A Lady's Guide to Courtship

XXII. Wants

Dearest Lady Weis,

If you must know, my valet burnt one of my old shirts. It was from my father and the only thing that he gave me that did not amount to money.

I must say I nearly fired my valet, but the damage has been done.

I am glad that your cat has returned. Have you any idea where it goes during its monthly disappearances?

Yours,

William

*****

The worst thing to have happened after that rainy day came the following morning.

Ysabella sent the maid to the Hayward family that she could not join them for breaking fast.

"Why?" Wakefield demanded from the maid.

"Is Lady Ysabella feeling all right?" Thomas asked.

"Oh, dear, the rain must have gotten to her," said Lady Hayward, hand clutched to her chest with worry.

Wakefield accepted the guilt for if she was truly sick, then he was at fault.

The maid nodded. "She is feeling feverish and when I checked, she was hot to touch."

"Call for the doctor," Thomas ordered. "And while you wait for him, care for her. Send me word after the doctor's visit."

The maid nodded and rushed out of the room.

"I was afraid this would happen," Lady Hayward mournfully uttered.

Wakefield stared at her family with disbelief. Was no one going to do it?

His mother and Thomas looked up and followed him with surprised eyes when he threw his napkin and stood up.

"Where are—"

"Since both of you think that the only person to have a look at Lady Ysabella is the doctor, I shall do the sensible thing."

"Which is?" asked Thomas.

Without giving a reply, Wakefield strode out of the room.

*****

Ysabella was feeling out of the weather when she awoke, but by breakfast she was feeling quite weak. Too weak, in fact, that she was slightly confused when Wakefield came storming into her bedchamber with a frown on his face.

"Fret not, my lord," she weakly said when he ordered for the servant to bring her hot porridge. "I shall live to torment you for years."

He did not appreciate the humour and instead walked to her side and reached out to touch her forehead.

"Bloody hell, Ysabella, you are burning."

"Your fault," she moaned, her eyes closing on her. "Carried you...cabin. Raining."

"Stop talking. But do not go to sleep just yet. You need to eat."

"Can't. Want to sleep."

The next few hours were a blur. She remembered a spoonful of porridge being fed to her. She also remembered a glass of water forced through her mouth.

Then she remembered calm voices talking. Was that the doctor?

The worst was the bitter taste of something which she nearly threw up if not for the voices urging her to swallow and drink more water.

It felt like she was being experimented upon—too many voices, too many hands. What she wanted was just to rest. Why could they not let her?

When she awoke again that night, she was damp with sweat.