The Dowager Countess (The Saga of Wolfbridge Manor Book 2) Sahara Kelly (book club recommendations TXT) 📖

Would the Dowager Countess feel the same?

Less than two days later, having made excellent time and with fresh horses, Giles found himself staring in horror at what remained of a building. Part of the roof was gone and the bits still standing couldn’t possibly offer much in the way of warmth to whoever was left inside. He had to wonder if this was the right place, since it was so far off the beaten path as to be almost non-existent. And over an hour’s drive from Kilham Abbey.

He had stopped there first, expecting it to be close to his final destination, and considered it a courtesy to let the family know his plans for the Dowager.

He’d met with an abrupt and somewhat rude greeting, where he had been told to stay on the road for another ten miles. The Earl, he was informed, was not at home. Then the door had been shut in his face.

With a sinking heart, he’d followed the directions, realising now how grave the situation might be.

Telling the driver to be ready for another passenger, Giles made his way across a weed and leaf covered path to the door. It was warped, badly, with the hinges rusting. It took a leap of faith for him to rap his knuckles on it.

The sound was hollow, echoing inside, but causing no footsteps nor any sign of life coming to open up and let him in.

He waited, then gave up and pushed at the door.

It opened easily; the lock dropping off as it did so, clattering onto a dirty stone floor.

His heart in his mouth, Giles walked carefully inside. The hall, for such as it once must have been, was quite a large room, with windows on the opposite wall, now boarded up.

There was enough cold daylight for him to see doors leading away from where he stood, but only one showed a tiny flicker of light coming from beneath it, and he’d have missed even that if he hadn’t been looking for it.

With a great deal of caution, he moved slowly toward that side of the hall, doing his best to avoid the debris on the floor—bits of wood and plaster, a puddle of water that probably leaked through the ceiling over the winter, and a useless branch of candles, empty now and half shattered.

A sense of dread rose up in Giles’s throat. This was appalling—to think of the Dowager Countess Kilham living amidst such squalor. And where was the alleged housekeeper?

“Hullo?” His voice echoed dully. “Is anyone here?”

He paused. There was nothing. No sound at all except for the odd creak of the house itself and an unpleasant skittering noise he recognised with a shiver of disgust. He couldn’t tolerate rats.

Reaching the closed door, he stopped again. This time there was a faint crackle of firewood. Or at least he thought that was what he heard.

He pushed…and it refused to budge.

He tried again, and on the third time, he slid whatever was blocking it aside just enough so that he could get through.

What he stepped into was the stuff of nightmares.

Hardly any light, a fire that struggled to stay alive, slop buckets that stank worse than a village midden, and several large rats scurrying around a plate that had been on the floor.

Swallowing down a surge of disgust, Giles turned to see a low, filthy couch, and on it…a figure lay swathed in ancient blankets, ripped and mended.

Could this be the Dowager Countess? His mind refused to accept it, but he cautiously picked his way across to the bundled figure. Perhaps it was the housekeeper. Yes, that was it. The housekeeper.

Leaning over, he carefully moved a part of a blanket from the face.

One look, and he knew it wasn’t the housekeeper.

The skin was colourless, white as paper, but the features were delicate and refined. Her hair…well it might have been any number of shades, but at the moment it was just filthy. He was willing to bet on other less pleasant things sharing it as well.

Was she alive?

He heaved a sigh of relief as her hands clutched at the blanket, thin and clawing, aware of something moving the nest she’d made for herself.

Dear God. When had she last eaten? She had the look of a starving child.

He leaned even closer. “My Lady,” he said quietly. “My Lady Kilham. Wake up…”

Slowly her eyelids rose. Brown eyes stared at him blankly, and she blinked as if trying to find her way out of a fog.

“Wha…who…” A shudder took her, and she moaned.

He gently touched her forehead and was shocked at the heat. In spite of her pallor and the freezing cold room, she was on fire.

“You are sick, my Lady. I am come to take you away from all this.”

“Yes. It is time. I am ready to die…”

“You won’t die. Not if I have my way…”

But she didn’t hear him. As if his brief statement had given her a measure of relief, her body relaxed into unconsciousness.

Giles sighed as he gathered her up from her cocoon. Two unconscious passengers in as many days. This was getting to be a rather annoying habit.

Chapter Seven

Carrying her to the waiting coach was not going to be a problem for Giles, since his burden weighed less than one of Evan’s magnificent fruit cakes.

The smell of her, however, was decidedly unpleasant, and he could not imagine being enclosed with it for the time it took to get her back to Wolfbridge. He tucked her up and headed out of the foul room to the carriage, reaching in for his bag and taking the robe out of it. Thank God he’d had the forethought to add it to his luggage.

He also picked up a thick fur.

“I won’t be