Airborne - The Hanover Restoration by Blair Bancroft Page A

tomorrow,” he continued briskly, obviously turning to the second topic on his morning’s agenda. “A most fortuitous delay,” he added grimly. “You should know that my mother is Lady Thistlewaite. She has managed to outlive two husbands—some say she dr ove them both to their graves.”
    I blinked, but he continued as if he’d never made such an outrageous remark. “Her guests are the Earl and Countess of Wandsley and their daughter, Lady Phoebe Fortescue. I’ve never met the chit—don’t go about much in society—but my mother swears she is cheerful and cleverer than most.” Rochefort sighed. “Her attributes are moot, as they no longer matter.”
    “Ruffled feathers to be smoothed,” I pointed out.
    Rochefort winced. “Mama’s will be the worst, I fear, but I promise I will not let her eat you.”
    All well and good for him to say. Undoubtedly, he would shut himself up in one of his workshops and leave me to cope, flat on my back in bed or no. Nothing new in that, of course. Papa had done it all the time.
    “And the guests who are to come next week?” I asked.
    Rochefort stood. “I am not ogre enough to burden you with them today.” He paused, frowning. “This is scarcely the way I planned to begin our marriage, Minta, but we must make the best of it.” He bent down, plac ed a swift kiss on my cheek. “Feel better, my dear.”
    And then he was gone, leaving me aquiver with a jumble of emotions. And finally with what shock and pain had prevented me from remembering. Last night was my wedding night.
     
    “My lady, my lady.” Tillie’s soft voice woke me from a surprisingly deep sleep, my sore head no longer waking me every time I moved. “’Tis nearly tea time, my lady. Since his lordship said you was to sleep through luncheon, I thought you might be ready for a bite to eat.”
    I considered the matter and discovered my stomach was complaining louder than my head. Obviously, I was better—although my head once again reverted to a whirling dervish as Tillie helped me sit up. After she’d fussed a bit, straightening the bedcovers and doing as much as she could with the hair not covered by a swath of bandages, she stood soldier straight beside the bed and said, “M’lady, Mrs. E wondered if you still wished to see her today. I’m to ring if you do.”
    My initial reaction, I’m ashamed to admit, was, Heavens, no! But fortunately I recalled I was now the Baroness Rochefort and must begin as I meant to go on. Else I would forever continue to be a guest in my own home. “I will see her,” I said.
    By the time Mrs. E arrived, I had girded myself for battle, shoulders straight, head up. I’d even pinched my cheeks to give them a little color. Alas, my preparations did nothing to keep Evangeline Biddle, standing a foot from the end of my bed, from looking like a particularly handsome witch about to reach out and stir her pot of evil. Ah, well . . .
    “Come closer,” I ordered. As she moved to the side of the bed, I noticed she was carrying a sheaf of papers. “Menus?” I inquired. Without a word she handed them to me.
    I barely stifled a groan as the letters danced before my eyes. Dear God! I tried again. The words might as well have been in Arabic or Chinese, and I knew the fault wasn’t Mrs. E’s handwriting. Now what? Did I peruse each page with care before handing them back with a blanket approval? Or did I admit weakness to the woman who had chosen to be my enemy?
    I laid the papers in my lap, attempting to focus on the here and now, rather than the looming worry of my vision problems. “Mrs. Biddle,” I said at last, “the blow to my head seems to have affected my vision. Since you have been serving this household for so long, I am certain the menus reflect the fine quality of the meals I have eaten so far. Please continue as in the past. I will let you know when I am able to review the daily menus.
    “Very well, my lady.” Her facial features remained impassive, or possibly my