“Keep them for your own household, or send them packing,” she wrote. “But do not send them back to me!” Then she handed the missive off to Evelyn to get it hand-delivered to her son.
“That will put salt in his tea!” the Duchess declared. “Send me his second-rate castoffs, will he? Ungrateful child!”
“I’m sure he did no such thing,” Evelyn soothed, although she was not at all sure that is was not the case.
Whatever the Duchess’ intent, the note brought the Duke to the Dower House to pay his mother a visit. “Go take care of Mr. Rudge,” the Duchess directed Evelyn when the Duke was admitted. “I will have a word or two with my son. Please close the door behind you.”
Evelyn hoped all would go well, but she feared that the Duke, at least, was in for an unhappy hour with his mother. She put them out of her mind and hurried to the guest chamber that was now Mayson’s room.
She was pleased to discover that he was sitting up and sipping tea while talking with both Mr. McElroy and Jemmy.
“How are all of you?” she asked brightly as she entered.
“Fine as frog hair, and twice as lively,” Mr. McElroy declared. “The carpenter brought up my new leg this morning, and I’ll be back to work as soon as Dr. Alton says I may.”
“Splendid!” Evelyn said. “And you, Jemmy?”
“I’m already back,” Jemmy said. “I just came up to bring Mr. Rudge his tea, and to talk with him for a minute. Mrs. Bates says that she can make chicken and sage dumplings, so I was askin’ Mr. Rudge about what would go with them.”
“What did you decide?” Evelyn asked.
“Creamed peas, and glazed carrots,” Mayson replied. “Jemmy knows how to make the carrots, and most country women know how to cook creamed peas. It will be a simple meal, but one well suited to the household.”
“That’s a relief,” Evelyn said. “The stew is excellent, but I was hoping we would not need to subsist on it forever.”
“I should be heading on back,” Jemmy put in. “Mrs. Bates is a good cook, and a dab hand at orderin’ folks around, but she doesn’t know where everything is. Between us, though, we’ll do all right.”
When he had departed, Mr. McElroy said, “Believe I’ll take a turn up and down the hall a few times to get the padding on my new leg settled in. That Mr. Whitley is a real artist. If my new leg wasn’t the color of a pine branch, you could almost swear it was real. He’s got it set up so’s I can even put a shoe on it if I wish.”
Evelyn smiled at him. “That is wonderful. I hope it is easy to walk on.”
“That’s what I’m about to go find out,” Mr. McElroy replied. Then he stumped out, swinging the prosthetic a little awkwardly, but clearly well pleased with his new limb.
When the door closed behind him, Evelyn turned back to Mayson. “How are you, Mayson?”
“Truly better, I think. My chest does not feel so tight, and I am growing heartily tired of garlic. If I never see another mustard plaster in my life, I think it will be too soon. But better.”
“You sound better.” Evelyn sat down beside the bed, and took one of his hands in both of hers. “I spoke with Mr. Wilson. He will ask the vicar to visit in the morning and to speak with both of us. It seems that Mr. Wilson has some reservations about the haste with which we are making arrangements.”
“I will own I have a few reservations myself,” Mayson replied. “I worry that this might be something that you will regret.”
“Are you thinking of jilting me, Mayson?”
“Jilting? Oh, no! Not at all. I consider myself the luckiest fellow alive that you would even consider me. But I would be remiss if I did not point out to you that a man who is flat of his back, with what feels like an ocean of liquid sloshing around in his chest, is scarcely a prize.”
“We are going to get rid of that ocean, and everything will then be wonderful,” Evelyn declared.
Mayson ran a finger along the veins on the back of her hand. “Such a tiny hand, to hold my fate. But, Evelyn, try as I may, I am not perfect.”
“I know that. Neither am I. But Mayson, I feel alive when I am with you. It is even better than reading books and chatting about current events with the Duchess, who is one of the most stimulating conversationalists I have ever met.”
“But what if I become old and stodgy?”
“What if I become hagged and shrewish?” Evelyn countered.
“Not possible,” Mayson returned. “You will always be beautiful. You will be one of those grandmothers everyone talks about who only get better with age.”
“Grandmother.” Evelyn looked off into the distance. “Mayson, John and I did not have any children, and it was not for lack of trying. What if we have none?”
