“For how long?”
At the end of the hall, the doctor narrowed his eyes on her. Then he gripped the banister and started down the stairs, tautness in his shoulders. “The fever has broken. Your ministering of bark powder was serviceable. That much I can praise you for.”
“I do not seek your praise, sir.”
“Good.”
“You shall remain at Penrose Abbey?”
“Unlike you, yes.” At the bottom of the stairs, he looked at her again. Something about his eyes, the searching expression, troubled her. “A word of advice, Miss Foxcroft, if you permit it.”
Her limbs tensed. She nodded him on.
“You say you have forgotten your past.” The faintest embers of disgust burst into flame. “Do not think everyone else will too.”
“Sit here. Let me look at you.” Mrs. Musgrave placed a steaming cup of honey tea into Tom’s hands, then gave a slight tug to his beard. “You should dispose of this, you know. I miss that impish face of yours.”
“It keeps me warm.”
“Humph. Like as not, you fear showing the boy beneath it.” She settled into a wingback chair, sunlight from the curtained millinery window streaking across her face. Her skin seemed papery, pallid, as if she’d ceased the afternoon strolls she used to love. “Your sister is well?”
“Aye.”
“You must bring her to see me. We should get along very well, I think, and perhaps I shall send her home with a bit of lace or ribbon.” Had she not done as much for Meg a hundred times?
His old life—not so many days ago—heaved through him. Kneeling here in this same parlor, winding the longcase clock because Mrs. Musgrave forgot how. Meg on the floor, feeding bits of muffin to Lenox. The smell of spices and springtime through the open window. Days that were lazy, quiet, slow.
Days he missed.
“I wish you would bring Miss Foxcroft to see me too.” Mrs. Musgrave blinked at him, her expression shifting. “You shall, will you not?”
“Meg is not the same.”
“She must not lose all her friends, even if she has lost her memories.”
“It is not that easy.” Tom gulped down the tea in one scalding swallow. He leaned forward and placed the rose-painted cup back on its saucer. “She wants very little to do with the likes of us.” He paused. “With me.”
“You must have patience, Tommy.”
Something he did not have. Along with responsibility, sense, and a hundred other things Papa never allowed him to forget. Tom stood, restless. “I must leave. Joanie and I will be moving to the cottage tonight. For good.”
“Heavens. However shall Meade manage without you?” Mrs. Musgrave rose to grab his hand. She smiled, but the corners of her lips quivered a little and a twinkle of moisture filled her gaze. “Indeed, how shall any of us?”
“Ye know I’ll be back to see my favorite lass.”
She nodded but couldn’t speak. Her cheeks whitened.
“Mrs. Musgrave?”
“I …” A breath escaped. She reached back for her chair, grasped it, sank into it with a little whimper. “I am sorry … I just …”
Tom knelt beside her. “Ye’re sick.”
“No, my dear.”
“I’ll go for a doctor—”
“You are not listening.” Mrs. Musgrave clucked, though a tear escaped the corner of her eye. “You never listen. You are always off and running and doing whatever it is you do.”
