Chapter Text
Bertha was bored. After the confrontation with George and being caught in the storm, she had been exhausted, happy to be babied and put to bed. But a good night's sleep had restored her energy, and she wanted out of her room. Unfortunately, the wretched doctor had apparently informed the entire household that she was supposed to rest, and they were all conspiring against her.
“You know what the doctor said,” Eleanor admonished, joining her on the settee. Bertha had absolutely refused to stay in bed after breakfast.
“I feel fine. My ankle is a little sore, but it’s nothing.”
“It won’t be nothing if you over do and strain it further.” Bertha made a face, and Eleanor laughed.
“Don’t be a baby. I brought the latest plans for the ball,” she held up a notebook, “and perhaps, if you’re a good girl all day, we can find a tall, strapping footman to carry you down for dinner.”
Bertha rolled her eyes. “Fine. How can I help? Did you settle on a menu?” They spent the next few hours going over details of the ball, sharing local gossip, talking and laughing and distracting Bertha from the fact that she couldn’t go riding. Passing her door, George heard the laughter, and his heart constricted with a combination of relief and longing. He had to get back on the other side of that door.
Dinner the night before had not been enjoyable, but he supposed it could have been worse. No one was openly hostile, not even Eleanor; they simply ignored him. Bertha had a tray in her room, so he didn’t even get to see her, but a bribe to her maid - a full five dollars, but it was worth it - bought him the fact that Bertha seemed well and had been convinced to follow the doctor’s orders, at least for one night.
After keeping his distance all day — but not avoiding her, he told that annoying voice in his head — he had mustered the courage to knock on her door before dinner.
Her maid answered. “Yes, sir?” She opened the door enough to see out but not enough for him to see in and didn’t seem concerned by his frown. Cool as a cucumber, that one.
“I’d like to speak to Mrs. Russell, if she has a moment.”
“You can let him in, Carter,” called Bertha. The maid stepped aside but kept her cool gaze on him as he carefully entered the room.
“You look very nice,” he said. “A new dress?”
”Yes.” He waited for her to say more about its origins or the designer or the inspiration for the pattern, as she usually did — used to do — but she simply stared at him. “Did you need something?”
Back to keeping him at a distance, then. Fine. George took a breath. “I thought…I would like…that is…” He cleared his throat. He wasn’t going to behave like a stubborn young suitor, damn it. “I wanted to offer to carry you down for dinner. If you’re planning to come down.”
Bertha studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she nodded. “Very well,” she said, and held out her arms.