Page 11 of Tall, Dark & Wicked
“Afterwards, should you feel well enough, Lady Cupps-Foster is in her private parlor and asks you to join her for tea.”
“I should like that.” Petra took the cup from her maid’s hands with a nod and sipped, thankful the cramps in her stomach had begun to subside. She was by no means well, but at least she’d started the day without a chamber pot in her lap. “Thank you for your care of me yesterday, Tessie. Whatever would I do without you?”
The maid, buxom and red-haired, gave her a gap-toothed smile. “I am so happy you are better. Your mother has been beside herself with worry about you.”
Once Dr. Stubbins had pronounced Petra not be moved for several days, Mother had had to capitulate. She sent for Tessie and her own maid, Agnes, who were awaiting their arrival at Brushbriar. Mother had been forced to write a letter of apology to Simon and his mother for their unexpected delay. Dr. Stubbins had declared Petra very ill from spoiled stew, refuting Mother’s constant claims Petra was only suffering from nerves. He prescribed bed rest, broth and tea.
Illness aside, Petra was thrilled with the reprieve.
Putting the tea aside, Petra stretched her arms, and gingerly rolled over to leave the bed. The room wobbled and she grabbed the bedpost. Petra shut her eyes firmly until the feeling passed. She needed to drink more fluids. Dr. Stubbins had declared that plenty of water and tea would assist in her recovery. Broth as well if she could tolerate it.
The carriage ride to Somerton had been blessedly brief and passed in a blur of trees and grass. Petra had curled up against her mother’s shoulder for the duration of the journey, focusing only on not becoming ill again and ruining Lord Morwick’s carriage in addition to his boots. She had barely glanced at the large stone edifice, covered in a thick growth of ivy, rising up from the moors.
Lady Cupps-Foster, face warm in greeting, had grown concerned at the sight of Petra. She’d marched about like a general, issuing orders to a group of servants who had all scurried to do her bidding. Before Petra had known what was happening, she had been changed into a borrowed nightgown of soft cotton and settled on a comfortable bed beneath a down comforter, Mother’s concerned face swimming above her. She remembered very little after that except for the chamber pot on her lap.
Once her bath was finished, Petra felt better than she had in days.
She made her way downstairs, pausing to ask a servant for directions to Lady Cupps-Foster’s private sitting room and strolled down the hall, admiring the soft blue color of the walls and the polished tile of the floor. A footman standing guard outside of a door at the end of the hall announced her.
While she tried to stop herself, Petra listened for the sound of Morwick’s low rasp.
“My dear!” Lady Cupps-Foster looked up as Petra came forward. She put aside the book she’d been reading. “Come in, come in.” She patted a spot on the couch to her right. “I’m so glad you felt well enough to come down.”
“Thank you for the invitation, my lady.” The room was warm and welcoming, much like Lady Cupps-Foster. A fireplace, expertly fitted into a corner, crackled merrily with a fire. An oriental rug, the fibers plush and full, cushioned Petra’s steps as she came forward. The colors of the rug, deep blue and burgundy, were accented by curtains of the same colors, framing a large rectangular window with a view of the moors. The furniture was slightly worn, comfortable and well-used. She took a seat and Lady Cupps-Foster placed a pillow behind Petra’s back with a smile. The pillow was missing a tassel.
A massive portrait of a young man dominated one of the walls. He was tall and dark-haired, with a signet ring on his pinky finger. At first glance, Petra thought the man was Lord Morwick.
“They look very much alike, do they not?” Lady Cupps-Foster tilted her head toward the portrait, a wistful look on her face. “My late husband.” Lady Cupps-Foster spoke. “Reginald—Reggie, I called him.”
Petra knew the story of Lady Cupps-Foster; everyone in London did. Widowed three times, all three husbands expiring under mysterious circumstances. Reggie had disappeared on the moors right outside this very window, never to be heard from again.
“Handsome, isn’t he?”
The man staring down at Petra had the same mop of ebony curls as Morwick, but his eyes were dark and his build lean, unlike his son’s big, broad form. The twist of the lips was the same, a combination between amusement and annoyance. Petra was beginning to know it well. “Very.”
“Reggie swept me off my feet. I was widowed less than a year with a son barely out of swaddling clothes when I met him.” A small laugh escaped her. “He was relentless in his pursuit. My father was furious. But I found Reggie to be the most fascinating human being I’d ever met. He brought me here to the moors, with Spence. My elder son,” she added.
A tingle ran through Petra. She feared Morwick held the same fascination for her as Reggie had for Lady Cupps-Foster. She almost wished he hadn’t been so gentle with her. It was easier to dislike him if he remained scornful of her.
“I see Reggie whenever I catch a glimpse of the mop of hair my son refuses to cut properly. And the set of his chin. Goodness, I do tend to rattle on. Come and sit. Timmons has just bought tea and some biscuits.”
Petra took the cup of tea and nibbled at a biscuit, careful to gauge her stomach’s response to something other than broth.
“Slowly, my dear. Should you feel ill,” Lady Cupps-Foster nodded toward a small potted plant near the window with drooping brown leaves, “I’m not fond of that particular lily.” Winking at Petra she picked up her own cup and sipped. “I’m told you ruined my son’s boots.”
Petra’s face grew warm. “I’m afraid to tell you I did.” She put down the unappealing biscuit.Maybe tomorrow.
“I must thank you as the boots needed to go. Woods, that’s Brendan’s valet, was likely overjoyed. My son has never cared about clothing and is the farthest thing from fashionable you can imagine. Poor Woods.” She laughed. “Now my eldest son, Spencer, is much more of a clothes horse. I would hate to see his tailor bill. But not Brendan. He’s been mistaken for one of the miners he so enjoys conversing with more than once. I do think he wishes to actually be a miner, for he has a love of going underground. Caves, specifically, though he is just as often seen climbing about.” A graceful hand waved in the air. “He will give me a fit of apoplexy one day, I’m sure, with his antics.”
“What is he looking for? In the caves?” Petra wondered what would prompt a person to find interest in descending into the earth.
“Fossils, minerals, bits of rock and earth to study. He pursued mineralogy and geology while attending Oxford.” A rueful smile graced her lips. “Though his fists and temper got him thrown out. Brendan loves nothing so much as a brawl. My father was so angry with him.” Her hair, nearly the same dark shade as her son’s, gleamed in the light streaming through the window. She leaned back against the cushions, holding the cup of tea to her lap. “Your mother told me last night you are visiting Brushbriar and Lord Pendleton.”
Lady Cupps-Foster had the same indigo eyes as Morwick and was just as direct.
Disconcerted by the question, Petra put down her tea, hands crawling toward each other to clasp together in her habitual ladylike manner. “Lord Pendleton has offered for me.”
Lady Cupps-Foster cocked her head. She nodded, her eyes knowing. “Your mother’s conversation led me to believe you’ve accepted.”
