“And you think he’s going to keep improving?” Margaret asked, hope fluttering in her stomach.
“Minimally, my lady,” Healer Frederickson said, his voice cautious, “and I won’t promise you that he will even keep the progress he’s made now.”
Her shoulders sank momentarily before she straightened them again. No, she couldn’t let her hope fade. “We’ll just pray that it stays.”
“Of course, my lady,” he said quickly. “I’ll leave you his lordship’s usual draughts in the kitchen on my way out.”
“Thank you.” Margaret smoothed back her father’s hair and kissed his forehead. “I’ve taken some herbs from the garden for the shop. Frances should have them for you.”
Healer Frederickson bowed his head to her before leaving.
“Well, I think you’re going to keep getting better, Papa.” Margaret smiled at him, one corner of her mouth upturned. “Do you feel like eating?”
He nodded wobbly, patting her hand.
Margaret’s heart swelled. Even last month he didn’t have the dexterity to touch her hand. “Let’s get you in your chair and into the kitchen, then.”
When Margaret pushed her father into the kitchen, she found Frances reading a letter with her hand to her mouth. Frances jumped and hid the letter when Margaret said, “Frances, is everything all right?”
“It’s my sister, my lady.” Her voice trembled as she spoke. “She’s taken ill.”
Instinctively, Margaret put her hand on her father’s shoulder as though speaking of sickness would bring it to him. “Oh, I’m sorry, Frances—I hope she recovers quickly.”
Frances swallowed hard, shifting from foot to foot. “Lady Margaret, I would like to take care of her, if you’ll allow it.”
Margaret frowned. Was she afraid to ask her for a simple favor? “Of course, Frances.” She pushed her father further into the kitchen and settled him at the table. “Will two weeks be long enough?”
“That should be more than enough, my lady.” Frances brightened, her face looking less strained as she smiled. “I’ll write down some easy meals for you to make while I’m gone before I leave, and dinner for tonight.”
“I suppose this will be our test of whether I need to hire more help or I can manage with only you and Hanson if one of you needs to leave for a while.” Margaret certainly hoped that, after months of learning the basics of running a home and cooking, she could manage two weeks on her own.
Margaret left Frances to her own tasks and prepared her father’s lunch of porridge topped with mashed fruit and eggs. It was mostly what her father ate, other than soups. They were the things he could eat easiest and meals she could readily make.
After she fed him, Margaret turned her attention back to Frances. “How far away is your sister?”
“About a day and a half’s walk.” Frances continued with her work as she spoke. “If you’ll allow it, I would like to leave this afternoon.”
“This afternoon?” Margaret internally scolded herself for sounding so panicked. “I’ll have Hanson take you in the carriage tomorrow to save you some time. And, of course, retrieve you at the end of two weeks.”
France dropped her spoon, looking up quickly. Her mouth fell open, and her eyes widened. “Really, my lady?”
“Of course.” Why was this so shocking to her? It wasn’t as if Margaret denied her servants any resources they asked for. “It will make me feel better, knowing you’ll get there safely, and you won’t have to spend any money on an inn for the night.” Margaret picked up the spoon and handed it to her. “And it will make sure we aren’t without you for too long. Does that sound amenable?”
“Very.”
The house sounded quiet—too quiet. It was their first day alone in the two years since they’d moved to Silvica. Frances and Hanson left in the early morning hours to make sure Hanson could be back before nightfall. Margaret checked on her father and found him still asleep. Inhaling deeply, she let out a frustrated noise and went to the kitchen.
She didn’t know what to do with herself. Frances usually had a plan for the day, and Margaret helped with it or did something of her own with her father. She rapped her knuckles against the counter, letting out a huff. This would be a long two weeks if she couldn’t figure out what she was supposed to do with herself.
Margaret let out a pleased noise when she heard her father groan. Thank God there was something she could focus on—she’d let her father’s needs dictate the day. She grinned. He was rubbing the sleep from his eyes; she hadn’t seen him do that since before his last stroke. Healer Frederickson would have to eat his words the next time she saw him.
“Good morning, Papa.”
He grunted back, glaring at her through a single half-lidded eye. She laughed—he did not like getting up in the morning.
“It is, Papa. You’re moving much better than you have in a long time.”
He gave her a small smile—or, at least, the best version of a smile he could. He struggled to keep his mouth tight, the corners of his mouth twitching rapidly.
After she fed and bathed him, she wheeled him out into the garden. He seemed to be happiest when he was in the fresh air. Margaret settled him between the vegetable beds where he could see the farmers work the land. It brought him joy to see others work the land; he’d always told her it was what he missed most while they were at Cerule House.
She gathered a few vegetables for their dinner that night, along with herbs to cook them in and some to dry for the healer’s visit next week. The healers needed the herbs, and it made her feel good to contribute. Her father would have done the same.
Margaret looked back to her father and found him leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed. She hummed a pleased sound, turning back to her work. She enjoyed gardening once she understood it more, but she did not enjoy the dirt. Or the bugs, but luckily, Mrs. Fraser had given her plenty of herbs to reduce the number in her vegetable beds.
She pulled out one of the carrots with a large top and let out a yell, falling back on her rear.
A large black snake slithered out of the open patch of vegetation, flicking its tongue at Margaret. She held her breath and stayed frozen in place as it rapidly undulated past her. She couldn’t take her eyes off it for fear it would turn around and bite her.
When it was clear away, Margaret let out her breath and ripped several other carrots from the bed and threw them in her basket. She was done outside for the day. Maybe even the next few days. Margaret would make Hanson come up with…something—he could figure it out for himself—to scare away any other snakes before she put her hands in the dirt again.
She wiped her hands on her apron and went to her father. He looked at her alarmed, his brow knitted together.
“I’m all right, Papa.” She put her basket in his lap and wheeled him inside. He wouldn’t want to be outside with the snakes any more than she would.
Margaret wheeled him into the common room and settled him near enough to the window he could see out but not so that he’d have the sun directly in his eyes. Once he was comfortable, she went to the kitchen with her basket. She itched to get the dirt from under her nails. She picked up the pitcher and groaned.
Empty.
At least she could fill it in the bathing house and didn’t need to use the outside well. Her hands still shook slightly from her encounter, and she held on tighter to the ceramic pitcher so she wouldn’t drop it. Margaret gave her father a shaky smile as she passed.
She pumped the handle on the pump until the pitcher was full. A crash sounded from the common room behind her. Margaret turned sharply, gasping when the pitcher collided with the door. She didn’t have time for this. She dropped the handle and ran to the common room.
“Papa!” Margaret gasped.
He was on the floor, his chair tipped over. How could that have happened? Had he tried to move and fallen over?
Margaret pulled up his chair first. “Papa, how did you manage this?” She looked around the room for anything she could use to help her pull him up.
She let out a frustrated growl. Nothing.
There was nothing.
How was she going to pick him up without Hanson? She couldn’t leave him on the floor until he got back—he’d only been gone a few hours; he wouldn’t be home for a dozen more.
She ran her hands over her face. “Pull yourself together, Margaret,” she scolded herself. “Just do it.”
Margaret squatted and hooked her elbows under her father’s shoulders. She closed her eyes tightly and took a deep breath. She could do it. No—she would do it. She had no other choice but to do it. Margaret braced herself and pulled him back. She just had to get him in his chair.
She strained under his weight and nearly dropped him as she shifted her weight. Margaret unceremoniously shoved him into his chair before she lost her grip again.
Margaret let out a small laugh. “We did it, Papa.” She cupped his cheeks and smiled at him. “We did it.”
When she was sure he was all right, she returned to the bathing room to clean up the broken pitcher. Surely, if she could survive these first few hours of everything going wrong, she could last the two weeks Frances was away.
Margaret smiled when she heard the carriage pull in. It would be nice to have Frances back. The time she was gone had been harder than she expected, but she had done it. She went outside to greet them, her smile falling when she saw Frances. Her eyes were rimmed red and her face stained with tears.
Margaret grabbed her shoulders and held her at arms length, looking her over to see if she was injured. “Frances, what’s wrong?”
“Things are worse than we expected, my lady.” Frances’s voice was thick. She hastily wiped new tears from her face. “She’ll not last the year, the healers said.”
“Oh, Frances.” Margaret pulled her in for a tight hug. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Why don’t you take tomorrow to rest?”
“Won’t you need me, my lady?” France looked up at her, surprised.
“I’ve been without you for two weeks,” Margaret reminded her, “I should be fine for one more day.”
Weeks passed as Margaret fell into a schedule with Frances again. Margaret was growing concerned as she noticed Frances drifting around the cottage in a fog the longer she was back.
Margaret jumped when she heard something shatter in the kitchen. She set aside her needlework and went to find what broke. “Is everything all right, Frances?”
“I’m sorry, my lady,” Frances said between small sobs. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Margaret reached out to offer some form of comfort but pulled her hand back quickly. She was no good in situations with people who were crying. “Frances…are you all right?”
Frances shook her head silently, her mouth twisted in a hard line as held back another sob.
Margaret guided her to a seat. “Stay here,” she commanded before going out to the garden. She looked around and found the chamomile in the back bed, grabbing a few stems. That should make Frances feel better. On a whim, Margaret snagged a few pieces of mint. Margaret cleaned the mint and flowers and set a kettle to boil. She turned to Frances and braced herself. Even if she wasn’t good at giving comfort, she should at least try. “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
“I’ve had another letter from my sister.” Frances hands shook on top of the table. She quickly moved them into her lap. “She’s getting worse. It won’t be long now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Frances.” Margaret rose with the kettle’s whistle and poured them both a cup. “Would you like to go back for another visit?”
Frances wiped fresh tears from her cheeks. “My lady…”
Margaret’s stomach sank at her tone. “You can speak frankly, Frances.”
“My lady, I wish to leave your service to care for her.” She choked back a sob. “Her children will need me, and I can’t bring them here.”
“You didn’t mention the children before.” Margaret furrowed her brow. Had she been planning on leaving this whole time?
Frances blew on her tea before she took a sip. “I thought she would have more time, my lady—” she took another sip as her eyes watered “—that maybe their father could handle them on his own, but her letter has said he’s fallen apart with grief.”
Margaret took a long drink from her cup to calm her nerves. She had survived without her maidservant; she could do it again. “You may leave my service, Frances, and I hope that you will be well.”