Love, Theodosia by Lori Anne Goldstein

Author:Lori Anne Goldstein
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781951627980
Publisher: Arcade
Published: 2021-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

“Sam readies the carriage, Theo,” Burr said from the doorway of her bedroom. No knock, no greeting. This was business, and he approached it as such. He frowned upon finding Theodosia in bed, quilt drawn to her chin. “A Sunday invitation means the Livingstons are fully embracing us. Gather your things and dress in the coach if you must, but we will not respond by being even a second late.”

Theodosia fluttered her eyes open, immediately shielding them against the light with her palm. “I’m sorry, Papa, I must have drifted off again.” She winced as she tried to sit up. “I’ll be down shortly.”

Her father tentatively stepped into her room. “Are you not well?”

“Well? I’m perfectly well.” She unearthed a hand from beneath the covers, attempting to pull them back. Was the tremor too much?

“If you are sure . . .”

Not too much then.

She let her eyelids fall shut, pretending to nod off. How easily she seemed to have fallen into a pattern of deceit.

“Miss Priss?” Worry permeated his tone, and Theodosia felt the heavy weight of guilt. “I-I’ll send Sam with our apologies and go for the doctor myself.”

The soles of his shoes clicked against the wood as he pivoted toward the door. Theodosia bolted upright. A doctor will ruin everything! She grabbed the quilt in one hand, preparing to toss it aside when Nathalie appeared in the doorway. Mind as astute as her eyes, she assessed the situation.

“Sir, no need,” Nathalie said to Burr. “I’ll stay with Theo.”

Theodosia gave a grateful nod and swiftly buried herself back beneath the bed linens. The panicked sweat on her forehead might sell her story too well, and she swiped at it with the back of her hand. The death of her mother had left her father in perpetual fear of something dire befalling any of them. His restrictive diet and subsequent rules for both Theodosia and Nathalie were born of such constant trepidation. She was an awful, selfish child.

Nathalie continued to strengthen Theodosia’s heartless excuse. “She needs rest and bone broth. Eleonore’s already readying the latter, and I’ll mind the former. For the duration of the afternoon, I will ensure she’s not alone.”

This was not a lie.

Her father drew Nathalie to him in a brief one-armed embrace before turning to Theodosia with a pained expression that almost made her leap from the bed.

“Miss Priss, are you sure . . .” He rubbed the skin on the back of his hands. “It’s not your abdomen?”

Her mother’s illness began in her stomach.

“Not at all,” Theodosia said. “A headache.”

“Pollen coats the floors,” Nathalie added. Then, just as quickly, “Even with Nancy’s daily attention. ’Tis just the time of year.”

“That must be it,” Theodosia said. “Perhaps I should try—”

“Do not think of it. Stay and rest. Let Nathalie care for you. But dispense with the broth. First, chamomile tea. No sugar. If that fails, ginseng. That’s what they use in the East Indies and China. Surely, you’re in need of stimulus.” Though his eyes still showed strain, when Theodosia nodded agreement, his shoulders relaxed their hunch some.

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