Page 11 of One Last Whisper

“Only if you think it’s horrible to be common.”

“Excellent response, Miss Mary,” Lady Cordelia replies.

Her smile is dazzling. There are some people whose beauty is truly magical. You can’t help but love them. It’s not fair to them, really, to be treated like a work of art and not like a person, but it can’t be helped.

“Yes,” she says. “It means a lot when a commoner understands the importance of his work. He really is trying to make life easier for the less fortunate. He’s a hard man. I’m sure you can see that. He’s altogether too serious, and he clings too much to form and appearance that hasn’t mattered in two hundred years, but he really does want to make the world a better place. He was in an excellent mood last night after speaking with you. For a moment, he was…”

Her smile fades. For a minute, when she was talking about her husband's political passions, she was happy and proud of him. Now, she is worried. And, as she said, she is tired.

I feel horrible for my earlier assumption. She truly does love him. She wasn’t forced into this marriage. She is proud of him for his work. But like so many spouses of so many leaders, she finds it hard to accept that to people like that, family will always come second. Perhaps Lord Edmund loves her, but even if he does, he must always put his obligations first.

She sighs and says, “I’ve said too much. I’m sorry, Miss Mary. I shouldn’t put you in this position. I love my husband very much. I’m sorry if anything I’ve said suggests otherwise.”

I give her a tender smile. “Quite the opposite, dear. I can see how much you love him. He’s lucky to have you.”

She tries to smile again, but she lacks the energy.

The door opens, and Oliver walks in. “Good morning, Aunt. Good morning, Mary.”

Lady Cordelia finds the energy to smile again. “Good morning, love. How did you sleep?”

“Not so well,” he says.

“Not well? Why not?”

The door to the kitchen opens before he can answer that question. Theresa is still pale with worry, but she smiles brightly when she sees Oliver. “Good morning there, young master. I’ve made strawberry yogurt for you, just like you asked.”

“Did he ask for that?” Lady Cordelia interjected.

“He did, my Lady.” Theresa winks. “But don’t worry. I’ve made pancakes for the rest of us.”

“I don’t mind pancakes!” Oliver pipes up.

Theresa plants her hands on her hips and scolds, “And after you asked me especially for yogurt? I’ll tell you what. Eat the yogurt, and I’ll save two of the cakes for you.”

“All right!”

Lady Cordelia and I share a smirk as Oliver tucks into his yogurt. I’m happy to see him so hungry and so active. When I first met him, I feared his sickliness would leave him frail and lethargic.

He finishes the yogurt just in time for Theresa to arrive with the pancakes. “Mrs. Pemberton! I’m—”

That sentence devolves into a powerful coughing fit. Cordelia’s smile fades. She pales and crosses to him. “Oliver? Oliver, are you all right?”

Oliver continues to cough, and when he starts to slide from his chair, Cordelia shrieks. “Oliver!”

“I’m all right,” he pushes through. “I’m fine.”

He lifts his eyes, and I’m afraid he sees very little to encourage him on our shocked faces. He slumps a little and says in a small voice, “Sorry to worry everyone.”

Theresa is the first to recover. “Well, that’s all right, young master. I was only worried that you wouldn’t be able to finish the pancakes I made you. You know how I feel about wasting food.”

Oliver smiles up at her. “I would never waste your food, Miss Theresa.”

“I’m glad to hear it, because I happened to make you three pancakes, not only two.”

She sets the pancakes in front of him, and he eats with all of the gusto with which a nine-year-old boy should eat pancakes.

But that cough sounded horrible and left him shaking. I share a look with Lady Cordelia and find that her lower lip is trembling. With all of the other mysteries in the house, I’d forgotten the very real suffering that Oliver and his aunt and uncle endure.

---