Southampton Row - Anne Perry [91]
“A touch of rheumatism,” he replied. “It’s most painful.” He smiled, a forced gesture which disappeared almost instantly. “You must speak to Cook. She has allowed her standards to slip lately. I have never had so much indigestion in my life.”
“Perhaps a little milk and arrowroot?” she suggested.
“I can’t live on milk and arrowroot for the rest of my days!” he snapped. “I need a household that is properly run with a kitchen that serves edible food! If you paid attention to your own duties instead of interfering in mine, then we would not have the problem. You are responsible for my health, and you should concern yourself with it, not attempting to console someone like poor Patterson, who is crumbling before the vicissitudes of life.”
“Death,” she corrected.
“What?” His hand jerked up and he glared at her. He really was very pale, and there was a sheen of sweat on his lip.
“It is death that he is finding impossible to accept,” she pointed out. “She was his daughter. It must be the most terrible thing to lose a child, although heaven knows it happens to enough people.” She buried the empty ache inside herself because it could never happen to her. She had dealt with most of that years ago; only now and then did it return, unexpectedly, and surprise her.
“She was not a child,” he replied. “She was twenty-three.”
“For heaven’s sake, Reginald, what on earth has her age got to do with it?” She was finding it more and more difficult to keep her temper. “Anyway, it really makes no difference what was the cause of his distress; it is our task to try to comfort him, or at least offer him the assurance of our support and remind him that in time faith will ease his grief.” She drew in her breath deeply. “Even if the time in question is beyond this life. Surely that is one of the main purposes of the church, to offer the strength for those losses and afflictions that the world cannot ease?”
He rose suddenly to his feet, coughing and putting his hand to his chest. “It is the church’s task, Isadora, to point the moral pathway so that those who are faithful may reach the . . .” He stopped.
“Reginald, are you ill?” she asked, now prepared to believe that he really was.
“No, of course I’m not ill!” he said angrily. “I am simply tired and have indigestion . . . and a spot of rheumatism. I wish you would keep the windows either open or closed, not this ajar manner which causes so many drafts!” His voice was sharp, and she caught something she thought with amazement was an edge of fear. Was it because he had so signally failed to help Patterson? Was he afraid of a weakness in himself, of being seen to fall short?
She tried to think back to any other time when she had heard him comfort the bereaved, or indeed the dying. Surely he had been stronger than this; the words had come to him fluently, quotations from scriptures, past sermons, the words of other great churchmen. His voice was beautiful; it was the one physical characteristic that had never failed to please her, even now.
“Are you sure you are . . .” She was not certain what she meant to say. Was she about to press for an answer she did not want?
“What?” he demanded, turning in the doorway. “Ill? Why do you ask? I’ve already told you, it is indigestion and a touch of stiffness. Why? Do you think it is more, something worse?”
“No, of course not,” she said quickly. “You are quite right. I apologize for making a fuss. I shall see that Cook is more careful with spices and pastries. And goose—goose is very rich.”
“We haven’t had goose in years!” he said in disgust, and went out of the door.
“We had it last week,” she said to herself. “At the Randolphs’. It didn’t agree with you then!”
Isadora prepared for the reception with great care.
“Is it something special, ma’am?” her lady’s maid asked with interest and just an edge of curiosity as she wound Isadora’s hair up to show off the white streak from the brow just to the right of her widow’s peak. It was startling and she did not try to disguise it.
“I am not expecting it to be,” Isadora replied