Page 15 of Mending the Baron's Sins
Escape. Now.
She turned and hurried back toward the door with the tray of food, refusing to look at him.
“Orla!” he snapped, trying to call her back. “My servants will obey me in this house.”
“Oh, will they?” she called over her shoulder. “You forget yourself, my Lord.” She turned at the doorway. “You are not my master. I am no maid, no servant, no groom. I am a physician’s assistant, and I came here to help you.” She was disgusted, staring at the man who would be so selfish as to risk so many lives every day. “God knows why I’ve been trying,” she muttered darkly.
“Orla!” he snapped once more, looking ready to chase her across the room, but he staggered in his dizziness and wavered toward the fire. He gripped the mantelpiece, steadying himself.
She waited just long enough to ensure he had not done himself an injury, then left the room. She hurried through the dark hallway with the tray held firmly in her grasp.
She was so angry, so fearful for her brother, that she didn’t even notice when the front door opened. Not until the gust of cold wind met her, making her shiver.
“Orla?” It was Colm. He stood in the doorway, removing his hat and frock coat, which he laid over a nearby coat stand, and turned to face her. “What is it? What’s wrong?” He hurried toward her and took the tray. “You are shaking.”
“What? Oh.” She looked down at her hands. She was indeed shaking, but it was not because of the cold outside. She was trembling in anger.
“That man,” she hissed.
“Shh,” Colm urged. He put the tray down on one of the hall tables and took her arm.
“Uncle!”
He hastened her through the nearest doorway, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they would not be overhead. They ended up in a small sitting room, the seats quite covered in cloth. She marched up and down, pacing in her distraction with her hands on her hips, scarcely taking note of the cloth covered furniture.
Wait, why are they covered up? Is it because the baron uses so few rooms?
“I know what he is like,” Colm said calmly, being careful to close the door behind them.
“What a man!” she said, exasperated.
“He is a baron.” He spoke plainly, as if that explained everything.
“Oh, so such a man should be born without a heart, without empathy?”
“What particular conversation brought this on?” Colm asked with unease.
“The factories. He said he thought those factories might have some chemical in them that made him sick.”
“Ah, I have heard him say such a thing,” Colm muttered and rubbed his hands together uncomfortably.
“Uncle Colm, my brother works in his very factory.”
“The same one?” Colm froze. “ForGladstone and Coates?I… I did not realize. I knew he worked in a textile factory.”
“That man–” She waved her arm angrily at the door.
“The baron, Orla. He has a title.”
“Oh, hang his title,” she muttered darkly. “He gladly sends men into a factory he does not believe to be safe. This is madness–”
“Calm yourself.” Colm placed soothing hands on her shoulders. “And breathe.”
With difficulty, she breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, trying to calm the mad beating of her heart.
One of the things that made her so furious was how much she had felt sorry for the baron. She had liked him, in spite of his frosty manner, felt pity for him. Meanwhile, he held such darkness and unkindness in his heart? She was angry at herself and her blindness.
“No one can be certain what caused the baron’s sickness. As for his manner, it may not always be pleasant,” he grimaced, and she snorted. “Orla.”
