Page 23
Story: Duke of Gluttony
CHAPTER 7
“For heaven’s sake, Georgie, stay still,” Abigail whispered hoarsely, shifting the squirming toddler to her other hip. The movement sent a jolt of pain through her ankle, but she gritted her teeth and continued measuring willow bark powder with her free hand.
Georgie responded by grabbing a fistful of her hair and pressing his snotty face against her neck. His little body radiated heat—not dangerous yet, but certainly feverish.
“Mrs. Welling, could you—” The words caught in her damaged throat, dissolving into a raspy cough.
The older woman appeared at her side, hands already reaching for the fussing child. “You shouldn’t be carrying him at all. What did I tell you about heavy lifting?”
“Georgie isn’t heavy,” Abigail protested, though her aching arms begged to differ.
“And I’m the Queen of Sheba.” Mrs. Welling settled the boy on her own substantial hip with practiced ease. “Alice is changing the linens in the south dormitory, Timothy’s finally sleeping, and Cook’s making broth for the little ones. What else needs doing?”
Abigail glanced around the cramped workroom. Three children sat huddled on a bench near the window, each with varying degrees of the same malady—runny noses, glassy eyes, flushed cheeks. A fourth lay dozing on a pallet in the corner where she could keep an eye on him. Beyond the door, she could hear muffled crying from the main room.
“I’ve nearly finished preparing these doses. Could you make sure everyone has fresh water? Marjory should return soon with more supplies.”
Mrs. Welling nodded and carried Georgie away, his chubby hand waving over her shoulder. Abigail sagged against the worktable, closing her eyes for just a moment. The room tilted alarmingly.
Deep breaths. One task at a time.
She straightened, focusing on the precise measurements before her. Willow bark for fever. Feverfew for headache. Honey to soothe raw throats and make the bitter medicines palatable.
A sharp rap at the front door echoed through the building. Abigail stiffened. Marjory wouldn’t knock. Perhaps it was Dr. Hargrove—finally.
Alice’s voice carried down the corridor. “Sir, I don’t believe we’re receiving visitors today.”
“This is not a social call.” A nasal voice responded with clipped precision. “I am Mr. Basil Latchford of the St. Mary Magdalen Parish board. Where is Her Grace? I am here to conduct our quarterly inspection.”
Abigail’s hand slipped, scattering precious powder across the table.Not today of all days.
“Miss Marjory is fetching medicine but Miss Abby is in the workroom, sir.” Alice’s voice grew louder as she drew near.
“The inspection was scheduled for today,” Mr. Latchford replied. “If Her Grace is not available, take me to whoever is in charge.”
Alice opened the door, her face a mask of apology. Behind her stood a thin man with receding hair slicked flat against his skull. Pince-nez perched upon a sharp nose, and he clutched a leather-bound ledger to his chest as if it contained royal secrets.
“Lady Abigail,” he said, surveying the disordered room with obvious displeasure. “I had expected to find Her Grace in the administrative office. The records are to be properly arranged for my review.”
“Mr. Latchford.” Abigail acknowledged him with the barest nod. “As you can see, we are managing an outbreak of spring fever. Perhaps we might reschedule?—”
“Absolutely not,” he cut her off, producing a pencil from his waistcoat pocket. “Scheduling is an essential component of proper administration. Predictability ensures accountability.”
Spoken like a man who has no children—and probably no wife.
“Very well.” She gestured toward the corner where a small desk held ledgers and correspondence. “We can start with the medical records for now. You may examine them while I attend to the children.”
Mr. Latchford’s lips pursed as if he’d tasted something sour. “Irregular. Most irregular. The inspection is to take place in the Administrative Office.”
Abigail pulled a key from her apron. “Here is the key. You know the way to the office, Mr. Latchford. Stay or go, but I must finish preparing these medicines.”
The parish administrator shifted from one foot to the other before edging around little Emily who was curled up with a pillow on the floor and settling himself at the small table with the ledger. The scratching of his pencil against paper punctuated her movements like an irritating metronome.
“Your vinegar usage has increased twelve percent, and your coal expenditure exceeds the Magdalen Orphanage by nearly four pounds.”
“We’ve been cleaning more frequently to contain the fever—and our building faces north. It takes more coal to keep it warm.”
“Excuses don’t change the totals.”
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23 (Reading here)
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 49
- Page 50
- Page 51
- Page 52
- Page 53
- Page 54
- Page 55
- Page 56
- Page 57
- Page 58
- Page 59
- Page 60
- Page 61
- Page 62
- Page 63
- Page 64
- Page 65
- Page 66
- Page 67
- Page 68
- Page 69
- Page 70
- Page 71
- Page 72
- Page 73
- Page 74
- Page 75
- Page 76
- Page 77
- Page 78
- Page 79
- Page 80
- Page 81
- Page 82
- Page 83
- Page 84
- Page 85
- Page 86
- Page 87
- Page 88
- Page 89
- Page 90
- Page 91
- Page 92
- Page 93
- Page 94
- Page 95
- Page 96
- Page 97
- Page 98
- Page 99
- Page 100
- Page 101
- Page 102
- Page 103
- Page 104
- Page 105
- Page 106
- Page 107
- Page 108
- Page 109
- Page 110
- Page 111
- Page 112
- Page 113
- Page 114