Within five minutes, there was a knock at the door, and a pair of chastened-looking maids entered the room. “We came to tidy up, miss,” one of them ventured, “The master sent us—‘e said we must ‘elp you with anyfing you need.”

“Thank you,” Annabelle said, hoping that Lord Westcliff had not been too severe on the girls. Retreating to a chair, she watched the whirlwind of activity that ensued. With almost magical speed, the young housemaids changed the bed linens, opened the window to admit fresh air, cleaned and dusted the furniture, and brought in a portable bath that they proceeded to fill with hot water. One of the girls helped Annabelle to remove her clothes, while the other brought in a length of folded toweling and a bucket of warm rinse water for her hair. Shivering in comfort, Annabelle stepped into the mahogany-rimmed folding tub.

“Take my arm, please, miss,” the younger of the two said, extending her forearm for Annabelle to take hold of. “Yer not quite steady on yer feet, looks like.”

Annabelle obeyed and sank down into the water, and let go of the girl’s muscular arm. “What is your name?” she asked, lowering her shoulders until they were submerged beneath the steaming surface of the water.

“Meggie, miss.”

“Meggie, I believe I dropped a gold sovereign on the floor of the family’s private parlor—will you try to find it for me?”

The girl gave her a perplexed glance, clearly wondering why Annabelle had left a valuable coin on the floor and what would transpire if she couldn’t find it. “Yes, miss.” She bobbed an uneasy curtsey and rushed from the room. Dunking her head beneath the water, Annabelle sat up with a streaming face and hair and wiped her eyes as the other maid bent to rub a cake of soap over her head. “It feels nice to be clean,” Annabelle murmured, sitting still beneath the girl’s ministrations.

“Me ma allus says ‘tisn’t good to bathe when yer ill,” the maid told her dubiously.

“I’ll take my chances,” Annabelle replied, gratefully tilting her head back as the maid poured the rinse water over her soapy hair. Wiping her eyes once more, Annabelle saw that Meggie had returned.

“I found it, miss,” Meggie exclaimed breathlessly, extending the coin in her hand. It was possible that she had never held a sovereign before, since the average housemaid earned approximately eight shillings a month. “Where shall I put it?”

“You may divide it between the two of you,” Annabelle said.

The housemaids stared at her, dumbfounded. “Oh, thank you, miss!” they both exclaimed, eyes wide and mouths open in amazement.

Grimly aware of the hypocrisy of giving away money from Lord Hodgeham, when the Peyton household had benefited from his questionable patronage for more than a year, Annabelle lowered her head, embarrassed by their gratitude. Seeing her discomfort, the two hastened to help her from the tub, drying her hair and shivering body, and helping her to don a fresh gown.

Refreshed but tired after the bath, Annabelle got into bed and lay between the soft, smooth bed linens. She dozed while the maids removed the bath, only hazily aware when they tiptoed from the room. It was early evening when she awoke, blinking as her mother lit a lamp on the table.

“Mama,” she said groggily, dazed with sleepiness. Remembering the earlier encounter with Hodgeham, she shook herself awake. “Are you all right? Did he—”

“I don’t wish to discuss it,” Philippa said softly, her delicate profile gilded by the lamplight. She wore a numb, blank look, her forehead lightly scored with tense furrows. “Yes, I am quite all right, dearest.”

Annabelle nodded briefly, abashed and despondent, and aware of a pervasive feeling of shame. She sat up, her back feeling as if her spine had been replaced by an iron poker. Aside from the stiffness of her unused muscles, however, she felt much stronger, and for the first time in two days her stomach was aching with real hunger. Slipping from the bed, she went to the vanity table and picked up a hairbrush, dragging it through her hair. “Mama,” she said hesitantly, “I need a change of scene. Perhaps I will go back to the Marsden parlor and ring for a supper tray, and dine in there.”

Philippa appeared to have only half heard the words. “Yes,” she said absently, “that seems a fine idea. Shall I go with you?”

“No, thank you…I’m feeling quite well, and it isn’t far. I’ll go by myself. You probably want some privacy after…” Annabelle paused uncomfortably and set down the brush. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

With a low murmur, Philippa sat in the chair by the hearth, and Annabelle sensed that she was relieved by the prospect of being alone. After braiding her hair into a long rope that lay over her shoulder, Annabelle left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

As she went out into the hall, she heard the subtle rumble of the guests who were enjoying the supper buffet in the drawing room. Music overlaid the blend of conversation and laughter—a string quartet with an accompanying piano. Pausing to listen, Annabelle was astonished to realize that it was the same sad, beautiful melody that she had heard in her dream. She closed her eyes and listened intently, while her throat tightened with a wistful ache. The music filled her with the kind of longing that she should not have allowed herself to feel. Good God, she thought, I’m becoming maudlin in my illness—I have to get some control over myself. Opening her eyes, she started to walk again, only to narrowly miss plowing into someone who had approached from the opposite direction.