“You’ll be more comfortable with a bit of a blaze in the grate, sir,” said Mrs. Appleby firmly. “Very treacherous these autumn days are, and you don’t look very stout to me, if you will pardon the liberty. But no need to be afraid of damp sheets in my house, and if you should happen to fancy a hot posset going to bed you have only to pull the bell, and I shall brew it for you, and with pleasure.”
The Duke perceived suddenly that he had escaped from Nettlebed only to fall into the clutches of Mrs. Appleby, and gave an involuntary laugh. Mrs. Appleby smiled kindly at him, and said: “Ah, you’re feeling better now your stomach’s beginning to settle, sir! I’ll take you up to your bedchamber. And what name would it be, if you please?”
“Rufford,” replied Gilly, choosing one of his titles at random. “Mr. Rufford.”
“Very good, sir, and mine is Appleby, if you should want to call me at any time, which I beg you will do if there is anything you would like. This way, if you’ll be so good!”
He followed her upstairs to a dimity-hung room overlooking the street. The furniture was all old-fashioned, but everything seemed to be clean, and the bed looked as if it might be comfortable. He laid his hat down, and pressed his hands over his eyes for a moment, before casting off the muffler from round his neck. Mrs. Appleby, observing this unconscious gesture, instantly recommended him to lay himself down upon the bed, and promised to fetch up a hot brick to put at his feet. The Duke, who knew from bitter experience that the only cure for his shattering headaches was to lie in a darkened room, said that he would go to bed for a little while, but declined the hot brick. But Mrs. Appleby reminded him so forcibly of his old nurse that he was not really surprised when she re-entered the room shortly afterwards carrying the promised brick wrapped in a piece of flannel. The boots shortly appeared with a tea-tray; and Polly was sent off to fetch up the vinegar, so that the poor young gentleman could bathe his face with it. With three people ministering to him, the Duke could almost have fancied himself back at Sale House, and although a spiked cartwheel seemed to be revolving behind his eyes, he could not help giving another of his soft laughs. Mrs. Appleby stood over him while he drank his tea, telling him that her son, who was in a very good way of business at Luton, had suffered from Just such sick headaches when he was a lad, but had grown out of them, as Mr. Rufford would doubtless do also. She then drew the curtains across the window, picked up the tea-tray, and departed, leaving Gilly divided between annoyance at his own weakness and amusement at her evident adoption of him.
Chapter IX
Although the Duke’s headache had not quite left him by the time a medley of fragrant odours arising from downstairs announced the dinner-hour to be at hand, it was materially better, and he got up from his bed, and unpacked his valise. By the time he had disposed his belongings in the chest of drawers, his attentive hostess was tapping on the door. He assured her that he was much restored, and she escorted him to a small parlour, where a fire burned, and the table was already spread with a cloth, and laid with some bone-handled knives and forks.
The Duke dined off some small collars, a serpent of mutton, and a boiled duck with onion sauce, and afterwards tried the experiment of lighting one of the cigars he had brought with him. The waiter, who had been about to bring him a spill, watched with deep interest the kindling of a match with Promethean fire from the machine which the Duke carried in his pocket, and ventured to say that he had heard tell of those things, but had never before seen one.
The Duke smiled in his absent way, and asked: “Is there an inn in Baldock called the Bird in Hand?”
“It’s wunnerful what they think of,” said the waiter. “They do tell me they even has gas-lamps in Lunnon nowadays. Bird in Hand, sir? Not in Baldock, there isn’t. Leastways, I never heard tell on it, and it stands to reason I would have if there were sich a place.”