May I aid in removing your wimple and gorget?”

“Non!” Refusal shot from Honore, and more she regretted it at the widening of Lady Susanna’s eyes. “What I mean is you are kind to offer but…it is a matter of modesty.” And that was true, though it was more something else.

Summoning a smile, the lady stepped around Honore. “I did not know there existed an order of sisters who cover so much of their faces.” She turned the coverlet back from a plump pillow, the sight of which made Honore’s lids heavier.

“There is not, my lady. At least not at Bairnwood, and as Sir Elias told, I am…” She cleared her throat to avoid coughing. “…a lay servant.”

Honore knew the explanation was lacking, but there was naught else she could tell without revealing the reason her modesty surpassed that of a nun, the truth of which could do worse than expose her to heartless words and behavior to which she was no stranger. It could provide a superstitious Sir Elias further cause to leave her behind. And much she longed to be at his side when he recovered Hart.

“Selfish,” she whispered.

“What is?” Lady Susanna asked.

Lifting her chin, Honore saw the woman had turned back. “I am. I should not waste your time that is better spent with your husband and Sir Elias.”

“It is no waste. Now let us see you beneath the covers ere my maid returns with your drink.”

Hot and of honey and mint she had instructed the woman who met them on the landing abovestairs. Imagining that sweet, fragrant warmth sliding down her throat the same as it did her ill foundlings when she eased spoonfuls between their lips, she said, “I would like that,” and reached to her cloak’s clasp. But it was the sling her fingers found. Since realizing she had been fooled into believing she was to deliver two more infants to the abbey, she had forgotten that which had served many babes over the years.

She lifted the worn, limp carrier over her head and set it on the mattress.

“I thought that for an injured arm,” Lady Susanna said, “but it is for a babe, oui?”

Honore began to work her cloak’s clasp. “It is, but methinks it best Sir Elias explain the absence of an infant.”

The woman did not press, simply watched as Honore struggled with the clasp that should not be difficult to release. Honore sighed. “With this I would appreciate your aid.”

Lady Susanna stepped nearer, and as she unhinged the clasp, Honore guessed she was several years younger than herself.

“There.” The lady lifted the cloak from Honore’s shoulders. “Do you reside with us a while, I shall see it laundered.”

“I thank you, but I depart with Sir Elias on the morrow.”

Thunder clapped, and the lady said, “Perhaps.” Before Honore could assert she would leave with the knight, the woman added, “If this storm settles in, it may be some days ere any journey far.”

Moments later, the wind began to whip at the manor and hard rain sounded on the roof. “It has arrived,” Lady Susanna said and hastened to the window and closed the shutters.

Honore removed her girdle, but as she gathered up her skirt, the realization the veil and gorget must first be removed made her abandon the longing to shed the garment that was as much in need of laundering as her cloak.

“I pray you will forgive me should my gown sully your bedding,” she said as the lady returned to her, “but I prefer to remain clothed.”

“You are chilled?”

That too. “Oui, my lady.”

Though the woman’s smile reached her eyes, Honore saw it kept close company with suspicion. “Then you must retain your gown. Now beneath the covers you go.”

Sheet, blanket, and coverlet were drawn up to Honore’s shoulders. Though gloriously warm, it had no effect on her spasming throat and aching chest that once more set her to coughing of such strength she did not realize the lady had settled on the mattress edge.

“Pray, tell,” Lady Susanna said as Honore lowered the hand she had pressed over gorget and mouth, “how long have you been ill?”

Honore moistened her lips. Tasting the stained weave of the gorget, she longed to tear it off so she might breathe easier. “I took water into my lungs on the night past.” She cleared her throat to stave off another cough. “I am certain once I expel the last of it I shall be well.”

“You near drowned?” the lady exclaimed, then shook her head. “Speak no more. Rest is what you require, and methinks that best achieved on your side to more easily clear your lungs.”

Honore knew that but had not applied the good sense with which she believed herself gifted. It was as if only half her mind were present. A sign she was more ill than thought? Too fatigued to ponder it, she turned onto her side away from the lady and closed her eyes.

When a hand touched her shoulder and a soft voice said her drink had arrived, she nosed just enough above sleep to shake her head.

“It will be on the bedside table,” Lady Susanna said. “I shall return shortly.”

When thirst awakened Honore, it was still day. Or so she thought until her eyes adjusted and she saw light was thrown by candles and brazier coals. Sir Elias was yet in this place where his friend had given him a surname different from the one by which Honore knew him. Once more, curiosity plucked at her—until she was struck by the possibility the knight had departed, which was possible had she slept one night into the next.

Counseling calm though her heart vied to outrun the wind and rain besieging the shutters, she pushed to sitting and saw the cup on the table. Leaning back against the headboard, she retrieved it and was surprised it was warm, as was the liquid she gulped after snatching down the gorget. She understood, and it made her heart ache knowing just as she cared for her foundlings, someone cared for her. Lady Susanna had ensured the drink did not go cold. How many times had she replaced it?

Honore forced herself to sip and savor the honey- and mint-flavored water. When its last drop slid down her throat, she clasped the cup to her chest. For however long she had slept, it had done her good. Her chest ached, but not sharply.

“Thank you, Lord,” she whispered and dropped her head back and stared at the ceiling over which flame flickered. She would depart Cheverel with Sir Elias and join him in rescuing the children whom those without a conscience named peculiars and abominations.

“Dear Hart,” she whispered and hoped the strong, determined boy persevered and his faith sent its roots deeper and sprouted taller no matter what he endured.

“You shall see him again,” a voice preceded the one who rose from a chair to the right.

Honore gasped, looked to the Lady of Cheverel. Of less surprise than her presence was her choice of words that evidenced Sir Elias had revealed how Honore came to be in his company.

“I pray you are right. He is dear to me.” She set the cup on the table. “I thank you for keeping the drink warm. It soothed.”

Lady Susanna lowered to the mattress edge. “You feel better?”

“Oui, though still tired. Was I coughing much?”

“Several times I have come and gone these hours, and for a time you did, but less so of recent. Methinks you have cleared your lungs.” She put her head to the side, considered Honore’s face. “Your color is better.”

Honore touched her cheek, in the next instant clapped a hand over her mouth and reached for the gorget.

“Honore.” The lady touched the fingers tugging the material up from beneath her chin.

Honore turned her head opposite. “Pray, do not look!”

“Already I have looked, and methinks you make much of little.”

“Much?” Honore shrilled, then gave a cry of frustration when her attempt to reposition the gorget’s ties caused the veil to drop to her shoulders.

“I am sorry,” the lady said as Honore jerked the knotted ties into place. “I suppose it is not for me to say what is of no consequence, but I think it a small thing.”

The gorget once more taut beneath her nose, Honore closed her eyes. She was ashamed, not over how God had fashioned her and how another of his creation had tried to correct the deformity, but her reaction to the lady gazing upon that which many believed ought to remain out of sight.

“Forgive me.” Honore drew the veil over her head, saw understanding in the lady’s eyes. “I can never know who will look upon me with superstition and distaste and who will see…” She touched the gorget. “…only me.”

Lady Susanna inclined her head. “I am guessing Sir Elias does not know.”

“He does not, and I beseech you not to speak of it.”

“You misjudge him, Honore. Just as he is unconcerned the son he seeks bears a mark on his face, neither would he look ill upon you were he entrusted with knowledge of your injury.”

“It is no injury. It is as I was born—or was. Whilst yet a babe, an attempt was made to correct it.”

Was it distress passing over Lady Susanna’s face? Confusion?

Honore moistened her lips, wished for more drink. “I could hardly suckle. Had my lip not been repaired, I might not have survived.”

The lady nodded. “I have heard of children born with defects, but this one is unknown to me. My nephew was himself born with an affliction, though it is one rarely visible to the eye.”

As ever, Honore took interest in such talk that could aid with current or future abandoned children. Angling her body toward the woman, she said, “With what does he suffer, my lady?”

“A loss of breath. When Judas was young—”

“Judas?” Honore was certain she must have heard wrong.

“That is his name. And that is another tale.”

“Forgive me. It is just that only in the Bible have I heard the name given.” Thinking she made matters worse, she repeated, “Forgive me.”

“Worry not. It is a name little known in England.”

Who would be so cruel to strap the name of Jesus’s betrayer to the back of an innocent boy? Honore wondered. As much as she longed to know the answer, she said, “Tell me about his breathing difficulty.”

“When young, so often did he lose his breath I feared he would suffocate and not grow to manhood.”

Honore had experienced such with one foundling. It had been frightening but of little threat to the child’s life. “And now?”

“The more years he gains, the less severe the attacks, and when they strike he knows what is required to quickly recover.”

“I am glad. Life is difficult enough without providing the heartless another means of making themselves feel superior.”

“You speak true.”

After an awkward silence, during which curiosity over Elias’s name returned, Honore said, “My lady, your husband called Sir Elias by the surname Cant. Is it not De Morville?”

Her mouth curved. “It is, but for a time he was known by Cant—a darker time than this best told by him.”

Then likely she would never hear it, but there was another curiosity to which the lady might give answer. “Is Sir Elias wed?”

A question sparkled in the lady’s eyes. “Though much his father wishes it for the sake of the family name, he is not. But methinks he must yield soon.” She stood. “I shall go for viands.”

“I thank you, but I am not so hungry I would rather fill my belly than sleep.” Honore frowned. “Know you what hour it is?”

“I would say two until middle night.”

“You ought to be abed yourself.”

“As I am assured you are recovering, there I shall go—after I deliver a tray for when you are ready to eat.”

Hating she further delayed the lady’s rest, Honore wanted to decline but said, “I would like that though the drink need not be warmed.”

“Already it is. A large pot was made for all and left over a warming fire.”

Honore caught her breath. “Have others taken ill? Cynuit? Squire Theo? Sir Elias? Your son?”

“Worry not, all are well.” With a rustle of skirts, the lady crossed to the door.

“Lady Susanna, you will not tell Sir Elias of my mouth, will you?”

The woman looked across her shoulder. “I will not, but may I ask what you fear?”

“It may be true I misjudge him, but there are others I did not believe would turn from me when they saw the Lord shaped me differently, yet they did. As for Sir Elias, I fear he would desire my company even less since some believe ill luck befalls those who travel with ones whose bodies appear formed by the devil.”

“You speak of superstition, Honore. Sir Elias—”

“Still,” Honore gently interrupted, “I would not risk it. Pray, grant me this.”

The lady inclined her head. “I shall leave the matter be and pray Sir Elias is not long in proving worthy of your confidence.”

“I am grateful, and if you will bear with me, one more thing I would ask. If Sir Elias determines I am not sufficiently recovered to accompany him on the morrow, do not let me sleep though his departure. I would speak with him before he leaves.”

“The boy means much to you.”

“He does. I love all those with whom the Lord entrusts me, but methinks Hart is as near a son as ever I shall have. I would see him one last time and be assured as much as possible his life will be good.”

“Then if the storm passes, I shall awaken you.”

“I am grateful, my lady.”

A lovely smile, then the woman was gone. Though Honore tried to wait for her to return with drink and viands, sleep was too persuasive.