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stray strand of auburn hair back from her forehead. “Can I offer you some coffee or tea?”
    “Thank you, no. I have a full schedule today. You’ll want to know that all the Whixleys are going on well now.” He closed his black bag and made a gallant bow. “When we have all our patients back on their feet, I hope you will accompany me on a stroll by the river. You’ll need the fresh air and I love to watch the sloops and barges. Someday I intend to have a sailing boat of my own. They can’t track you down on the river.”
    She met his grin with a warm smile of her own, and failed to notice that her aunt had awakened and was watching them curiously. “I’ll hold you to your offer, Dr. Thorne. The promenade is a favorite of mine—watching the river through the grove of trees, seeing it disappear in the meadow grounds one way and under the bridge the other . . . Don’t let me keep you; I know you’re more than pressed today.”
    If Aunt Effie had any thoughts on this interchange, she kept them to herself. Her throat was parched, her eyes burned, and her chest hurt, so she had little energy to consider anything but her own health. As Marianne watched the door close after the doctor, Aunt Effie shifted in her bed and said in a hoarse voice, “I want a glass of port.”
    “Do you, love?” Marianne asked sympathetically. “I’ll get you something to drink.”
    When she had urged her aunt to drink the unpalatable rice water, she allowed her a sip of port to wash it down. The old woman then lay back exhausted, her face pale but for two bright spots on her cheeks. Marianne regarded the closed eyes sadly and asked, “Shall I read to you, Aunt Effie?”
    “No, thank you, dear. I think I shall sleep now.”
    Marianne waited until her breathing became regular, and then went to her writing desk and drew forth a sheet of plain parchment. The ready-sharpened quills stood at hand, and she quickly addressed a simple request to Mr. Vernham before shaking the sand over the sheet. Hopefully she would have time to change before he called.
    But Roberts returned to inform her that Mr. Vernham would be out of York until the next day. Marianne had not considered that possibility, and she was for some time unable to decide whether to write to the Earl of Latteridge himself, but her aunt’s pale face eventually decided her. It would not do to ask him to call, of course, so she attempted, in the most delicate of phrases, to express her concern for her aunt’s health and the debilitating effect of the previous night’s tumult. She had a strong desire to underline the “humble and obedient servant” phrase, but forced herself to fold the note and ring once again for Roberts.
    As she waited for a reply, or lack of one, she rested her head in her hand, and thought how ironic it was that she should have to apply to a Derwent for a favor. Marianne did not think herself overly endowed with the kind of pride which foolishly rose to support one’s self-conceit. If one had sufficient self-respect, that sort of pride was mere vanity. Yet even Marianne could not quite envision herself penning such a request to the Dowager Lady Latteridge, and it was only slightly less uncomfortable to do so to her son, albeit unknown to Marianne. Ah well, she thought with the return of her penchant for seeing the ludicrous, if his lordship took offense, she could always don sackcloth and ashes and beg his pardon on her knees. One should grant the nobility their due deference.
    Nonetheless, she bade Roberts enter with some misgivings.
    “Apparently both his lordship and Mr. Vernham have gone to Pontefract, and will not return until tomorrow afternoon,” he informed her as he returned the note. “I thought you would not wish me to leave this.”
    “Quite right, Roberts. Thank you.” When he had left her, she set the note aside with some relief. Surely if the earl was away from home, they could expect a peaceful night and tomorrow . . . well, tomorrow she