Page 33 of Because You're Mine
“Mr. Scott is being made as comfortable as possible until the doctor arrives. Would you care to wait in the downstairs parlor?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Mrs. Beecham led her to a spacious parlor decorated in understated shades of gold and plum, with French armchairs upholstered in silk and velvet, and tables bearing books of poetry and engravings. One wall was covered with the tapestry of a French landscape. Between two floor-to-ceiling windows, a long table displayed Oriental figurines.
Noticing Madeline’s interest in a small Japanese statue of a bearded old man holding a golden staff, the housekeeper smiled wryly. “The god of good fortune, Mr. Scott says. I couldn’t begin to pronounce its name. He has others in his collection, all of them heathenish things.”
“I like this one,” Madeline said, touching the little man’s beard with a fingertip. “I only hope he lives up to his reputation and brings good fortune to Mr. Scott.”
“Some would say Mr. Scott has already enjoyed more than his share of luck,” Mrs. Beecham commented, walking to the parlor door.
Left to her own devices, Madeline wandered to the parlor window, staring out at a row of topiaries and a marble fountain in the garden. It was a bright, wintry day, and the dormant trees in the orchard shuddered from gusts of wind.
Madeline shivered a little and retreated to an armchair, where she sat and tapped her foot nervously on the thickly carpeted floor. Noticing a wooden box on the table next to her, she picked it up curiously. The interior of the box was lined in silver, the top carved with the Shakespearean medal. On the bottom was the inscription “Presented to Mr. Logan Scott by the Stratford Corporation.”
A voice interrupted her musings, and Madeline looked up to see a pair of housemaids bearing a tray of tea. “That box was carved from Shakespeare’s mulberry tree,” one of the maids said with pride. “The master is always getting awards an’ such, on account of all ’is charity works and benefits.”
Madeline smiled, observing that Scott certainly seemed to have the admiration and affection of his servants.
The maid set the tea tray on a low table. “Mrs. Beecham said for you to ring for one of us whenever you want something.”
“Thank you, but I won’t require anything. Mr. Scott’s welfare is all that matters.”
“Dr. Brooke is coming soon. ’E’ll ’ave the master back in the pink in no time.”
“I hope so,” Madeline replied, picking up an empty china teacup and fidgeting with the delicate handle. She glanced at the door, wondering when the doctor would arrive and how long it would take him to issue a pronouncement on Scott’s condition.
The maids left the parlor, whispering to each other as soon as they crossed the threshold. Madeline couldn’t help but overhear a snippet of their conversation. “Do you think she’s the latest?…”
“Nay.”
“She’s pretty enow.”
“Aye, but she’s only a spring lamb…not ’is sort at all.”
Madeline frowned and set down the empty cup. She rose from the chair and paced around the room. The reference to her youth annoyed her profoundly. Suddenly aware of the straggling locks of hair that had slipped from her pins, Madeline sighed. No doubt she looked like an untidy child who had been romping out-of-doors.
Wandering to the gilded doors at the other end of the parlor, Madeline discovered that they opened into a music room, two long galleries, and a drawing room with a floor patterned in inlaid wood. There were art treasures everywhere: portraits and landscapes, marble statues, works of pottery and porcelain.
As Madeline toured the elegant rooms, she sensed that Scott had chosen the decor and the art himself. It was all a reflection of what he admired and wanted to be. He fascinated her. Madeline wanted to know him, to be trusted with his intimate thoughts…to be some small part of the world he had created for himself. But he had made it clear that he didn’t want her. Feeling desolate, she made her way back to the main hall. By now the doctor must be upstairs examining Scott. The household was strangely quiet, as if the staff was holding its collective breath.
“Is there something you require, Miss Ridley?” the butler inquired, rising from a chair near the staircase.
“Yes.” Madeline approached the marble steps, half-afraid that he would stop her from ascending. “I would like to know where Mr. Scott’s room is located.”
The butler was expressionless, but Madeline sensed his inner consternation. She knew that he and the servants were unclear about her relationship with Scott, whether she was merely an employee like themselves, or perhaps his latest paramour.
“The doctor is with him, miss,” the butler said carefully. “If the parlor isn’t to your liking, perhaps there is another place you would prefer to wait—”
“I would prefer to go to his room,” Madeline said evenly, imitating the crisp tone she had always heard her mother use with the servants.
“Yes, Miss Ridley,” came the reluctant reply. The butler rang for a footman and instructed the servant to show her to Scott’s private rooms in the east wing.
The hall was illuminated by a long row of windows that shed light on four alcoves filled with statues, including one of a nude female bathing, which caused Madeline to color. Passing through an arch of gleaming mahogany, she entered a distinctly masculine suite of rooms with rich mahogany paneling, a set of antique German maps framed in carved rosewood, and Persian rugs underfoot.
The footman brought her to a closed door, where Mrs. Beecham was waiting. A housemaid stood nearby, ready to go running for any item that might be requested.
Mrs. Beecham’s brows lifted as she saw Madeline. “Miss Ridley…didn’t you find the parlor comfortable?”
