Page 47 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

Two days later, she and Stephen stood in the bedroom of one Mrs. Edgar. The woman had been ill for a week, and her husband had called that morning, stating she wasn’t feeling any better.

“Step back, Vera,” Stephen murmured from the other side of the room.

Vera laid a damp cloth over Mrs. Edgar’s forehead and pulled the blanket up to her chin. The poor woman was burning up, but still she shivered.

“Get back, Vera!”

Her gaze snapped to Stephen’s, her face twisted in fury. She thought they’d gotten past this point, with the apology he’d given the night of her birthday. They’d both been exceedingly, cautiously polite to each other ever since. Vera was just getting to the point where she no longer tensed when he entered a room.

But now this. How dare he yell at her in such a way—especially in front of other people? She might be his assistant, but she was still⁠—

Vomit splattered the front of her apron and her shoes. Vera stared down with wide eyes, even as Stephen gently gripped her and firmly pulled her out of range of the second wave of Mrs. Edgar’s retching.

“Go and get yourself cleaned up,” he said, already stooping to throw rags over the dampness on the floor. He set a wide basin on top of the towels. “I’ll take care of this. Ask Hortense to bring tea and some weak broth once she’s finished helping you.”

Dumbly, she did as Stephen said, holding the edges of her apron so the mess didn’t drip onto the floor as she walked.

It was all Vera could do not to be sick. She kept her round eyes straight ahead, praying that Hortense wasn’t the kind to be squeamish. Vera’s own stomach roiled within her. She kept swallowing hard, all the way down the hall, where she backed through the swinging door into the kitchen.

Hortense glanced at her over her shoulder, then looked again. “Oh dear.”

She hurried to pluck at the bows holding Vera’s apron in place.

“My shoes,” Vera lamented in a small voice.

“Follow me.” Hortense stripped the apron and bundled it so all of the mess was contained, then led the way out the back door. Vera waited in a daze while the maid cranked the squeaky handle on the well. A full bucket appeared, and Hortense tossed it over the apron that she’d hung on the empty clothesline.

“It’s not perfect, but it’s a start,” she said. Then she released the bucket down the well once more and went inside to grab a rag and soap.

It took no time at all for Vera to be set to rights. She was exceedingly lucky—none of the mess had sullied her dress or her hands. Hortense sent her walking through the tall grass at the edge of the garden to clean her boots, then wiped the remainder of the mess with a damp rag.

“Occupational hazard, I suppose,” Hortense finally said when she was finished.

Vera could do little more than offer a weak smile and an insufficient thank you. She didn’t know what she would have done without Hortense’s help—most likely stayed frozen in her ruined state. At least she hadn’t compounded the matter by being sick, too.

Hortense went to deliver the requested broth, leaving Vera in the kitchen with a strong cup of tea and her own self-berating thoughts.

She should be the nurse, not me. She deals with this sort of thing so much better than I do.

How on earth was she going to earn a reference if she couldn’t stay in the room long enough to do her job? The only thing she seemed naturally good at was tending the herbs in the greenhouse, but those were herbs. She could probably neglect them altogether and they’d do just as well. They grew under almost any conditions—they were very nearly weeds.

Vera sipped her tea and straightened her shoulders. She shouldn’t expect to be good at assisting Stephen just yet. It was probably like everything else—it took time, patience, and practice.

At the thought, Vera gulped the last of her strong tea and retrieved a fresh apron from the basket. She would learn to deal with sickness with the kind of strength and calm that Stephen showed.

Even if she had to be thrown up on a hundred times.

* * *

In the end, she was able to avoid being hit again. Mrs. Edgar’s stomach calmed enough to sip the broth, and when they left, she was sipping peppermint tea and looking a bit less pale.

“Idiot man,” Stephen groused, steering the cart over a bridge. “Feeding her peppered mutton stew while she’s ill.”

Vera shook her head. “He probably didn’t know any better.”

He made a derisive sound in his throat. “Hopefully, we won’t have to return. If he follows instructions, that is.”

“I’m sure he will. He certainly looked sheepish when you told him the reason she hadn’t gotten any better.”