Dressed in Black

Chapter 11

Catherine, by reason of a headache, excused herself from the supper party and retired to her own room, leaving no one particularly unsettled, save Miranda, who looked concerned. As the company played at whist – little Master Walter had been put to bed in the old nursery, so rest assured he was not inconveniencing anyone with his noisy presence – she lingered by, ruminating over her, and longing to comfort her.

"Fitzwilliam," she whispered to her husband as he conversed on a light subject with Sir Arthur Dent, whose shaggy black mustachios were rather too distracting to have a reasonable conversation with him.

"Yes, my lady?"

"May I be excused?"

"On account of what?"

"I feel light-headed," she blushed, rubbing her temples in feigned discomfort.

"Do you? Well then, my pretty wife, make haste and get some air into those feeble lungs of yours!" he bestowed on her a kiss, dismissing her with unusual affection, owing to the company which made him either forget his black heart or muffle it.

"I thank you, Fitz," she bowed shortly, retreating to Catherine's room as softly as she could, her shoes having high wooden heels that echoed rather shrilly when she walked. "My dear," she knocked on her door, listening for movement of any kind. "Are you up?"

"Yes, Miranda," she heard a weepy voice, strained by gloom and repression. "You may come in, if you like. Sarah is gone to fetch the tea."

She slowly turned the knob and crept in, searching for Catherine's slight figure. She was perched on her window-seat, half hidden by the muslin curtain. Her tight braid had been loosened, and her rich brown hair fell in glossy locks around her face and tumbled down her back. She stared at her approaching visitor with sleepy eyes.

"Have you been nodding off, child?" she asked of her, sitting on the edge of the window-seat and clasping her hands affectionately. "You look dazed."

"Oh, Miranda," she sighed; letting her head fall back against the wall. "I'm so cold."

"Cold, dear?" she frowned, rubbing her hands. "Does this help?"

"My heart is cold. I feel a void that cannot be filled, and a chill that cannot be warmed."

"Dear girl!" she exclaimed. "Stand, and I will help you into your nightgown. You must be put to bed."

"Yes, yes, to bed," she sighed, letting herself be lifted from the chilly seat by the window, where bitter winds blew but were not felt through the glass – their sound was mute, like the underground wails of a prisoner in a lonely cell. After Catherine had undressed with Miranda's assistance, she rang the bell and Sarah appeared within minutes with a tray containing tea and toast.

"What took you so long, Sarah?" she inquired, tucking Catherine in.

"There was much bustle in the kitchen, mum," she bowed, setting the tea things down on Catherine's lap. "What with all the fine comp'ny, it's to be 'xpected."

"I hear you, Sarah," she nodded, pressing her lips to Catherine's white brow. "Fortunately she has no fever," she stated with a sigh of relief, making for the door. "Sarah, I want you to spend the night with your mistress."

"Is she ill, mum?" she asked so worriedly that Miranda was pleased that Catherine had another friend in need apart from herself.

"Her heart sickens," she returned with a dismal smile. "I am sure, Sarah, that you are a girl capable of compassion?"