understand why the lady’s maid would not view this as a benefit.)
The plot thickened, however, when the lady’s maid in question fled back to Mrs. Featherington, begging to be rehired. It seemed that Lady Penwood’s idea of a lady’s maid included duties more accurately ascribed to the scullery maid, upstairs maid, and cook.
Someone ought to tell the woman that one girl cannot do the work of three.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2 MAY 1817
“We’re going to build a fire,” Benedict said, “and get warm before either of us goes off to bed. I didn’t save you from Cavender just so you could die of influenza.”
Sophie watched him cough anew, the spasms wracking his body and forcing him to bend over at the waist. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Bridgerton,” she could not help commenting, “but of the two of us, I should think you’re more in danger of contracting influenza.”
“Just so,” he gasped, “and I assure you I have no desire to be so afflicted, either. So—” He bent over again as he was once again engulfed by
coughs.
“Mr. Bridgerton?” Sophie asked, concern in her voice.
He swallowed convulsively and barely managed to say, “Just help me get a fire blazing before I cough myself into oblivion.”
Sophie’s brow knit with worry. His coughing fits were coming closer and closer together, and each time they were deeper, more rumbly, as if they were coming from the very pit of his chest.
She made easy work of the fire; she’d certainly had enough experience setting them as a housemaid, and soon they were both holding their hands as close to the flames as they dared.
“I don’t suppose your change of clothing remained dry,” Benedict said, nodding toward Sophie’s sodden satchel.
“I doubt it,” she said ruefully. “But it’s no matter. If I stand here long enough, I’ll dry out.”
“Don’t be silly,” he scoffed, turning around so that the fire might heat his back. “I’m sure I can find you a change of clothing.”
“You have women’s clothing here?” she asked doubtfully.
“You’re not so fussy that you can’t wear breeches and a shirt for one evening, are you?”
Until that very moment, Sophie had probably been exactly that fussy, but put that way, it did seem a little silly. “I suppose not,” she said. Dry clothing certainly sounded appealing.
“Good,” he said briskly. “Why don’t you light the furnaces in two bedrooms, and I’ll find us both some clothing?”
“I can stay in the servants’ quarters,” Sophie said quickly.
“Not necessary,” he said, striding out of the room and motioning for her to follow. “I’ve extra rooms, and you are not a servant here.”
“But I am a servant,” she pointed out, hurrying after him.
“Do whatever you please then.” He started to march up the stairs, but had to stop halfway up to cough. “You can find a tiny little room in the servants’ quarters with a hard little pallet, or you can avail yourself of a guest bedroom, all of which I assure you come equipped with feather mattresses and goosedown coverlets.”
Sophie knew that she should remember her place in the world and march right up the next flight of stairs to the attic, but by God above, a feather mattress and down coverlet sounded like heaven on earth. She
hadn’t slept in such comfort in years. “I’ll just find a small guest bedroom,” she acceded. “The, er, smallest you have.”
Half of Benedict’s mouth quirked up in a dry, I-told-you-so sort of smile. “Pick whichever room you like. But not that one,” he said, pointing to the second door on the left. “That’s mine.”
“I’ll get the furnace started in there immediately,” she said. He needed the warmth more than she did, and besides, she found herself inordinately curious to see what the inside of his bedroom looked like. One could tell a lot about a person by the décor of his bedchamber. Provided, of course, she thought with a grimace, that one possessed enough funds to decorate in the manner one preferred. Sophie sincerely doubted that anyone could have told anything about her from her little attic turret at the Cavenders’—except for the fact that she had not a penny to her name.
Sophie left her satchel in the hall and scurried into Benedict’s bedchamber. It was a lovely room, warm and masculine and very comfortable. Despite the fact that Benedict had said he was rarely in residence, there were all sorts of personal items on the desk and tables— miniatures of what had to be his brothers and sisters, leather-bound books, and even a small glass bowl filled with . . .
Rocks?
“How odd,” Sophie murmured, moving forward even though she knew she was being dreadfully invasive and nosy.
“Each one is meaningful in some way,” came a deep voice from behind her. “I’ve collected them since—” He stopped to cough. “Since I was a child.”
Sophie’s face flushed red at having been caught so shamelessly snooping, but her curiosity was still piqued, so she held one up. It was of a pinkish hue, with a ragged grey vein running straight through the middle. “What about this one?”
“I picked that one up on a hike,” Benedict said softly. “It happened to be the day my father died.”
“Oh!” Sophie dropped the rock back on the pile as if burned. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was long ago.” “I’m still sorry.”
He smiled sadly. “As am I.” Then he coughed, so hard that he had to lean against the wall.
“You need to get warm,” Sophie said quickly. “Let me get to work on that fire.”
Benedict tossed a bundle of clothing onto the bed. “For you,” he said simply.
“Thank you,” she said, keeping her attention focused on the small furnace. It was dangerous to remain in the same room as him. She didn’t think he was likely to make an untoward advance; he was far too much of a gentleman to foist himself on a woman he barely knew. No, the danger lay squarely within herself. Frankly, she was terrified that if she spent too much time in his company she might fall head over heels in love.
And what would that get her? Nothing but a broken heart.
Sophie huddled in front of the small iron furnace for several minutes, stoking the flame until she was confident that it would not flicker out. “There,” she announced once she was satisfied. She stood up, arching her back slightly as she stretched and turned around. “That should take care of
—Oh my!”
Benedict Bridgerton looked positively green.
“Are you all right?” she asked, hurrying to his side.
“Don’ feel too well,” he slurred, leaning heavily against the bedpost. He sounded vaguely intoxicated, but Sophie had been in his company for at least two hours, and she knew that he had not been drinking.
“You need to get into bed,” she said, stumbling under his weight when he decided to lean against her instead of the bedpost.
He grinned. “You coming?”
She lurched back. “Now I know you’re feverish.”
He lifted his hand to touch his forehead, but he smacked his nose instead. “Ow!” he yelped.
Sophie winced in sympathy.
His hand crept up to his forehead. “Hmmm, maybe I am a bit hot.”
It was horribly familiar of her, but a man’s health was at stake, so Sophie reached out and touched her hand to his brow. It wasn’t burning, but it certainly wasn’t cool. “You need to get out of those wet clothes,” she said. “Immediately.”
Benedict looked down, blinking as if the sight of his sodden clothing was a surprise. “Yes,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Yes, I believe I do.” His fingers went to the buttons on his shirt, but they were clammy and numb and kept slipping and sliding. Finally, he just shrugged at her and said helplessly, “I can’t do it.”
“Oh, dear. Here, I’ll . . .” Sophie reached out to undo his buttons, jerked her hands back nervously, then finally gritted her teeth and reached out again. She made quick work of the buttons, doing her best to keep her gaze averted as each undone button revealed another two inches of his skin. “Almost done,” she muttered. “Just a moment now.”
He didn’t say anything in reply, so she looked up. His eyes were closed, and his entire body was swaying slightly. If he weren’t standing up, she’d have sworn that he was asleep.
“Mr. Bridgerton?” she asked softly. “Mr. Bridgerton!” Benedict’s head jerked up violently. “What? What?” “You fell asleep.”
He blinked confusedly. “Is there a reason that’s bad?” “You can’t fall asleep in your clothing.”
He looked down. “How’d my shirt get undone?”
Sophie ignored the question, instead nudging him until his behind was leaning against the mattress. “Sit,” she ordered.
She must have sounded suitably bossy, because he did.
“Have you something dry we can change you into?” she asked.
He shrugged the shirt off, letting it land on the floor in a messy heap. “Never sleep with clothes.”
Sophie felt her stomach lurch. “Well, tonight I think you should, and—
What are you doing?”
He looked over at her as if she’d asked the most inane question in the world. “Taking my breeches off.”
“Couldn’t you at least wait until I’d turned my back?” He stared at her blankly.
She stared back.
He stared some more. Finally, he said, “Well?” “Well what?”
“Aren’t you going to turn your back?”
“Oh!” she yelped, spinning around as if someone had lit a fire under her feet.
Benedict shook his head wearily as he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his stockings. God save him from prudish misses. She was a housemaid, for God’s sake. Even if she was a virgin—and given her behavior, he rather suspected she was—she’d surely seen a male form before. Housemaids were always slipping in and out of rooms without knocking, carrying towels and sheets and what have you. It was inconceivable she’d never accidentally barged in on a naked man.
He stripped off his breeches—not an easy task considering they were still more than a little damp and he had quite literally to peel them from his skin. When he was well and truly naked, he quirked a brow in the direction of Sophie’s back. She was standing rigidly, her hands fisted tightly at her sides.
With surprise, he realized the sight of her made him smile.
He was starting to feel a bit sluggish, and it took him two tries before he was able to lift his leg high enough to climb into bed. With considerable effort he leaned forward and grabbed the edge of his coverlet, dragging it over his body. Then, completely worn-out, he sagged back against the pillows and groaned.
“Are you all right?” Sophie called.
He made an effort to say, “Fine,” but it came out more like, “Fmmph.”
He heard her moving about, and when he summoned up the energy to lift one eyelid halfway open, he saw that she’d moved to the side of the bed. She looked concerned.
For some reason that seemed rather sweet. It had been quite a long time since any woman who wasn’t related to him had been concerned for his welfare.
“I’m fine,” he mumbled, trying to give her a reassuring smile. But his voice sounded like it was coming through a long, narrow tunnel. He reached up and tugged at his ear. His mouth felt like he was talking properly; the problem must be with his ears.
“Mr. Bridgerton? Mr. Bridgerton?”
He pried an eyelid open again. “Go da bed,” he grunted. “Get dry.” “Are you certain?”
He nodded. It was getting too difficult to speak.
“Very well. But I’m going to leave your door open. If you need me in the night, just call out.”
He nodded again. Or at least he tried to. Then he slept.
It took Sophie barely a quarter of an hour to get ready for bed. A surfeit of nervous energy kept her going as she changed into dry clothing and readied the furnace in her room, but once her head hit her pillow, she felt herself succumbing to an exhaustion so total it seemed to come from her very bones.
It had been a long day, she thought groggily. A really long day, between attending to her morning chores, dashing around the house to escape Cavender and his friends . . . Her eyelids drifted shut. It had been an extraordinarily long day, and . . .
Sophie sat up suddenly, her heart pounding. The fire in the furnace had burned low, so she must have fallen asleep. She’d been dead tired, though, so something must have woken her. Was it Mr. Bridgerton? Had he called out? He’d not looked well when she’d left him, but neither had he seemed at death’s door.
Sophie hopped out of bed, grabbed a candle, then dashed toward the door of her room, grabbing hold of the waistband of the too-big breeches Benedict had lent her when they started to slip down her hips. When she reached the hall she heard the sound that must have woken her up.
It was a deep groan, followed by a thrashing noise, followed by what could only be called a whimper.
Sophie dashed into Benedict’s room, stopping briefly at the furnace to light her candle. He was lying in his bed, almost preternaturally still. Sophie edged toward him, her eyes focusing on his chest. She knew he couldn’t possibly be dead, but she’d feel an awful lot better once she saw his chest rise and fall.
“Mr. Bridgerton?” she whispered. “Mr. Bridgerton?” No response.
She crept closer, leaning over the edge of the bed. “Mr. Bridgerton?”
His hand shot out and grabbed her shoulder, pulling her off-balance until she fell onto the bed.
“Mr. Bridgerton!” Sophie squealed. “Let go!”
But he’d started to thrash and moan, and there was enough heat coming off his body that Sophie knew he was in the grips of a fever.
She somehow managed to wrench herself free, and she went tumbling off the bed while he continued to toss and turn, mumbling streams of words that made no sense.
Sophie waited for a quiet moment, then darted her hand out to touch his forehead. It was on fire.
She chewed on her lower lip as she tried to decide what to do. She had no experience nursing the feverish, but it seemed to her that the logical thing would be to cool him off. On the other hand, sickrooms always seemed to be kept closed, stuffy, and warm, so maybe . . .
Benedict started to thrash again, and then, out of nowhere, he murmured, “Kiss me.”
Sophie lost hold of her breeches; they fell to the floor. She let out a little yelp of surprise as she quickly bent to retrieve them. Clutching the waistband securely with her right hand, she reached out to pat his hand with her left, then thought the better of it. “You’re just dreaming, Mr. Bridgerton,” she told him.
“Kiss me,” he repeated. But he did not open his eyes.
Sophie leaned in closer. Even by the light of one solitary candle she could see his eyeballs moving quickly under his lids. It was bizarre, she thought, to see another person dream.
“God damn it!” he suddenly yelled. “Kiss me!”
Sophie lurched back in surprise, setting her candle hastily on the bedside table. “Mr. Bridgerton, I—” she began, fully intending to explain why she could not even begin to think about kissing him, but then she thought—Why not?
Her heart fluttering wildly, she leaned down and brushed the barest, lightest, most gentle of kisses on his lips.
“I love you,” she whispered. “I’ve always loved you.”
To Sophie’s everlasting relief, he didn’t move. It wasn’t the sort of moment she wanted him to remember in the morning. But then, just when she was convinced that he’d settled back into a deep sleep, his head began to toss from side to side, leaving deep indentations in his feather pillow.
“Where’d you go?” he grunted hoarsely. “Where’d you go?” “I’m right here,” Sophie replied.
He opened his eyes, and for the barest of seconds appeared completely lucid, as he said, “Not you.” Then his eyes rolled back and his head started tossing from side to side again.
“Well, I’m all you’ve got,” Sophie muttered. “Don’t go anywhere,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I’ll be right back.”
And then, her heart pounding with fear and nerves, she ran out of the room.
If there was one thing Sophie had learned in her days as a housemaid, it was that most households were run in essentially the same way. It was for that reason that she had no trouble at all finding spare linens to replace Benedict’s sweat-soaked sheets. She also scavenged a pitcher full of cool water and a few small towels for dampening his brow.
Upon her return to his bedroom, she found him lying still again, but his breathing was shallow and rapid. Sophie reached out and touched his brow again. She couldn’t be certain, but it seemed to her that it was growing warmer.
Oh, dear. This was not good, and she was singularly unqualified to care for a feverish patient. Araminta, Rosamund, and Posy had never had a sick day in their lives, and the Cavenders had all been uncommonly healthy as well. The closest she’d ever come to nursing had been helping Mrs. Cavender’s mother, who’d been unable to walk. But she’d never taken care of someone with a fever.
She dunked a cloth in the pitcher of water, then wrung it out until it was no longer dripping from the corners. “This ought to make you feel a little better,” she whispered, placing it gingerly on his brow. Then she added, in a rather unconfident voice, “At least I hope it will.”
He didn’t flinch when she touched him with the cloth. Sophie took that as an excellent sign, and she prepared another cool towel. She had no idea where to put it, though. His chest somehow didn’t seem right, and she certainly wasn’t going to allow the bedsheet to drift any lower than his waist unless the poor man was at death’s door (and even then, she wasn’t certain what she could possibly do down there that would resurrect him.) So she finally just dabbed with it behind his ears, and a little on the sides of his neck.
“Does that feel better?” she asked, not expecting any sort of an answer but feeling nonetheless that she ought to continue with her one-sided conversation. “I really don’t know very much about caring for the ill, but it just seems to me like you’d want something cool on your brow. I know if I were sick, that’s how I’d feel.”
He shifted restlessly, mumbling something utterly incoherent.
“Really?” Sophie replied, trying to smile but failing miserably. “I’m glad you feel that way.”
He mumbled something else.
“No,” she said, dabbing the cool cloth on his ear, “I’d have to agree with what you said the first time.”
He went still again.
“I’d be happy to reconsider,” she said worriedly. “Please don’t take offense.”
He didn’t move.
Sophie sighed. One could only converse so long with an unconscious man before one started to feel extremely silly. She lifted up the cloth she’d placed on his forehead and touched his skin. It felt kind of clammy now. Clammy and still warm, which was a combination she wouldn’t have thought possible.
She decided to leave the cloth off for now, and she laid it over the top of the pitcher. There seemed little she could do for him at that very moment, so Sophie stretched her legs and walked slowly around his room, shamelessly examining everything that wasn’t nailed down, and quite a bit that was.
The collection of miniatures was her first stop. There were nine on the writing desk; Sophie surmised that they were of Benedict’s parents and seven brothers and sisters. She started to put the siblings in order according to their ages, but then it occurred to her that the miniatures most likely hadn’t been painted all at the same time, so she could be looking at a likeness of his older brother at fifteen and younger brother at twenty.
She was struck by how alike they all were, with the same deep chestnut hair, wide mouths, and elegant bone structure. She looked closely to try to compare eye color but found it impossible in the dim candlelight, and besides, eye color often wasn’t easily discerned on a miniature, anyway.
Next to the miniatures was the bowl with Benedict’s rock collection. Sophie picked a few of them up in turn, rolling them lightly over her palm. “Why are these so special to you, I wonder?” she whispered, placing them carefully back in the bowl. They just looked like rocks to her, but she supposed that they might appear more interesting and unique to Benedict if they represented special memories for him.
She found a small wooden box that she absolutely could not open; it must have been one of those trick boxes she’d heard about that came from the Orient. And most intriguing, leaning against the side of the desk was a large sketchbook, filled with pencil drawings, mostly of landscapes but with a few portraits as well. Had Benedict drawn them? Sophie squinted at the bottom of each drawing. The small squiggles certainly looked like two Bs.
Sophie sucked in her breath, an unbidden smile lighting her face. She’d never dreamed that Benedict was an artist. There had never even been a peep about it in Whistledown, and it seemed like the sort of thing the gossip columnist would have figured out over the years.
Sophie drew the sketchbook closer to her candle and flipped through the pages. She wanted to sit with the book and spend ten minutes perusing each sketch, but it seemed too intrusive to examine his drawings in such detail. She was probably just trying to justify her nosiness, but somehow it didn’t seem as bad just to give them a glance.
The landscapes were varied. Some were of My Cottage (or should she call it His Cottage?) and some were of a larger house, which Sophie supposed was the country home of the Bridgerton family. Most of the landscapes featured no architecture at all, just a babbling brook, or a windswept tree, or a rain-dappled meadow. And the amazing thing about his drawings was that they seemed to capture the whole and true moment. Sophie could swear that she could hear that brook babbling or the wind ruffling the leaves on that tree.
The portraits were fewer in number, but Sophie found them infinitely more interesting. There were several of what had to be his littlest sister, and a few of what she thought must be his mother. One of Sophie’s favorites was of what appeared to be some kind of outdoor game. At least five Bridgerton siblings were holding long mallets, and one of the girls was depicted at the forefront, her face screwed up in determination as she tried to aim a ball through a wicket.
Something about the picture almost made Sophie laugh out loud. She could feel the merriment of the day, and it made her long desperately for a family of her own.
She glanced back at Benedict, still sleeping quietly in his bed. Did he realize how lucky he was to have been born into such a large and loving clan?
With a sigh, Sophie flipped through a few more pages until she reached the end of the book. The very last sketch was different from the rest, if only because it appeared to be of a night scene, and the woman in it was holding her skirts above her ankles as she ran across—
Good God! Sophie gasped, thunderstruck. It was her!
She brought the sketch closer to her face. He’d gotten the details of her dress—that wonderful, magical silver concoction that had been hers for only a single evening—perfectly. He’d even remembered her long, elbow- length gloves and the exact manner in which her hair had been styled. Her face was a little less recognizable, but one would have to make allowances for that given that he’d never actually seen it in its entirety.
Well, not until now.
Benedict suddenly groaned, and when Sophie glanced over she saw that he was shifting restlessly in the bed. She closed up the sketchbook and put it back into its place before hurriedly making her way to his side.
“Mr. Bridgerton?” she whispered. She wanted desperately to call him Benedict. That was how she thought of him; that was what she’d called him in her dreams these long two years. But that would be inexcusably familiar and certainly not in keeping with her position as a servant.
“Mr. Bridgerton?” she whispered again. “Are you all right?” His eyelids fluttered open.
“Do you need anything?”
He blinked several times, and Sophie couldn’t be sure whether he’d heard her or not. He looked so unfocused, she couldn’t even be sure whether he’d truly seen her.
“Mr. Bridgerton?”
He squinted. “Sophie,” he said hoarsely, his throat sounding terribly dry and scratchy. “The housemaid.”
She nodded. “I’m here. What do you need?” “Water,” he rasped.
“Right away.” Sophie had been dunking the cloths into the water in the pitcher, but she decided that now was no time to be fussy, so she grabbed hold of the glass she’d brought up from the kitchen and filled it. “Here you are,” she said, handing it to him.
His fingers were shaky, so she did not let go of the glass as he brought it to his lips. He took a couple of sips, then sagged back against his pillows.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Sophie reached out and touched his brow. It was still quite warm, but he seemed lucid once again, and she decided to take that as a sign that the fever had broken. “I think you’ll be better in the morning.”
He laughed. Not hard, and not with anything approaching vigor, but he actually laughed. “Not likely,” he croaked.
“Well, not recovered,” she allowed, “but I think you’ll feel better than you do right now.”
“It would certainly be hard to feel worse.”
Sophie smiled at him. “Do you think you can scoot to one side of your bed so I can change your sheets?”
He nodded and did as she asked, closing his weary eyes as she changed the bed around him. “That’s a neat trick,” he said when she was done.
“Mrs. Cavender’s mother often came to visit,” Sophie explained. “She was bedridden, so I had to learn how to change the sheets without her leaving the bed. It’s not terribly difficult.”
He nodded. “I’m going back to sleep now.”
Sophie gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. She just couldn’t help herself. “You’ll feel better in the morning,” she whispered. “I promise.”
