Page 24 of Charming the Headmistress (Spinsters and their Suitors #3)
CHAPTER TWENTY
E leanor stirred awake to the muffled sounds of morning routines beyond her door—girls’ voices in the corridor, the distant clatter of breakfast trays—but her body felt heavy, each breath weighed down by lingering fever.
Eleanor tried to push herself upright, wincing at the weakness that trembled through her limbs.
She tried to rise when a knock sounded softly at her door, but her limbs betrayed her, trembling with fevered weakness. The door opened before she had bid entrance revealing Mrs. Carter, whose kind eyes focused directly on her.
“Miss Langford, please don’t move,” Mrs. Carter said softly, bustling in with a bowl of broth. “You’ve caught a chill, and it won’t do the girls any good if you make yourself worse.”
Eleanor sank back with a sigh, her throat tight with regret.
Today was to have been tea with Helena—and Lord Camden.
She had looked forward to it with a quiet excitement she scarcely admitted even to herself.
Now she could only imagine Helena’s disappointment at her absence, and the Marquess’s polite concern.
“I must get up,” she rasped, her voice barely above a whisper. “I need to be ready for tea with Helena and Lord Camden.”
From the doorway, Mrs. Carter stepped forward, her expression both kind and unyielding. “I’m afraid that’s already been taken care of, Miss Langford,” she said gently. “You’ve slept much longer than you think. Helena and Lord Camden had their tea in the drawing room earlier this afternoon.”
Eleanor’s heart clenched, a sharp pang of regret coursing through her. “This afternoon? I missed them?” she asked, her voice breaking despite her efforts to keep it steady.
Mrs. Carter nodded, coming closer with a fresh basin of cool water. “You needed the rest,” she soothed. “I explained to Lord Camden that you were unwell, and he was most concerned.”
A warmth spread through Eleanor’s chest despite the chill still clinging to her limbs. She bit her lip, unable to stop the small, foolish hope that perhaps it wasn’t just Helena he had worried for. She watched as Mrs. Carter set a small tray on the bedside table with quiet efficiency.
“And a note arrived not ten minutes ago, from Lord Camden,” Mrs. Carter added, producing a cream-colored envelope sealed with his crest.
Eleanor’s breath caught as she took the letter in trembling hands, the paper crisp beneath her fingertips. She unfolded it carefully, eyes darting over the bold, assured script:
Miss Langford,
I am sorry to hear you are unwell. Please know you are missed, and that Helena’s spirits remain high. I wish you a swift recovery. Should you require anything, do not hesitate to send word.
— Camden
A tear slipped free before she could stop it, splashing onto the edge of the paper. She quickly brushed it away, scolding herself for such weakness, but the warmth in her chest only grew, chasing away some of the fever’s shadows.
He had thought of her—had missed her presence enough to put it into words. The realization settled around her like a balm, softening the ache of disappointment at having missed the tea. And though she felt drained and fragile, a small, determined spark lit within her.
She took a few spoonfuls of the broth Mrs. Carter offered, before her eyelids felt heavy.
“Rest now,” Mrs. Carter said softly, adjusting the blankets around her. “There will be time for everything else once you’re well again.”
Eleanor nodded, clutching the letter to her chest as she sank back into the pillows. She closed her eyes, letting the simple, unexpected kindness of his words settle deep in her heart.
The next morning, Eleanor awoke to find a small bouquet of delicate white violets in a crystal vase by her bedside—dewy and impossibly fresh.
Their subtle fragrance mingled with the faint scent of lavender soap from the linens.
Mrs. Carter explained that a footman from Haverton House had delivered them before dawn, the arrangement perfectly composed in a way Eleanor recognized as Camden’s careful thought.
She reached for the vase with trembling fingers, brushing the soft petals and feeling a warm ache bloom in her chest.
On the third day, a note arrived, written in the same confident hand, the creamy paper sealed with Camden’s crest. It was accompanied by a slim volume of poetry bound in midnight-blue leather. The simple inscription read:
For the hours of rest you must now endure, may these words bring comfort and distraction. — Camden
She traced the letters with her thumb, lingering over the sweep of his signature as if she might draw his presence from the ink itself.
As the day crept by, she read the poems aloud to herself in a hoarse whisper, the cadences a balm against the fever’s lingering grip.
More than once, she found herself smiling, struck by the gentleness behind his gesture—and by the growing realization that his thoughtfulness had begun to steal into every quiet corner of her heart.
That same afternoon, Helena herself arrived at her bedside, carrying a small square of thick paper.
She placed it shyly on Eleanor’s nightstand before retreating to the doorway.
It was a delicate sketch of Greenbrook’s grand front steps, bathed in soft light, with a tiny figure drawn at the top—hair swept in a familiar knot, skirts flowing gently.
Beneath the sketch, in Helena’s careful hand, were the words: It’s quieter here without you.
Later that evening, Mrs. Carter entered with a small stack of folded notes tied together with blue ribbon. “Some of the girls wanted you to have these,” she explained, setting them beside Eleanor’s untouched cup of broth.
“Thank you,” Eleanor said.
She carefully untied the ribbon with trembling fingers, her eyes blurring as she read each note: We miss your stories at bedtime, Miss Langford.
— Your lessons make the days brighter. — Please get well soon so we can show you our new dance.
Each was signed with looping or uncertain scripts: Alice T.
, Emma C., Clara A., and more —each message a quiet testament to the bonds she had built with her girls.
“These are very sweet,” Eleanor said, as she carefully stacked each one together.
Mrs. Carter nodded. “And it was their own idea too.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Carter.”
On the fourth day, the scent of lemon and sugar filled Eleanor’s room even before Mrs. Carter’s knock sounded—a bright, cheering aroma that cut through the sickroom’s stale air.
Eleanor’s eyes fluttered open to find her favorite lemon cream bun from Mrs. Delaney’s bakery, carefully wrapped and still warm, resting on a small tray.
The delicate sugar crust glistened like morning frost. As she peeled back the paper, a rush of heat flooded her cheeks, unrelated to the fever.
She imagined Camden placing the order himself.
His attention to the small details sent a rush of heat to her cheeks that had nothing to do with her illness.
With each sweet, tart bite, she felt as though she were sharing a quiet moment with him, the distance between Haverton House and her sickbed shrinking until it felt like he was almost there beside her.
Though her body ached and her head pounded, Eleanor found her spirits buoyed by these small, thoughtful gifts.
Between short naps, she listened to the distant sounds of laughter drifting from the halls as the girls prepared for Scholars’ Afternoon.
The faint strains of piano practice reached her through the open door, mingling with the low hum of girls rehearsing their recitations.
Mrs. Denby oversaw rehearsals in her stead, and Miss Bellamy organized the decorations with quiet competence.
Eleanor took solace in the staff’s steady hands.
On the fifth morning, sunlight—true, bright sunlight—poured through her window, slanting golden across the coverlet.
For the first time in days, Eleanor felt strong enough to sit up without the world spinning around her.
Her pillow smelled faintly of violets, and her fingers curled instinctively around the slim volume of poetry still resting on her bedside table.
A stack of letters and reports awaited her attention on the sideboard, yet her thoughts lingered instead on the man who had turned what could have been several dreary days of fever into something tender and strangely sweet.
She pressed a hand to her heart, eyes closing with quiet determination.
She would return to her duties with renewed energy, determined that Scholars’ Afternoon would be a triumph.
And if fortune allowed, she would find a moment to properly thank Lord Camden—for his gifts, his concern, and the stirring hope he had awakened within her.