“I only want to see the gloves,” Lady Berwick said primly. “After that I will occupy a chair and wait during your appointment with the dressmaker.”
“I don’t expect it will last long,” Helen murmured, keeping her eyes closed. “I may have to return home soon.”
“Does your head hurt?” Cassandra asked in concern.
“I’m afraid so.”
Cassandra touched her arm gently. “Poor you.”
Pandora, however, was not quite as sympathetic. “Helen, please try to rise above it. Think of something soothing—imagine your head is a sky filled with peaceful white clouds.”
“It feels like a drawer full of knives,” Helen murmured ruefully, rubbing her temples. “I promise to hold out for as long as I’m able, dear. I know you want time to shop.”
“We’ll take you to the furniture department and you can lie on a chaise,” Pandora said helpfully.
“Ladies do not recline in public,” Lady Berwick said.
The footman assisted them from the vehicle and guided them to one of the back entrances, where a uniformed doorman awaited them.
Occupied with the stabbing pain in her head, Helen followed blindly as they were shown into the store. She heard Lady Berwick’s murmurs of astonishment upon being led through opulent spaces with arched openings and lofty ceilings, with brilliant chandeliers showering light down to the polished wood floors. Tables and counters were heaped with treasure, and glass cases featured row upon row of luxurious merchandise. Instead of small, closed-in rooms, the departments were airy, open halls, encouraging customers to wander freely. The air smelled like wood polish and perfume and newness, an expensive smell.
As they reached the six-story central rotunda, with scrollwork balconies at every floor and a massive stained-glass dome ceiling, Lady Berwick couldn’t conceal her amazement.
Following the countess’s gaze upward, Pandora said reverently, “It’s the church of shopping.”
The countess was too bemused to reprimand her for the blasphemy.
Rhys approached them, relaxed and handsome in a dark suit of clothes. Even Helen’s oncoming migraine couldn’t inhibit a glow of pleasure at the sight of him, so powerful and self-assured in this world he had created. His gaze connected with hers for a brief, hot instant, then switched to Lady Berwick. He bowed over the older woman’s hand and smiled as he straightened.
“Welcome to Winterborne’s, my lady.”
“This is extraordinary.” Lady Berwick sounded bewildered, almost plaintive. She looked on either side of her, at the halls that seemed to go on and on, as if a pair of mirrors had been set up to reflect each other infinitely. “There must be two acres of floor space.”
“Five acres, including the upper floors,” Rhys said in a matter-of-fact manner.
“How could anyone ever find anything in all this excess?”
He gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s all well organized, and there are a half-dozen sales clerks to attend you.” He gestured to a row of attendants, all impeccably clad in black, cream, and the store’s signature deep blue. At his nod, Mrs. Fernsby approached. She wore a stylish black dress with a collar and cuffs of cream lace.
“Lady Berwick,” Rhys said, “this is my private secretary, Mrs. Fernsby. She’s here to assist with anything you require.”
Within five minutes, Lady’s Berwick’s apprehensions had melted into bemused pleasure as Mrs. Fernsby and the sales assistants devoted themselves to gratifying her every wish. While Lady Berwick was shepherded to the glove counter, Pandora and Cassandra roamed among the first-floor displays.
Rhys came to Helen’s side. “What’s the matter?” he asked quietly.
The bright lighting seemed to pierce into her brain. She tried to smile, but the effort was excruciating. “My head is aching,” she confessed.
With a sympathetic murmur, he turned her toward him. His big hand shaped to her forehead and the side of her face as if testing her temperature. “Have you taken medicine for it?”
“No,” she whispered.
“Come with me.” Rhys drew her arm through his. “We’ll find something at the apothecary counter to make you feel better.”
Helen doubted that anything would help, now that the migraine had sunk its claws and fangs into her. “Lady Berwick will want me to stay within her sight.”
“She won’t notice anything. They’re going to keep her busy for at least two hours.”
Helen was in too much distress to argue as Rhys pulled her away with him. Mercifully, he didn’t ask questions or try to make conversation.
They reached the apothecary hall, where the flooring changed to polished black-and-white tile. It was much dimmer here, as most of the lighting had been turned down at closing. Both sides of the hall were lined with cabinets, shelves, and tables, with a countertop peninsula extending from one of the walls. Every shelf was crowded with jars of powders, pills, liniments, and creams, as well as bottles and vials of tinctures, syrups, and tonics. Assorted medicated confectionaries had been arranged on tables; herbal cough drops, cayenne lozenges, maple sugar, and gum Arabic. Ordinarily Helen wouldn’t have minded the blend of astringent and earthy scents in the air, but in her current misery, it was nauseating.
Someone was at the peninsula, sorting through drawers and pausing to make notes. As they drew closer, Helen saw that it was a woman not much older than herself, her slim form dressed in a dark burgundy walking suit, her brown hair topped with a sensible hat.
Glancing up, the woman smiled pleasantly. “Good evening, Mr. Winterborne.”
“Still working?” he asked.
“No, I’m about to leave for a local orphanage, to visit the infirmary. I’m low on supplies, and Dr. Havelock told me to take them from the store apothecary. Naturally I’ll pay for them tomorrow.”
“The store will assume the expense,” Rhys said without hesitation. “It’s a worthy cause. Take whatever you need.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Lady Helen,” Rhys said, “this is Dr. Garrett Gibson, one of our two staff physicians.”
“Good evening,” Helen murmured with a strained smile, pressing her fingers against her right temple as a searing knot throbbed inside her skull.
“An honor,” the other woman said automatically, but she regarded Helen with concern. “My lady, you appear to be in discomfort. Is there something I can do?”
“She needs a headache powder,” Rhys said.
Dr. Gibson looked at Helen across the counter, her vivid green eyes assessing. “Is the pain all through your head, or is it focused in one area?”
“My temples.” Helen paused, taking inventory of the various searing pains in her head, as if burning coals had been randomly inserted. “Also behind my right eye.”
“A migraine, then,” Dr. Gibson said. “How long ago did it start?”
“Only a few minutes ago, but it’s rushing at me like a locomotive.”
“I’d recommend a neuralgic powder—it’s far more effective for migraines, as it includes caffeine citrate. Let me fetch a box—I know exactly where they are.”
“I’m sorry to be a bother,” Helen said weakly, bracing against the counter.