Chapter 9
It has oft been said that physicians make the worst patients, but it is the opinion of This Author that any man makes a terrible patient. One might say it takes patience to be a patient, and heaven knows, the males of our species lack an abundance of patience.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2 MAY 1817
The first thing Sophie did the following morning was scream.
She’d fallen asleep in the straight-backed chair next to Benedict’s bed, her limbs sprawled most inelegantly and her head cocked to the side in a rather uncomfortable position. Her sleep had been light at first, her ears perked to listen for any sign of distress from the sickbed. But after an hour or so of complete, blessed silence, exhaustion claimed her, and she fell into a deeper slumber, the kind from which one ought to awaken in peace, with a restful, easy smile on one’s face.
Which may have been why, when she opened her eyes and saw two strange people staring at her, she had such a fright that it took a full five minutes for her heart to stop racing.
“Who are you?” The words tumbled out of Sophie’s mouth before she realized exactly who they must be: Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree, the caretakers of My Cottage.
“Who are you?” the man demanded, not a little bit belligerently.
“Sophie Beckett,” she said with a gulp. “I . . .” She pointed desperately at Benedict. “He . . .”
“Spit it out, girl!”
“Don’t torture her,” came a croak from the bed.
Three heads swiveled in Benedict’s direction. “You’re awake!” Sophie exclaimed.
“Wish to God I weren’t,” he muttered. “My throat feels like it’s on fire.”
“Would you like me to fetch you some more water?” Sophie asked solicitously.
He shook his head. “Tea. Please.”
She shot to her feet. “I’ll go get it.”
“I’ll get it,” Mrs. Crabtree said firmly.
“Would you like help?” Sophie asked timidly. Something about this pair made her feel like she were ten years old. They were both short and squat, but they positively exuded authority.
Mrs. Crabtree shook her head. “A fine housekeeper I am if I can’t prepare a pot of tea.”
Sophie gulped. She couldn’t tell whether Mrs. Crabtree was miffed or joking. “I never meant to imply—”
Mrs. Crabtree waved off her apology. “Shall I bring you a cup?”
“You shouldn’t fetch anything for me,” Sophie said. “I’m a ser—”
“Bring her a cup,” Benedict ordered.
“But—”
He jabbed his finger at her, grunting, “Be quiet,” before turning to Mrs. Crabtree and bestowing upon her a smile that could have melted an ice cap. “Would you be so kind as to include a cup for Miss Beckett on the tray?”
“Of course, Mr. Bridgerton,” she replied, “but may I say—”
“You can say anything you please once you return with the tea,” he promised.
She gave him a stern look. “I have a lot to say.”
“Of that I have no doubt.”
Benedict, Sophie, and Mr. Crabtree waited in silence while Mrs. Crabtree left the room, and then, when she was safely out of earshot, Mr. Crabtree positively chortled, and said, “You’re in for it now, Mr. Bridgerton!”
Benedict smiled weakly.
Mr. Crabtree turned to Sophie and explained, “When Mrs. Crabtree has a lot to say, she has a lot to say.”
“Oh,” Sophie replied. She would have liked to have said something slightly more articulate, but “oh” was truly the best she could come up with on such short notice.
“And when she has a lot to say,” Mr. Crabtree continued, his smile growing wide and sly, “she likes to say it with great vigor.”
“Fortunately,” Benedict said in a dry voice, “we’ll have our tea to keep us occupied.”
Sophie’s stomach grumbled loudly.
“And,” Benedict continued, shooting her an amused glance, “a fair bit of breakfast, too, if I know Mrs. Crabtree.”
Mr. Crabtree nodded. “Already prepared, Mr. Bridgerton. We saw your horses in the stables when we returned from our daughter’s house this morning, and Mrs. Crabtree got to work on breakfast straightaway. She knows how you love your eggs.”
Benedict turned to Sophie and gave her a conspiratorial sort of smile. “I do love eggs.”
Her stomach grumbled again.
“We didn’t know there’d be two of you, though,” Mr. Crabtree said.
Benedict chuckled, then winced at the pain. “I can’t imagine that Mrs. Crabtree didn’t make enough to feed a small army.”
“Well, she didn’t have time to prepare a proper breakfast with beef pie and fish,” Mr. Crabtree said, “but I believe she has bacon and ham and eggs and toast.”
Sophie’s stomach positively growled. She clapped a hand to her belly, just barely resisting the urge to hiss, “Be quiet!”
“You should have told us you were coming,” Mr. Crabtree added, shaking a finger at Benedict. “We never would have gone visiting if we’d known to expect you.”
“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision,” Benedict said, stretching his neck from side to side. “Went to a bad party and decided to leave.”
Mr. Crabtree jerked his head toward Sophie. “Where’d she come from?”
“She was at the party.”
“I wasn’t at the party,” Sophie corrected. “I just happened to be there.”
Mr. Crabtree squinted at her suspiciously. “What’s the difference?”
“I wasn’t attending the party. I was a servant at the house.”
“You’re a servant?”
Sophie nodded. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“You don’t look like a servant.” Mr. Crabtree turned to Benedict. “Does she look like a servant to you?”
Benedict shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what she looks like.”
Sophie scowled at him. It might not have been an insult, but it certainly wasn’t a compliment.
“If she’s somebody else’s servant,” Mr. Crabtree persisted, “then what’s she doing here?”
“May I save my explanations until Mrs. Crabtree returns?” Benedict asked. “Since I’m certain she’ll repeat all of your questions?”
Mr. Crabtree looked at him for a moment, blinked, nodded, then turned back to Sophie. “Why’re you dressed like that?”
Sophie looked down and realized with horror that she’d completely forgotten she was wearing men’s clothes. Men’s clothes so big that she could barely keep the breeches from falling to her feet. “My clothes were wet,” she explained, “from the rain.”
Mr. Crabtree nodded sympathetically. “Quite a storm last night. That’s why we stayed over at our daughter’s. We’d planned to come home, you know.”
Benedict and Sophie just nodded.
“She doesn’t live terribly far away,” Mr. Crabtree continued. “Just on the other side of the village.” He glanced over at Benedict, who nodded immediately.
“Has a new baby,” he added. “A girl.”
“Congratulations,” Benedict said, and Sophie could see from his face that he was not merely being polite. He truly meant it.
A loud clomping sound came from the stairway; surely Mrs. Crabtree returning with breakfast. “I ought to help,” Sophie said, jumping up and dashing for the door.
“Once a servant, always a servant,” Mr. Crabtree said sagely.
Benedict wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw Sophie wince.
A minute later, Mrs. Crabtree entered, bearing a splendid silver tea service.
“Where’s Sophie?” Benedict asked.
“I sent her down to get the rest,” Mrs. Crabtree replied. “She should be up in no time. Nice girl,” she added in a matter-of-fact tone, “but she needs a belt for those breeches you lent her.”
Benedict felt something squeeze suspiciously in his chest at the thought of Sophie-the-housemaid, with her breeches ’round her ankles. He gulped uncomfortably when he realized the tight sensation might very well be desire.
Then he groaned and grabbed at his throat, because uncomfortable gulps were even more uncomfortable after a night of harsh coughing.
“You need one of my tonics,” Mrs. Crabtree said.
Benedict shook his head frantically. He’d had one of her tonics before; it had had him retching for three hours.
“I won’t take no for an answer,” she warned.
“She never does,” Mr. Crabtree added.
“The tea will work wonders,” Benedict said quickly, “I’m sure.”
But Mrs. Crabtree’s attention had already been diverted. “Where is that girl?” she muttered, walking back to the door and looking out. “Sophie! Sophie!”
“If you can keep her from bringing me a tonic,” Benedict whispered urgently to Mr. Crabtree, “it’s a fiver in your pocket.”
Mr. Crabtree beamed. “Consider it done!”
“There she is,” Mrs. Crabtree declared. “Oh, heaven above.”
“What is it, dearie?” Mr. Crabtree asked, ambling toward the door.
“The poor thing can’t carry a tray and keep her breeches up at the same time,” she replied, clucking sympathetically.
“Aren’t you going to help her?” Benedict asked from the bed.
“Oh yes, of course.” She hurried out.
“I’ll be right back,” Mr. Crabtree said over his shoulder. “Don’t want to miss this.”
“Someone get the bloody girl a belt!” Benedict yelled grumpily. It didn’t seem quite fair that everyone got to go out to the hall and watch the sideshow while he was stuck in bed.
And he definitely was stuck there. Just the thought of getting up made him dizzy.
He must have been sicker than he’d realized the night before. He no longer felt the urge to cough every few seconds, but his body felt worn-out, exhausted. His muscles ached, and his throat was damned sore. Even his teeth didn’t feel quite right.
He had vague recollections of Sophie taking care of him. She’d put cool compresses on his forehead, watched over him, even sung him a lullaby. But he’d never quite seen her face. Most of the time he hadn’t had the energy to open his eyes, and even when he had, the room had been dark, always leaving her in shadows, reminding him of—