“I likely should go directly to Mrs. Brownlow’s room, but . . .” She closed her eyes, something he’d noticed she did when feeling overwhelmed. “Could we speak with the butler first?”
It was a bit unexpected but made sense in a way. The butler would know the situation at Houghton Manor. She could discover what awaited her in the sickroom and prepare herself for it.
“Is the butler the man standing at the door just now?”
Gillian nodded. “He is . . . called . . . Mr. Walker.” She had shown herself to be quite poised and articulate during their interactions at the house party. That she was struggling through this moment so entirely served as testament to the depth of her grief.
Scott kept her arm through his and walked with her to where the butler stood.
“How is Mrs. Brownlow?” Gillian asked, undeniable worry in her eyes and voice.
“Still with us,” Mr. Walker answered with an almost indifferent dip of his head. “And she has been asking for you, Miss Phelps.”
“We arrived as quickly as we could.” She watched him for just a moment, as if expecting him to say more. The butler’s gaze, however, was on Scott. Gillian undertook the explanation. “Mr. Walker, this is Mr. Sarvol of Sarvol House in Nottinghamshire.He was at the house party at Brier Hill and graciously agreed to help me return when word of Mrs. Brownlow’s illness arrived.”
Mr. Walker offered a very appropriate and brief inclination of his head, though there was no mistaking the man’s evaluating gaze. The staff, no doubt, treasured their mistress’s ward and were protective of her. Scott would do best to make himself agreeable, both for her sake and his own.
“I don’t mean to intrude or stay long,” he said. “I wished only to see Miss Phelps make the journey home safely.”
“Of course, sir.” Mr. Walker motioned them both inside. “Please go directly to the mistress’s rooms, Miss Phelps. She could use the comfort of your presence.”
Gillian didn’t move for a moment but continued watching the butler expectantly, almost painfully. Her anxiety over Mrs. Brownlow’s condition seemed to be overwhelming her.
“I will walk with you to her rooms,” Scott whispered to Gillian. “Simply instruct me how to get there.”
She looked away from Mr. Walker and met Scott’s eyes, a tear spilling over in that exact moment.
He squeezed her arm, hoping to assure her she was not alone in this. Silently, she led the way up the grand staircase and to the family wing, then directly to the bedchamber belonging to the lady she’d rushed back to see one last time.
Mrs. Brownlow’s bedchamber had the look and feel of a sick room. The air was heavy. The light was kept dim. A man—Scott would guess he was the physician—stood beside the bed and looked up as they entered.
“Miss Phelps,” the man said. “I had hoped you would arrive quickly.”
Only when she reached the bedside did Gillian slip her arm free. “Mrs. Brownlow?” her voice emerged quiet and uncertain.
On the bed lay a woman younger than Scott had imagined Gillian’s benefactress would be. She was likely in her midsixties. But she looked decidedly unwell, pale, and listless.
Mrs. Brownlow’s eyes fluttered open. Gillian sat on the bed beside her, very carefully taking her hand.
“Gillian?” the woman’s voice emerged weak and unsteady.
“I’m here.”
Both ladies spoke in near whispers.
“You are . . . missing . . . your house party.”
“I received word that you were being dramatic, and I felt it my duty to come and put a stop to that.”
Mrs. Brownlow’s eyes focused enough to settle on Scott. “Who . . . is this?”
“Youdidsay you hoped I would bring home a gentleman for you to meet.” Gillian kept her tone light, though her gaze was heavy.
Mrs. Brownlow’s breathing was worryingly slow. Scott glanced at the physician, looking for signs of immediate concern but saw only sadness. This, it seemed, was not a new development.
“He was at the house party,” Gillian said. “And he very kindly accompanied me home to see you.”
“I . . . want to . . . meet him.”