Page 68 of The Siren of Sussex

“He won’t,” Anne replied. “Jenkins says he’s taken to his bed.”

“Has he? Well, that’s a relief.” Miss Wychwood gestured to the spoon-back chair beside her bed. “Pray sit down, Miss Maltravers.” And then to Anne: “With Mama gone to Bath, he’s been hovering over me like an old mother hen.”

Anne struggled with the window, at last managing to raise it a few inches. She drew the drapes shut again. “You’re not helping in that regard, dear. Not if you will insist on playacting that you’re at death’s door.”

Evelyn sat down, arranging her skirts all about her.

“Not quite at death’s door,” Miss Wychwood said. “And it’s not playacting. I haven’t felt at all the thing these past three days.”

Anne returned to the bed. “You haven’t felt the thing these past three seasons.” She sank down on the edge of the mattress. “I thought, at the very minimum, you’d be out to exercise Cossack. But I haven’t seen you. Nor has Evie. Don’t say you’re having your groom to do it?”

Miss Wychwood gave her friend a sheepish look. “I meant to ride him this morning, but Papa swore I had a fever.”

“This house is enough to give anyone a fever,” Anne said.

“Papa’s ordered all the fires lit. He claims to have a chill in his lungs.” Miss Wychwood drew back her blanket, uncovering a half-eaten box of chocolates and a blue cloth-bound book with gold lettering on the spine. “Would you like some candy?” She proffered the box to Evelyn.

“Oh yes, thank you.” Evelyn selected a chocolate.

“Anne?” Miss Wychwood held out the box. “Take as many as you like.”

Anne helped herself to several. She popped the first one into her mouth. Her eyes fell shut as she chewed and swallowed.

“Lady Arundell doesn’t allow Anne to have sweets,” Miss Wychwood explained to Evelyn. “She’s awfully strict about food.”

“She is,” Anne admitted. “But I won’t be distracted.” She fixed Miss Wychwood with a stern glare. “You’re hiding again.”

“Can you blame me?”

“No, indeed. If I had chocolates and a novel to keep me company, I might withdraw to my bed, too. But that’s no excuse. We must all face the season, like it or not.”

“Is it truly so terrible?” Evelyn asked, taking a bite of her chocolate.

Miss Wychwood’s bosom rose and fell on a sigh. “It is when you’ve had several seasons before, none of which resulted in a single offer of marriage.”

“That isn’t the reason.” Anne ate another chocolate. “It’s because Mr. Hartford and his asinine japes have made our time in London a misery. We can’t set foot out of doors together without someone making a remark.”

“He is unpleasant,” Miss Wychwood acknowledged. “But worse than that—”

“What can be worse?”

“Being overlooked. Passed over like a jar of preserves that have expired on the shelf.”

Anne frowned. “Preserves don’t expire. Do they?”

“Not in three years’ time they don’t,” Evelyn said. “Not if they’re unopened.”

“Well, there you are,” Anne said in a bracing tone. “An unopened jar of preserves. You’ve plenty still to offer. We all of us do, if anyone would trouble to look.”

“I’d rather remain unmarried,” Miss Wychwood said under her breath.

“The devil you would,” Anne retorted. “You, more than anyone, must find a way to get out from under your parents’ thumbs. Much more of those doctors bleeding you and you’ll have no blood left. You already look half dead.”

“I’m perfectly well. Except for the heat and being obliged to hide my novel under the covers whenever Papa enters.”

Evelyn leaned forward in her seat to examine the spine of Miss Wychwood’s book. “What are you reading?”

“The third volume of Lady Audley’s Secret. It’s wonderfully thrilling. A favorite of mine. It’s about a beautiful young lady who—”