Widow in White

Chapter Ten: A Velvet Prison

The townhouse in London had been decorated by the late Lady Albroke on the occasion of her marriage and left to moulder ever since. Forty years had faded the wallpapers, shredded the fitted carpets, and scratched the varnish on every matching Sheraton chair.

Downstairs, effort had been made in the study and dining room, which were needed for business and pleasure. The furniture had been polished. The curtains washed and mended. Rugs put over the bare patches in the carpet. Upstairs, the drawing room and salon were kept in dust-sheets. Further up, the best bedroom was looking distinctly shabby and ugly. The ugliest item of all was the giant canopied bed, sitting directly in the middle of the room.

The canopy itself was a mass of brown velvet brocade, heavily decorated with gold lace and tassels and fol-de-rol. When the curtains were drawn, the bed felt like a velvet prison. For that reason, they were never drawn, and instead hunched darkly at the head of the bed like an undertaker over a coffin. Shadows gathered deeply in the sagging creases of the canopy body above, for it was too high for the light from the windows to reach, except on the brightest of summer mornings. There was a dark stain of mysterious origin in one corner, near the bedpost. Richard rather thought it might be blood.

There was little for Richard to do, in bed, except ponder the origin of the stain above and the ugliness of his bed canopy. For two full days, when he had not been sleeping, he had been occupied in either task. He could not lie on his side and occupy himself with the ugliness of his walls or fireplace, for on his side he could not breathe. He could not sit up and occupy himself with the ugliness of his chest of drawers, for sitting up exhausted him. The only thing he could do was lie on his back like an upended tortoise and stare at the canopy.

And he was sick of it. An impotent anger rose within him. He moved, tortoise-slow, pain arcing up his ribs. There was a bell on the chair beside the bed. Before he could reach it, there was a brisk footstep in the hallway and a knock at the open door, and the butler sauntered in.

"A visitor for you, my lord."

Was it Neil already? But no, the letter could not have even reached him yet. He would likely not arrive for another four days at least. Richard blinked at the butler. Even that motion made his head ache.

"Who is it?" Richard rasped.

"A Miss Dalrymple, my lord."

Miss Dalrymple. Richard was even more surprised by that. He struggled to sit up, and the butler came forward to assist him. There was the general rearranging of pillows and the canopy slipped out of sight above him. Instead, propped up against his pillows, Richard had the slightly less charmless view of the chest of drawers against the wall, and the various accoutrements of illness — ointment bottles, rags, bandages — sitting on top of it.

When Richard had his breath back, he said, "Send her up. She steals things, so don't leave her alone. Bring a tea tray for her. She's got a sweet tooth."

"Very good, my lord."

"And," he added savagely, "I want this damn bed canopy removed. Today."

The butler gave the canopy a grave look, as though weighing its sins. "I will have it done, my lord."

The butler left again, and Richard pressed a hand to his ribcage and breathed out slowly. Three broken ribs, Doctor Cavendish had said. And nothing to be done for them but rest, willow bark, and the foul-smelling ointment that stained all Richard's nightshirts yellow. Nor anything to be done for his stiff muscles or the blooming black bruises all over his back and stomach. Nothing but rest, rest, rest. As though he could do otherwise, when he could hardly move.

A dainty footstep in the hallway alerted Richard to Miss Dalrymple's arrival, and he twisted his neck slowly as she entered the room and looked curiously around her.