“I’ll go check on her.”
Rose nodded and continued pinning a petticoat to the line. Amelia went in the back door of the house, leaving the door open so Sweetie could come inside if she wished and Rose did not have to fumble with the latch and the heavy laundry basket. She passed through the small kitchen, pausing to check the herbs she had hung last week, and then made her way into the house proper. Built in the last century, the house was drafty and damp in the winters but actually quite comfortable in the spring and summer. The carpet was worn and there were empty rectangles on the walls where paintings had once hung before being sold. The doors to the rooms on the ground floor were all closed, making the vestibule dark. Amelia glanced at the closed door of the dining room then decided to try the drawing room instead.
She entered the dark room and found her mother immediately. Marianne Blackstock sat in a chair, her black-clad body looking small against the high back. On the table beside her sat a tray with untouched tea and toast. Amelia wanted to turn right around and walk back out, but she forced herself to be cheerful. “Good day, Mother,” she said, her voice bright. She crossed the room to the curtains.
“Oh, don’t—” her mother began, but Amelia was merciless and pulled them wide to allow the sun in. Her mother held up a hand to shield her face. Her skin looked even paler in the warm glow of the afternoon light.
“You haven’t touched your tea or toast,” Amelia said, coming to stand beside her mother. Her mother made no response, just pressed her hand to her temple. Her hair, a slightly lighter shade than Amelia’s, was streaked with white. It lay heavy on her shoulders as she hadn’t bothered to pin it up. She also hadn’t taken the time to dress and still wore her nightgown and a robe over it.
Amelia sat in the chair opposite her mother. “You must eat and keep up your strength,” she said.
Marianne Blackstock lowered her hand and looked at the tray as though just seeing it. “I will,” she said.
“Why don’t you allow me to help you dress?” Amelia asked. “I’ll brush your hair and pin it up then make you a fresh cup of tea.”
“No, thank you, my love,” her mother said, her voice faint. “I have a megrim today. I’m not feeling at all well. If you could help me back to bed, I would be grateful.”
Amelia tried to hide her sigh, but she rose and helped her mother back to her bed chamber. The task seemed to take hours as her mother walked slowly, and the bed chambers were on the first floor. Once Amelia had her tucked into the dark room, she went to fetch a fresh cup of tea. Sweetie had found the abandoned toast and was chewing the last crust in the drawing room. Amelia didn’t even scold her. No point in wasting it. Instead, she took the empty plate and cup to the kitchen and heated a fresh kettle of water.
A few moments later, Rose entered with the laundry basket on her hip. “Oh, Miss Blackstock, I can do that.”
Amelia waved a hand. “It’s no trouble. Mrs. Blackstock has a megrim and went back to bed. She can take tea in her room.”
Rose looked as though she wanted to say something then closed her mouth again.
“What is it?” Amelia asked. “Go ahead.”
“I don’t want to speak out of turn, Miss, but...”
Amelia raised her brows and nodded.
“I wonder if we should call that doctor back. Your mother does not seem to be improving.”
A cold finger of fear pressed against her back and tried to push its way in, but Amelia had years of practice pushing back. “It’s only been a few months since my father died,” Amelia said, trying not to sound as defensive as she felt. “She needs more time. And I’ll never call that doctor back. He wanted to bleed her, as though putting leeches on her would cure her of grief.”
“We could consult another doctor.”
“I’ll think about it,” Amelia said to mollify her. The truth was she didn’t have the money for fancy doctors and treatments. She knew what troubled her mother. For eight long years, from the time Amelia had been five until she was thirteen, her mother had nursed Amelia’s paternal grandmother. The woman had been like a mother to Marianne Blackstock, who had grown up without a mother of her own. They’d spent thousands of pounds on treatments and remedies. They’d consulted a dozen doctors. None had been able to heal Georgiana Blackstock or stop her slow, agonizing decline.
The death of her grandmother had been followed by three years of relative happiness. Her father and mother had begun to talk of the future, Amelia’s future. They had discussed balls at assembly rooms and even a shopping trip to London. Amelia had been poised to make her come out shortly after turning sixteen and then her father had been injured in a hunting accident. The poachers had been on their land illegally and hunting out of season. They had mistaken her father for an animal and shot him. And then the cowards had fled, leaving her father lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood.
By some miracle, her father had not died. The pistol ball had gone right through him. Unfortunately, it had torn through his spinal cord on its way out, leaving him paralyzed from the chest down. For the next ten years Amelia and her mother had spent every hour of every day caring for her father. He was prone to respiratory troubles and the doctors had advised them to make sure he was not prone for too long. They also had to keep his leg muscles from atrophy and that involved a regimen of moving the legs and exercising them. He had to be bathed and fed and his waste dealt with. Some months, he was in good spirits and health for weeks. Other months, he was dejected and begged for his wife to put him out of his misery.
He had never expressed such sentiments to Amelia and he never spoke them when she was nearby, but she had overheard them on more than one occasion. Luke Blackstock did not want to be a burden to his wife and child. Sometimes Amelia wished her mother would agree to her father’s wishes and free all three of them from this prison. But mostly she was glad her mother was strong and refused. Amelia had loved her father, and his death six months ago, though expected, was painful.
Her mother had immediately gone into mourning. She’d taken to her bed for days at a time. Amelia had as well. They were both so tired from years of caretaking that it seemed they could not rest enough. But eventually Amelia had recovered her strength and her energy. Her mother had not. And her mother’s inattention had allowed Amelia freedoms she would not normally have had. Though she was a spinster at six and twenty, she had been all but locked away for a decade. She craved freedom and people and excitement.
At first, she had felt a niggling in the back of her mind that she had forgotten something—that she needed to be home to care for her father. When she realized he was gone, grief washed over her. But she found that if she went into the village and spoke with shopkeepers and the girls she had grown up with but lost touch with, those feelings faded. And, of course, there were handsome men to flirt with, and when she was with them, she forgot all her heartache.
Except one of those flirtations had gone too far, and now her monthly courses were late and she had a new worry. This time she had no one but herself to blame. What would she do if she was with child? What would her mother do? Her poor mother could not even manage to eat without being cajoled. She couldn’t offer Amelia any solace or advice.
Amelia finished steeping the tea and placed the tea pot, a cup, and a few biscuits on a tray, which she carried to her mother’s room. Sweetie, ever hopeful at the prospect of more food, followed her up the stairs, but Amelia closed her mother’s door before the pig could go inside. Her mother did not mind the pig, but there were limits to her tolerance and her bed chamber was one of them.