“There’s time.” Howard’s voice was faint as well.
Hew must have closed his eyes because when he opened them again, Belle was standing over him.
“He’s still shivering,” she was saying.
He tried to raise an arm to indicate he needed the blanket, but when he moved his elbow, he realized someone had already covered him. And yet, he was still deathly cold.
Hew heard Mr. Howard say something, but he couldn’t make sense of the words. All he could do was stare up at Belle’s lovely brown eyes, lighter now that she was recovered. They reminded him of the eyes of a fawn. He’d seen his share of deer, admired the quiet way they moved and the gentle way they raised their head and looked at a passerby as though he were some sort of new creature. She had those same curious but gentle, large brown eyes.
“You look like a deer,” he said. Her brow creased, and he realized that had come out wrong. “I mean—”
“Shh.” She put a hand on his forehead, and though his body was frozen, somehow her hand was cool against his flesh. “Close your eyes and rest.”
“Stay,” he said.
“I’m right here.” Her hand was replaced by a cloth and that was cool as well. Hew closed his eyes and the world spun. He dreamed of a street, a carriage, and a man with a knife
Chapter Five
Belle loved opening the shop in the morning. There were usually three or four people waiting outside to buy a breakfast tea, having not realized until the last moment they were low. Today the rain had kept everyone inside, and when she unlocked the door, opened the shades, and turned the sign, no one stopped in to shop.
Belle looked up at the ceiling and wondered how her father was getting on. He’d shooed her out of her bed chamber, telling her he would take a shift with the patient. Belle had thought she’d be relieved to get away, but then Arundel had asked her to stay. Now she felt guilty for having left him.
Not that he had any idea what was happening around him. Her father said he’d refused more laudanum, but he was talking as though he’d had a half bottle. He kept saying she was a deer. She might have thought he was calling her dear, except that he was insistent that she looked like a deer, and she understood he meant the animal. Belle had not spent much time in the country, but she’d seen one or two deer in the park. She didn’t think she looked anything like a deer.
But then why was she puzzling over what a semi-conscious man, who would probably be dead by evening, said? Of course, he didn’t make sense. He was delirious with pain.
The bell above the door tinkled as it opened, admitting a woman who was closing her black umbrella and shaking water off her hat. Belle smiled, “Good morning, Mrs. Tipps.”
“What’s good about it?” Mrs. Tipps grumbled. She always grumbled. She’d been coming in once a week for years, and not once had she ever smiled or answered Belle’s greeting with anything other than a grumpy acknowledgment. Belle didn’t mind. It was rather comforting in a way, and she could appreciate the return to routine after the unusual night she’d passed.
“I see the rain hasn’t let up,” Belle said, when Mrs. Tipps stowed her umbrella in the stand and removed her wet wrap and hung it on the rack.
“If this continues, we’ll all be drowned.”
Belle was unfazed by the negativity. She was too tired to try and infuse some cheer into Mrs. Tipps. “I was about to brew some Hot Cinnamon Spice tea. It’s a lovely blend, perfect for days like this. Would you like a cup?”
Mrs. Tipps halted midway to the counter. “Hot Cinnamon Spice?” she said as though the words were another language.
“Yes.” Belle lifted the little packet of tea. “This blend features three types of cinnamon, and they are combined with clove.” She sniffed at the leaves. “Orange rind as well, I think. It has a bit of spice and is said to be good for the circulation.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my circulation.
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“And what is wrong with Darjeeling? Mr. Tipps and I always drink Darjeeling.”
Belle let out a small sigh. What had she been thinking? She knew better than to offer anything new to Mrs. Tipps. “Darjeeling is wonderful. It’s one of our most popular teas.”
“I should think so,” Mrs. Tipps said, coming to stand at the counter. “It’s tradition, and there is nothing wrong with tradition.”
The bell on the door tinkled again, and both women turned to see Mrs. Price enter. She was not carrying an umbrella but held her wrap over her head, ostensibly to keep off the rain. As the rain had slowed from a deluge to a mere stream, she was reasonably dry. “Good morning, Belle. Mrs. Tipps,” she said, hanging her wrap on the rack beside Mrs. Tipps’s damp wrap.
“What’s good about it?” Mrs. Tipps said again.
Mrs. Price—Belle didn’t know why they called her missus, as she’d never mentioned a husband in all the time Belle had known her—paused to consider that question. “The rain is good for the flowers,” she said with a decisive nod. She came forward to join Mrs. Tipps on the other side of the counter. By now, Belle had warmed the pot, spooned the Hot Cinnamon Spice into the teapot, and was pouring the water she’d boiled on the small stove into the pot to steep the tea. Several years ago, she’d suggested to her father they take the unusual step of adding a stove behind the counter so they might brew tea during the day and offer samples to customers. Mrs. Tipps might not appreciate a sample, unless it was Darjeeling, but Belle suspected Mrs. Price stopped in daily because she always hoped for a complimentary cup.
Mrs. Price rarely bought tea and then only the cheapest blends, but Belle didn’t mind. Mrs. Price was always pleasant company.
