Free Toblethorpe Manor by Carola Dunn Page A

cold sort of word to call a body.”
    Miss Carstairs’ abigail came to convey a request for the pleasure of Miss Fell’s company in the drawing room, if she were well enough. She trod her way slowly to the head of the stairs, then Thomas was called to carry her down. Outside the drawing-room door, she made him put her down. She could not feel it dignified to arrive in the arms of a footman. She thought she could manage without his arm, then decided that discretion was the better part of valor. She was glad of it before she was halfway across the room.
    “You are still a little shaky on your feet, my dear,” remarked Miss Carstairs kindly.
    “A little, ma’am. I feel very well, however.”
    “Should you object to helping me sort my silks? I find they become thoroughly tangled for no apparent reason, and if they are not sorted daily they are very soon inextricable.”
    The afternoon was passed in sorting silks, discussing embroidery patterns and remarking upon the weather, which had abruptly turned unseasonably warm for February.
    “There will be sickness in the village,” declared Miss Carstairs. “I shall see what simples Mrs. Bedford has on hand and consult the vicar as to who is in need.”
    Miss Fell was relieved to find that her companion displayed no curiosity whatever about her own history. It was a very soothing afternoon.
    At five o’clock Miss Carstairs put away her embroidery.
    “I shall dress for dinner now, Miss Fell. You had better dine in your room today. I shall hope you may be well enough to join me tomorrow. You will not, I trust, think me impertinent if I say that you are a very pretty-behaved young woman. I am happy that dear Annabel should have found such a companion. She has been too much alone, I fear, since my brother’s death.”
    Miss Fell blushed and murmured a disclaimer. A word of approval from such a formidable old lady was flattering, and the confidence she showed in discussing her sister-in-law, when she had such a distaste for personal remarks, was an even greater sign of approbation.
    “Do not get up, my dear,” said Miss Carstairs. “I shall send Thomas for you. Until tomorrow, then.”
    Sitting snugly wrapped before the fire in her chamber, Miss Fell attacked her dinner with a hearty appetite. Though it could not compare with the French chef’s masterpieces, Gladys had done her best. The best sauce, however, was the realization that she had won over two such stern critics as Miss Carstairs and Mrs. Bedford. She wondered wistfully whether anything she could do would make Richard wholeheartedly approve of her. If she turned out to be a duke’s daughter, or at least an earl’s, perhaps, she thought; but she did not feel like a great lady, and, besides, she might never know who she was.
    Her appetite had faded, and she struggled manfully with a huge slice of apple pie. Giving up after a few bites, she rang for Mary.
    “My compliments to the cook,” she instructed, “and, Mary dear, explain that the pie was delicious but I am growing fat. I am sure Gladys would not wish to make you alter my gowns again.”
    Mary giggled.
    “Oh no, Miss Fell, I’ll tell her. Tha was…you was so thin when Master Richard found ‘ee. Now tha’s…you are just right and I’ll not let Gladys spoil my young lady’s looks.”
    “I shall go to bed now, Mary. Leave me a pair of candles and I shall read for a while.”
    Lying propped up on the pillows with a book of poetry open in front of her, she found herself unable to concentrate on her reading. The question of her origins seemed to loom larger now that the house was so quiet, the family gone.
    They all treat me as a lady, she thought. Surely so many people could not be mistaken. Yet, Richard does not believe it. Is there something about me that only he has seen, something that proves I am not of gentle birth? Would he not have pointed it out to his mother? Oh, I do not understand him. One minute so stiff and disapproving, the next so kind