Andrew Lord of Despair(17)
Felicity obligingly launched into a description of the little girl, whose name was Rose.
“You will be pleased to know,” Gareth said as he cut into a rare steak, “Enfield seems to prosper. One can make an estate look profitable on paper, while hiding a wealth of problems. Grandfather truly loved his land, though, and it shows. Gwen has stewarded the estate brilliantly since his departure.”
They talked of ditches and drains, marling, and sheep pens, as each man demolished his steak, until Astrid shoved away from the table with a muttered, “Excuse me.”
She moved off blindly, dashing around the corner of the house, and then she was on her hands and knees, heaving what little she’d eaten into a bed of blue pansies. When she’d lost her feeble attempt at lunch, she was treated to a bout of the dry heaves, which left her with watering eyes, sore ribs, and a burning resentment toward the man who’d brought such a condition upon her.
A white linen napkin dangled before her. “Here.”
Rubbishing lovely. She took the napkin and wiped her face. A goblet of water came next, held in an elegant male hand. She held the goblet against her burning cheek as she sank back onto her haunches.
Pansies symbolized thoughts. Astrid’s thoughts didn’t bear speaking.
“I am feeling much better now, thank you, though I am none too pleased with my sister for allowing you to come after me.”
“Up you go,” Andrew commanded. He plucked the water from her hand and raised her enough to seat her on a stone bench flanking the flower bed. Then, he hunkered in front of her, surveying her as he brushed her hair back off her forehead.
“Drink something.” He handed her the water, rose, and paced off a few feet.
Astrid obeyed, more to rinse the taste from her mouth than because she was thirsty or wanted Andrew getting notions about the effectiveness of the imperative voice. “I truly will feel better in a moment. Or at least it seems to work that way.”
Andrew perused her as she sat sipping her water and wishing a hole in the ground would swallow her up. “You’ve lost more weight in the two weeks since I last admonished you to eat, Astrid, and you were no bigger than my finger to begin with. What exactly made you ill?”
Now he must scold her, because profound mortification was not punishment enough. She spoke slowly and clearly rather than start in ranting. “Bearing a child makes me ill.”
“No,” he countered patiently. “What food disagreed with you?”
“The butter.” And the sight of those rare steaks. “I love butter, and I wanted it so badly. The soup and the rare beef, and the vegetables… It all has no appeal. In my present condition, most cooked food strikes me as slimy.”
That had Andrew looking uncomfortable and his hand straying over his flat abdomen. “We have to find out what you can keep down, Astrid. You’ve lost flesh when you should be gaining it, and you’re only, what, a couple of months along?”
“More or less.”
“And this indigestion is probably part of the fatigue you’re complaining of as well. You need to keep up your strength.”
“Yes, your lordship,” she snapped back. Since when did bearing a child mean being treated like one?
“Now, now,” he chided with a grin. “Just recall all the fun you had conceiving this baby.”
Astrid fisted both hands rather than pummel her dearest, densest friend in all the world—meaning no disrespect to her cat. “You are not funny, Andrew. I would like to go to my room.”
His smile faded, suggesting he wasn’t lost to all instincts for self-preservation. “I will be happy to escort you.” He drew her to her feet and tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow, then matched his steps to hers. In an added bit of consideration, he took her into the kitchens by way of the stillroom door rather than the back terrace. “Is there anything you might like to nibble on?” he asked as they passed the pantry.
Astrid wanted to tell him she was never going to nibble on anything again, except she was, in fact, hungry. What appealed most was not food, however, but her big, soft bed, waiting for her in her nice, quiet room.
“My appetite has quite deserted me.” Along with her dignity, of course.
“Let me put it differently. Is there anything you might be able to keep down?”
“Bread, and maybe a smidgen of jam. Meadow tea, possibly.”
Andrew sat her on a bench in the main kitchen and gathered the items she’d named onto a tray, along with a few peppermints. He took the tray in two hands and winged his elbow at Astrid in invitation. She rose, steadied herself, and let him walk her up to her bedroom, even as she wondered how he’d known—when she had not—that peppermints would appeal most strongly of all.