“Whatever makes you think I would submit to such a thing?” Evelyn asked. “I said I would serve you, not that I would serve any other.”
“But what if there were children?” Mayson asked.
“What if there were? I know you would do your best for them, and they would have a trade and education.”
“But what of a name?” Mayson asked. “Would you condemn them to doing without?”
“Oh, Mayson, there is more to life than a name. Besides, what if they were all daughters? Not every expectation produces a son.”
“Evelyn, Evelyn,” Mayson pulled her down to him. “It is all moot for I will not do this thing to you. I asked you some weeks ago if I might have you to wife, and you as good as said yes. Have you changed your mind?”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Not exactly.”
“Then, what exactly?”
“I said yes to Mr. Rudge, the cook, not to…”
“Shhh,” he put his finger across her lips. “Do not say that name here. You never know who might be listening. Besides, I knew who I was when I asked. And I asked Mrs. Swinton, the beautiful, tragic, recent widow of Mr. John Swinton. I asked a lady of noble heart and great generosity such as I am unlikely to find anywhere.”
“But Mayson…”
Evelyn got out no further words, for Mayson wriggled himself up in the bed, cupped the back of her head in one hand, and pulled her in for a gentle, but deep and thorough kiss.
“Oh, my!” Evelyn said when he drew back. “Oh, Mayson.”
“I’ll not ask how that was in comparison to your dear departed,” he said, “for every man who marries a widow has a saint to follow after, but was it passable?”
“Oh, more than passable, Mayson. You make extremely cogent and unfair arguments, Mr. Rudge.”
Mayson lay back down on the pillows, and began coughing.
“Oh, dear, I have excited you too much!” Evelyn exclaimed, rising hurriedly and crossing the small room for the pitcher of water on the washstand.
She poured a glass for him, and brought it back, along with a cloth.
He spat into the cloth, and was no little astonished when she opened it and inspected his sputum. “Flecks of black,” she said. “No doubt from that horrid smoke, but no tinge of blood.”
“That is a good thing?” he asked.
“That is a very good thing,” she said, deliberately neglecting to mention the greenish tinge that indicated infection. She set the cloth aside to show Dr. Alton when he next visited.
“I will ring for someone to bring you some wine,” she said. “You need to sleep, not fret yourself about tomorrow. I will sit with you, so that no one will disturb you.”
“But what of you?” Mayson asked. “Do you not need rest?”
“Oh, Mayson,” Evelyn said tenderly, smoothing back his hair. “You are my rest.”
Resting against the pillows, Mayson leaned his face against her hands.This is home. This is what I need.
Chapter 37
The next several days were busy ones for Evelyn. The Duchess had developed a bad case of gout, and although the cooks the Duke sent from the Main House were more than adequate, they were certainly not up to Mayson’s standards. Nor were they willing to manage the small, late night repasts the Duchess enjoyed.
Mayson, just as Dr. Alton had predicted, developed a rattle in his lungs. The physician ordered him to bed, and refused to listen to any pleas that Mayson be allowed up.
In consequence, on this particular evening, Evelyn was baking an apple and carefully toasting bread over the coals of the Duchess’ fireplace.
“That apple does smell good,” the Duchess remarked. “And so does the toasting bread. Do you suppose that by having others prepare our food, we are missing out on part of the joys of dining?”
