Cold-Hearted Rake

“Not any common lout,” Devon said. “One of our friends.”

West let out a reluctant laugh and turned back to face him. “Being a friend of ours doesn’t exactly recommend him. I’d rather let him have Pandora or Cassandra – at least they have enough spirit to stand up to him.”

Helen was glad and relieved that the Christmas Eve party and servants’ ball would be held as planned. It had been discussed among the family, with all of them sensitive to the plight of poor Mr. Winterborne in his invalid condition. However, both Devon and West had said flatly that Winterborne would be the last person to want a holiday to be canceled for his sake, when it would mean so much to the servants and tenants who had worked so hard all year. Going on with the celebration as planned would be good for the morale of the entire household, and in Helen’s opinion, it was important to honor the spirit of the holiday. No harm was ever done by encouraging love and goodwill.

The household bustled with renewed excitement as everyone wrapped gifts and made preparations, while rich smells of pastries and joint roasts drifted from the kitchen. Hampers of oranges and apples were set out in the entrance hall, along with baskets containing spinning tops, carved wooden animals, skipping ropes, and cup-and-ball toys.

“I feel sorry for Mr. Winterborne,” Pandora remarked. She and Cassandra were busy wrapping sugared almonds in little twists of paper, while Helen arranged flowers in a large vase. “He’ll be alone in a dark room,” she continued, “while the rest of us are enjoying decorations that he sent to us, and can’t even see!”

“I feel sorry for him too,” Cassandra said. “But his room is far enough from the noise that it shouldn’t bother him. And since the medicine from Dr. Weeks makes him sleep most of the time, he probably won’t even know what’s happening.”

“He’s not sleeping now,” Pandora said. “According to Mrs. Church, he refused to take his afternoon dose. He knocked a cup out of her hand and said something beastly and didn’t even apologize!”

Helen paused in the middle of arranging a large vase of red roses, evergreen branches, white lilies, and chrysanthemums. “He’s in a great deal of pain,” she said, “and probably frightened, as any man in his situation would be. Don’t judge him unfairly, dear.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Pandora said. “It would be awfully dull to lie there with no diversions. Not even being able to read! Kathleen said she was going to visit him, and try to coax him to take some broth or tea. I hope she had more luck than Mrs. Church.”

Frowning, Helen trimmed another rose stem and slid it into the arrangement. “I’ll go upstairs,” she said, “and ask if there’s something I can do to help. Cassandra, would you finish these flowers for me?”

“If Mr. Winterborne would like,” Pandora offered, “Cassie and I could read The Pickwick Papers to him. We’ll do all the characters’ voices and make it very amusing.”

“I could bring Josephine to visit him after I finish the flowers,” Cassandra suggested. “She’s much calmer than Napoleon, and it always makes me feel better to have a dog with me when I’m ill.”

“Perhaps he’d like to meet Hamlet,” Pandora exclaimed.

Helen smiled into her younger sisters’ earnest faces. “You are both very kind. No doubt Mr. Winterborne will be grateful for the entertainment after he’s had a bit more rest.”

She left the dining room and crossed through the entrance hall, enjoying the sight of the glittering tree. Beneath the ornamented branches, a housemaid hummed a carol as she swept up fallen needles. She went upstairs and found Kathleen and Mrs. Church standing outside Winterborne’s room. Both of them looked concerned and exasperated as they conferred in hushed tones.

“I came to see how our guest was,” Helen said, joining them.

Kathleen answered with a frown. “He has a fever and can’t keep anything down. Not even a sip of water. It’s very worrying.”

Helen glanced through the partially open doorway, into the shadowed room. She heard a quiet sound, somewhere between a groan and a growl, and the hairs on the back of her neck lifted.

“Shall I send for Dr. Weeks?” Mrs. Church asked.

“I suppose so,” Kathleen said, “although he stayed up most of the night watching over Mr. Winterborne, and he desperately needs a few hours of rest. Furthermore, if we can’t persuade our patient to take any medicine or water, I don’t know how Weeks could manage it.”

“May I try?” Helen offered.

“No,” the other women said in unison.

Turning to Helen, Kathleen explained, “So far we’ve heard nothing but profanities from Mr. Winterborne. Fortunately at least half of it is in Welsh, but it’s still too vulgar for your ears. Besides, you’re still unmarried, and he isn’t decently clothed, so it’s out of the question.”

A curse emerged from the depths of the room, followed by a wretched groan.

Helen felt a rush of pity. “The sickroom holds no surprises for me,” she said. “After Mama was gone, I nursed Father through more than one illness.”

“Yes, but Winterborne isn’t a relation.”

“He’s certainly in no condition to compromise anyone… and you and Mrs. Church are already burdened with much to do.” She gave Kathleen a pleading glance. “Let me see to him.”

“Very well,” Kathleen said reluctantly. “But leave the door open.”