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  “Father, I...”

  “No, no, dearie. Go on ahead. I'll totter down slowly,” he said, waving a hand at her.

  Matilda knew he did not want her to see him incapacitated, so she walked rigidly ahead. At the end of the stairs, she waited for him to get his balance, then walk steadily to the small parlor where, she hoped, Mrs. Marwell would have set out their tea-time things.

  “Oh. Marwell! Thank you,” she said, finding the housekeeper still there, collecting the teacups. “Please, leave them. The master's coming down.”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Marwell said, looking surprised. Matilda swallowed. Why had she been the only person who did not know how ill her father was. “There's a surprise,” the housekeeper continued.

  As her father went into the parlor, sinking appreciatively into a well-padded chair, Matilda glanced at Pauline, who had stood from her seat by the window, her face stiff with worry.

  They all stood back while Lord Braxton took a seat. He lowered himself down before the fire, and sighed appreciatively as the warmth soaked into his bones.

  “Someone needs to call the doctor,” Matilda said under her breath.

  Why had no-one sent for him before? It was probably an oversight, she decided – Lucas thought Mother had done it, probably, and Mother thought he had.

  “Mattie, dear...is there tea?” he called, his voice a soft rasp.

  “Father...let me help you...”

  Pauline appeared from across the room, a cup of tea in her hand. Matilda stood back, relieved. She walked over to the door and could still hear Pauline fussing around him.

  If Pauline was there to help him have his tea, she could perhaps ride to the village to call the doctor. Someone had to.

  Walking briskly down the stairs to the front door, Matilda felt her heart pounding in her chest. Her father was gravely ill. Something needed to be done, fast. And she should wed. She could see now why her mother had been so insistent about this. Her father was going down quickly, and the estate was in a worse mess than anyone had told her.

  She headed outside to the stable, mind whirling. There were so many things to worry about. Her father. His illness. Lucas, and his worries. His sorrow for Raymonda. Her mother. And, as always since the moment she met him, her own worries about Alexander Dartmoor.

  Matilda suppressed a shudder, just thinking about the man. He was, to all intents and purpose, her best chance at a future.

  But I cannot even bear being near him.

  She took her cloak from the peg and shrugged into it, then walked briskly through the front door and to the stables. Shivering with cold and nerves, she called for the groom.

  “Aye, milady?”

  “Saddle my horse, please, Arthur. I'll take Magic – she's faster.”

  “Very good milady.” He lifted her Spanish saddle – a gift from her father – and grunted as he walked down to the stall where Magic – a gray dapple mare – stood waiting. “Anywhere far?”

  “No, Arthur. Just to the village.”

  “Very good milady.”

  She would ride to the village and find Doctor Jarrow. There was something terribly wrong with her father and she needed to find help. Before it was too late.

  As she rode towards Braxley, she could not help but wonder why no-one had called Doctor Jarrow before.

  Mother must have realized he is gravely ill. Why would she not call him?

  A horrible thought occurred to her. What if Mother wanted him to get worse? Surely she could see how his condition had so rapidly worsened?

  “Oh, for Heaven's sake, Mattie. Stop being so ridiculous,” she told herself firmly.

  All the same, the thought had troubled her.

  She had to find help. Before it was too late.

  Chapter 7

  The village of Braxley was small but full of activity. Matilda rode in down the cobbled street, feeling more comfortable as the familiar scene opened out before her. The whitewashed houses with their dark wood trusses, smoke drifting in thin streaks from the chimneys, the sound of dogs barking in the distance, the old smith sitting outside the inn, waving up to her cheerily as she rode past.

  “Evenin' my lady!”

  “Good evening, Mr. Bradford.”

  Matilda nodded as she went past. She felt relieved to have reached the place so fast: the sun was still up, though within a few hours it would be dark. Already the streets were washed with orange light, the sun a gilded ball on the far horizon. She rode down the street to her left towards the doctor's house.

  She stopped at the end of the road, knocked at the door of the slim-built, white house.

  “Doctor Jarrow?”

  The knocking echoed about in the small room behind and Matilda waited, feeling a little impatient and nervous as she stood there. The street was empty, the greyness of dusk drifting up with the first mists. She looked about, then knocked again, calling.

  “Doctor?”

  “Aye, I'm comin', I'm comin...Doctor Jarrow's at tea. Just got back...”

  Matilda smiled with relief as she heard the doctor's housekeeper, a small, compact woman called Mrs. Peterson, bustling to the door, grumbling as she went. The door burst open.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Peterson.”

  “Oh!” the woman smiled, looking up at Matilda, a flush touching her cheeks. She curtseyed. “My lady. Welcome. Doctor's just in.”

  Matilda thanked her and went quickly to where Mrs. Peterson indicated he was. Matilda had never been here socially, only once or twice to fetch him. She paused in the doorway, looking about the disarray of things in the hallway: the meticulous, Spartan neatness of the parlor, the jumble of boots and coats in the hallway, the clean-swept wood-floored corridor. The house was all whitewash and dark oak and cleanness. The parlor was small and simple – just one chaise-lounge in faded bay velvet, a dark-oak table by the window, and a small fire with a black metal grate. The doctor sat at the table; tea laid out before him.

  “Lady Matilda!” the doctor said, unfolding his napkin from off his knee and standing, then inclined his head in a quick bow. “What can I do for you?”

  He was tall, with kind eyes and a squarish, gentle face. Matilda felt reassured just seeing him.

  “Doctor. It's my father, Lord Braxton. He's...not well. If you could visit?”

  “Is it acute?” the doctor asked, already walking across to the hallway, reaching for his coat.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean,” he said gently, “is the illness of some pressing nature? Or would it be possible to wait?”

  “Oh.” Matilda paused, thinking.

  Doctor Jarrow frowned. “Is it an accident? Or a fever? If it's a fever, I think I should come up now.” He reached for the coat again.

  “No, he's not fevered, Doctor,” Matilda said, frowning. “He's just...a bit odd.” She spread her hands, feeling helpless.

  “He is not himself?” The doctor asked, looking interested. “A bit foggy? Lots on his mind?”

  “Yes. A bit foggy,” Matilda nodded, biting her lip. Foggy was a gentle way to express it, but she did not want to be disloyal to her father, saying how serious his condition truly was.

  “Well, then,” Doctor Jarrow sighed. He put his coat up, went back to the parlor. “I shall write him in as a visit first thing tomorrow. Would ten o' clock suit? In the meanwhile,” he added, rummaging about in his leather bag which stood beside the door, “give him some of these.”

  “These?” Matilda asked, looking at the bottle the doctor held. It contained some fluid, yellowish and thin.

  “Yes. This is Lethe. He needs sleep. Poor fellow's probably overwrought. He shouldn't take on so much: hunting, managing the estate, overseeing all of the accounts. He just needs rest.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” Matilda said, frowning uncertainly. She was not sure about the diagnosis – if anything, her father rested more than he had in the past, and nothing seemed to be helping him. But if the doctor thought this was what was needed, there was no harm in trying. “I'll take them ba
ck with me now.”

  “Oh, good. I am sorry – would you like some tea?” he added, waving a hand at the laden tea-table. “Remiss of me not to invite you in earlier,” he added, looking quite embarrassed.

  “Oh, thank you, Doctor,” she smiled up at him. “But no. I'll not feel at ease before Father's resting.”

  “Good girl,” the doctor nodded. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

  “At ten of the clock?” Matilda called back as she exited through the small door.

  “Ten of the clock it is!” he called back. He raised a hand as she swung up into the saddle. “Farewell, Lady Matilda.”

  “Farewell! My thanks,” Matilda added, raising her right hand. Her purse hung from it, the small bottle tucked neatly in the folds of a kerchief, to protect it from jarring on the ride. She glanced up at the sky, noticing that, though the horizon was yellow with early sunset, the clouds gathered.

  “It looks like rain,” she muttered to her horse, Magic, and rode on. She should hurry. The wind buffeted at her as they took the road from the village, the sky low and dark. Within an hour the sun would set.

  As they rounded the crest of the hill, perhaps ten minutes from her home, she saw a rider heading their way. She squinted, trying to see him better.

  Tall, with a top-hat and a coat with long tails, the rider was a gentleman, and well-dressed too. Matilda frowned. Whoever it was had taken the road back from her home. There was no estate on this path besides Greenfield park, and theirs.

  I wonder who it is?

  As they neared, the silhouette resolved itself into a rider.

  No. It cannot be he.

  But it was. Alexander, Lord Epworth.

  Matilda bit her lip. He had been to her home? He must have done. Unless he was visiting the Featherston house, of course. But why? She had never seen him converse with them. It must have been her family he called on. They had not been expecting company, especially not so late.

  How odd.

  Matilda reached the corner of the road, then drew up to wait. A large tree grew there, the foliage already covering the boughs. Some instinct told her it would be best if he did not see her.

  No sooner had Matilda concealed herself there, than he rode past.

  “Yah! Yah!” He said to the horse, encouraging it to go even faster. Matilda, shrunk back into the shady spot, winced and was pleased she was no longer on the road.

  He is already going too fast.

  She frowned. That it was him, she had no doubt. The sunken cheeks, the black hair, the handsome face. It was him. But what was he doing, alone on the road from her house, more than an hour after teatime? And why the rush? What had he been doing there at this hour?

  Matilda shrugged. Someone at the house would know. She just had to get home fast.nShe rode quickly back, the sky already dark with the coming rainstorm.

  She and Magic arrived just as the storm broke. Matilda ran from the warm stables to the house, her cloak-hood over her hair lest it rain. She tumbled in through the front door just as the first thunder rolled across the hillside, rain pattering.

  “My lady!” the housekeeper exclaimed. “You could have been drenched! Fancy being out at such a time...”

  Matilda smiled, let her help with her coat, then hurried through to the drawing-room. As she had hoped, her mother was there as she puffed up the last of the stairs and through the open door.

  “Matilda!” her mother said, looking up in a desultory way from a glass of cordial. “Where were you?”

  “I was visiting the village,” Matilda said, keeping matters ambiguous. “I am sorry if I missed anything. We had visitors?”

  “Oh, no, dear,” her mother said, waving a dismissive hand. “I was just here with Lucas, talking about things. Nothing to miss. No visitors to speak of. Why?”

  Matilda frowned. If the heir to the duke of Warrington called, it was surely something to capture her mother's imagination. She would have wanted Matilda there. No visitors? That was odd.

  “Oh. N...no reason,” Matilda stammered quickly.

  Her mother set aside the cordial glass and rolled her shoulders comfortably before turning to face her. “What is it, dear? You look worried.”

  “N...nothing, Mama,” Matilda said quickly. “Is Lucas here?”

  “Not now,” her mother sighed. “He was here, but I think he's resting before dinner. Poor boy.”

  “Poor boy?” Matilda asked.

  “Oh, he's worried about everything,” Mother said quietly. “And not surprising. All this falls on him.” she repeated, reaching for her book.

  “Yes. I know. Poor Lucas,” Matilda said quietly. She turned and walked quickly out.

  What was going on? Why would Alexander have visited the house, but not called? And if he had called, what reason had Mother for not informing me?

  Matilda shivered. She walked quickly and quietly upstairs, hoping to find Lucas. Perhaps he had seen the visitor. Someone must have, surely?

  “Perhaps he was not here. He was at Greenfield manor.” Matilda shook her head at herself, talking aloud as she went upstairs.

  Of course that was it. He could just as easily have been calling on the count, Lord Featherston, and his wife. Why would he have been here?

  Matilda reached the drawing room.

  “Lucas?”

  “Come in.”

  Lucas sounded exhausted. He did not turn round. Matilda walked in, heart thumping.

  “Lucas?”

  “Yes, sister?”

  He turned to face her. He was sitting at the table with a quill and papers before him. The fire, banked down, providing a reddish light, just enough for writing. He had not lit a lamp. Lucas looked tired, his face stiff and gaunt. The firelight painted redness and shadow on his features, highlighting the dark rings around his eyes, his weary frown.

  “What is it?” Matilda asked. She looked around. The desk was in disarray, paper all over. It was cold, too, and she shivered, adding, “can I ask Marwell to light the fire again?”

  “Matilda,” Lucas said again, voice tight. “I'm busy. What is it?”

  “Nothing, Lucas. I just wanted to ask something.”

  “Mm?” he asked, putting his head on one side.

  “Did we have any visitors?”

  “Visitors? You mean now? No...why should we?”

  “No reason,” Matilda said carefully. “Just...wondering.”

  “Oh.” Lucas paused, then turned back to his desk. He sat half-turned away, quill in his hand, back tense.

  “What is it, Lucas?”

  “Matilda I...” he paused, eyes full of conflicting emotion. Then he sighed. “I need help.”

  “What help?” Matilda asked. Instantly worried, she sank down into the small stool beside him. “Brother, what is it?”

  “It's the accounts...it's father. I don't know...” He covered his face with his hands.

  Matilda sat quietly, not wanting to interrupt. At length, she head him give a strangled sob.

  “Lucas,” Matilda asked.“What is it? Are we indebted? Tell me.”

  “I don't know,” Lucas said again. He looked her in the eye, his dark eyes tensed. “I think so.”

  “You think?”

  “It's the accounts.” He sighed. “Shipley brought the new batch in from London earlier on. Soon after we talked, you and I. He said they'd come by courier from London with urgent news. I don't understand them.”

  “What do they say?”

  “According to those accounts, things are worse than before.” He let out a shuddering breath.

  “Worse?” Matilda frowned, feeling her heart thud in her chest.

  “I am afraid so. The money is low, debts are mounting, and if we keep at it as we are, we soon won't be able to pay back.” His voice cracked on a sob.

  “We're ruined?”

  Lucas shook his head. “Not yet, but mayhap.” He sounded distraught. “I need help.”

  Matilda felt as if her heart stopped. She looked out of the window on the ragged sky, the
clouds dark against the blue, the rain just stopping. What could she do?

  “Uncle could help.”

  “Honorius?”

  “No. Uncle Bert.”

  Lucas laughed, a strangely bitter sound. “I can't tell him.”

  “No,” Matilda nodded. Uncle Bert was their father's brother, and, though he was a good man, seldom difficult or overly-interfering, he would decide to step in if Lucas seemed to be mismanaging things. The younger brother by a few years, the danger of him taking over Braxton House was always fairly strong. Lucas knew his father did not want Bert to inherit, and so getting him involved was a bad idea.

  “I don't know, Matilda,” Lucas sighed. “What a rotten mess.”

  Matilda sighed. She looked up at the ceiling a moment. She felt helpless, too. She wished she could say something to offer Lucas some comfort.

  “I called Doctor Jarrow. He's visiting tomorrow,” she remembered.

  “Oh, good.” Lucas looked up, eyes suddenly warm again. He took her hand. “Thank you, Matilda. You went out alone to Braxley? That was brave.” He nodded at the abating rainclouds.

  Matilda laughed. “Not really.” She considered adding: “not compared to you and dealing with the accounts, it's not,” but she held her tongue. She did not want to remind him of his worries just now.

  “I should leave you,” she said quickly.

  “I feel better now,” Lucas smiled at her. “If Doctor Jarrow can help Father, mayhap we can talk to him. Find out what's happening. All of this could be some mistake, yes?” he waved a hand at the account books. “He's been so tired recently. Perhaps he gave Merridew or Cotsford the wrong information?”

  Merridew and Cotsford were the two accountants they used managing their London affairs. It seemed unlikely their father would have been in contact with him recently, but it was a possibility.

  “Perhaps,” Matilda nodded.

  “I'll come down for dinner in an hour,” Lucas added, seeing Matilda rise from her chair.

  “Thank you, Lucas,” Matilda nodded. She wanted an early supper herself – all that riding had been rather tiring. As she walked down the hallway, frowning with worry at what Luke had just relayed to her, she remembered why she'd been up to see him in the first place.