One never knew.
Which was all the more reason to take precautions.
Soon he stepped into his carriage and leaned back against the plush velvet while his two bays led the way to the new lodgings where his mother resided. They left the square and moved past the park, then turned left for a few blocks till the carriage paused in front of a perfectly respectable stone town house with lovely hedgerows lining the walk. A vine of some sort climbed up the front of the house and lent a welcome atmosphere, but Rowles’s heart pounded in his chest. Before he knocked, the door opened wide, revealing a sturdy man with bushy eyebrows. “Your Grace.” He bowed, his accent decidedly country. “An honor. I am Waitsberry, the butler, among other things.”
“Thank you, Waitsberry.” Rowles studied the man, deciding that he was quite likable; there was something sincere about his demeanor.
“Allow me to show you to the parlor, or would you like a tour of the home? How may I assist you, Your Grace?” the butler asked, clearly eager to please.
Rowles turned to the expectant man. “I believe I’ll confer with the nurses first.”
“Of course. Right this way, Your Grace.” The stout man bustled down the hall, a limp to his walk.
The house was pleasing. It wasn’t opulent or stylish, but held a well-built quality that made it feel secure and safe. The wooden floor was worn but polished, and the plaster on the walls was freshly painted. A parlor to the right held windows that spilled cheery light into the otherwise dim hall, and as they took the stairs, Rowles noted they squeaked only slightly—admirable for a home of this age.
Waitsberry led him down the hall on the second floor and paused as he came to a woman in nurse’s garb. “Mrs. Leyton.” He nodded.
Her eyes lowered and she curtsied upon seeing Rowles. “Your Grace. How may I assist you?”
Waitsberry gave a generous bow and started back down the hall, allowing Rowles some much-appreciated privacy. “I have been informed that the transition went well, and I want to see her condition for myself.”
“Of course,” the nurse quickly agreed. “And yes, the move went smoothly, though I will add that we did not lighten her dosage until recently. She’s starting to wake, so she may not have understood what took place, Your Grace.”
“I appreciate your insight.” Rowles followed the nurse as she led him to the nearby door and slowly turned the brass knob. The scent of laudanum and soap permeated the air as the door swung open without a sound. The drapes were closed tightly, so the light from the hall was all that luminated the otherwise dark room.
“She may be asleep,” Miss Leyton whispered.
“I’m not,” came a clipped reply from the bed. “I am, however, quite confused and in a fit of temper.” The words were abrasive but the tone lacked the energy the words should have conveyed.
Rowles’s heart pounded painfully as he stepped closer to the bed. “Hello, Mother.” Holding his breath, he waited for her reply, wondering if she’d see him or his dead brother—or no one at all.
“What is this place?” she asked, her tone warning that the wrong answer could prove ill-advised.
“It’s a lovely soft bed and finely furnished room,” Rowles answered cautiously, glancing about at the sumptuous furniture, taken from his mother’s rooms and placed in her new accommodations. The decor was oddly out of place for the rest of the home, but in the dim light, Rowles wondered how she even noticed that she was in a different place. The staff had done wonders in placing her furniture in exactly the same arrangement as it had been at home. The only difference in the room was possibly the color—it was too dim for him to be sure—and the size. The room was a bit smaller, but not dramatically.
“It is not my home.” She spoke softly, her tone on a boiling point. “It smells odd.”
‘“It is only temporary.” Rowles decided to add some honesty but not fully disclose any information, to prevent a bad reaction. “You’ve been sick, Mother.”
“I’m dying.” His mother sighed the words. “And not soon enough, clearly, if my son is moving me from my own home to be rid of me even before I’m ready for my grave.”
Guilt punched Rowles in the gut. “It’s not—”
“It is. And this place… It’s…” She choked on a sob. “It’s not home.”
Rowles moved to her bedside, his hand shaking as he reached out to tentatively grasp her fingers, attempting to sooth her.
She jerked her hand away at first touch. “What have you done?” she spat out, then hiccupped a sob.
“Cared for you, hoping it will restore your health.”
“You want to be rid of me,” she murmured, then rolled over, giving him her back.
Rowles gave a silent sigh, then turned to the nurse who had her attention lowered to the floor.
He turned back to his mother. “If you improve in the next week or so, we can move you home—”
“I’ll die here,” she vowed. “And you’ll have no one to blame but yourself. I could have died at home, in my own bed, surrounded by my sons, but you’ve taken that away from me. I’m only surrounded by strangers, my own family having abandoned me.”