Political intrigue, fantasy, futuristic, sci fi lite, superheroes, historical fiction, alternate universes. Smittings of romance, but only as side plot.
There were certain boundaries that Georgiana was all too aware even she could not cross. For all her desires to see a more fair world for those of her gender, she knew that she could not full express her distaste for the way things worked. She had meant what she'd said to Mason before departing his company- she was still learning the rules, but at least she understood they existed, and she didn't mean to try and circumvent them...
But it didn't make for an easy night, and once again, Georgie found sleep as illusive as catching a star in one's hands. It would not do, and she would need to figure out some way to get past it, but there was little to be done in the moment, and somewhere early in the morning she gave it up for lost and pulled herself out of bed. After dressing, tying her apron around her waist, she made her way out of her room to explore the remainder of Wintersmith.
And explore she did, though carefully, as not to appear nosy or inappropriate. It was enormous, and she'd not gone far when she discovered, to her bemusement that yet again, she and the master of the house appeared on the same clock, as well as the same pathway. He stood by the window, looking out over the yard. This time, she did consider leaving him to his peace, and she might have, except that even at a distance she noticed the slight slump in his posture, the paleness of his skin.
A small frown creased her brow and she stepped quietly forward, "...Mr. Osment. It seems we're destined to meet like this. Are you well? You don't look it, at all..." Blinking, she shook her head, "Sorry, I just meant... You're terribly pale, Sir."
It seemed his path with Georgiana was meant to cross again and again. Though she had asserted she wanted no preferential treatment, it was hard not to treat a woman with preference when she happened by his side time and time again—a few times by how own hand, but more still by fate alone. It shouldn't have surprised him to see her appear at his side, then, after how early she had risen the day before and had caught him yet again in the garden. Perhaps she was just as plagued by sleeplessness as he, he considered thoughtfully in his own mind.
Unfortunately, the thought didn't last long before it was dispersed by another crack of pain against the anvil he was certain in his own head. As if a blacksmith was pounding out brandished steel within the compounds of his cranium, he was convinced that at any moment, his skull would succumb to the pressure and split right in two pieces. Even Georgiana noted the oddness of their again and again meeting and against his better judgment, he couldn't help but feel a small tug at the left side of his chest for her. Not romantically, surely, but in hopes that she did succeed instead of fail. At her calling out his current state, he turned to her finally.
"I feel quite unwell," he agreed after a moment of quiet. The illness that plagued him was not a slight one—a small cough played up by children who didn't wish to study with their governess for the day. No, the fever burned deep into the marrow of his bones and made every movement he attempted painful. He was still pleasant enough, and civil enough, to offer a hint of smile in greeting to the young woman. "So bad this, I'm considering asking one of my barn-hands to ready a carriage to take me into town for the physician." He could request to have the physician brought to him, in Wintersmith, but he considered the pleasure of getting some cool air against his hot skin for the better part of an hour in a carriage.
Normally an avid equestrian, Mason would have chosen to ride instead of take a carriage any opportunity he could, despite the weather, so when he more seriously considered the comfort of a carriage, it truly was a mark of being something terribly wrong with the man. "But that is nothing you need to worry yourself on, Georgiana."
Political intrigue, fantasy, futuristic, sci fi lite, superheroes, historical fiction, alternate universes. Smittings of romance, but only as side plot.
"It most certainly is something to worry myself about..." Stepping forward, she observed him thoughtfully, pinching the inner edge of her lip between her teeth. It was a terrible habit, but completely absentminded, and not something she was particularly concerned with when she was almost convinced her employer was dying, "If you die, I'll have no job... and let's be perfectly honest here. No one else is mad enough to take me in..."
It was said with a lightheartedness, a gentle smile, but the uncertainty in her eyes did not cease, and reaching out, she laid a hand on his arm, the warmth of his skin felt through the weight of his coat. She wasn't particularly familiar with illness, but she knew a fever when she saw one, and his seemed severe enough to warrant concern, "You'll certainly need a physician, but I'm not sure you're in any state to go out. Come now, you shouldn't even be out of bed. Let's lie you down, and I'll fetch Mary. She can send for the doctor, and he can make his way here."
It was said with gentle finality, not demanding, but certainly with the expectation that he not argue. He was in little condition to be traipsing around the house, and certainly shouldn't be introduced to the bitterly cold elements. It was nearly winter, and one did not need to be a physician to know that was a terrible idea.
Looking up, she frowned gingerly. She had mapped out a good portion of the serving quarters, and knew the guest wing well enough, as well as the way to his study, but the rest of the monstrous house was still a bit of a mystery for her, "I'm still getting used to the set up here... You'll have to direct me, or we'll be going in circles all morning."
"Die?" he scoffed amusedly, "There you are off with those exaggerations once more. I'm nowhere near death, it is but a cold." A cold that had certainly quickly got the best of him. He had felt fine the night before, nothing more than a slight tickle at the back of his throat he had attempted to ignore and had done so well throughout the day. The small tickle had revolted into stricken illness, something even he could not bother to write off. He did need rest, though he detested the very idea of idleness. His intentions had been to go into town for business that day, but his plans had been quickly truncated and he couldn't help but feel a vexation at his own body's betrayal.
Steadily, he looked back out the window to contemplate all that he ought to be doing, and how little he actually could do when the weight of a hand fell against his arm. Such a touch was generally not welcomed between himself (or any man of his stature, really) and a hired woman, but he did not brush it off like he might of had the hand belonged to another, like Miss Reid. His eyes, clouded over with illness, softened a grade. "Very well," he bent to her argument without much fight of his own, "Though there is no need to wake a sleeping woman. Let Mary rest and have her send out once she had awoken and had breakfast, not a moment sooner."
His instruction was careful and precise, his voice still resounding with the steady governance he was used to keeping. All his wills were building to not treat Georgiana with any sort of favoritism, but his resistance was crumbling without his knowledge entirely. "Very well, come along, then, Miss Georgiana."
The inmate wing was not much different from the guest wing: grand and well dressed, but not ostentatious or gaudy. The windows of the hall showed a dreary scene, as rain had begun to fall. There was an intense anxiety in the way the rain fell, as if between the tumbling clouds and earth, it was fearful of never reaching its destination. He kept passing sideways glances to every window they passed before he stopped short at a singular door, beautiful red and unique from the others, marking undoubtedly that it was the Master chambers.
"Attend your breakfast, Georgiana," he said, his hand reaching out to the door knob but not committing to open the door yet either, "And remember, allow Mary to finish her breakfast."
Political intrigue, fantasy, futuristic, sci fi lite, superheroes, historical fiction, alternate universes. Smittings of romance, but only as side plot.
As she led him down the hall, allowing him his space, but careful to stay close in case he should stumble or collapse, she kept only half an eye on her surroundings. It was only when they came to the red door that she devoted any more attention than absolutely necessary to what she was seeing. It was exquisite... so different from the rest of the house, and in the strangest way, it reflected Mason Osment more than anything else she had seen thus far - even the study.
The more she discovered about the man, the less she was sure she understood him, at all. He was complex, certainly. And while he might have been a bit sullen and cold, he was certainly not at all cruel or inconsiderate, and there was a quality to him that, despite what might be her better judgment, drew her to him. It was inexplicable, really... and try as she might to ignore it, the simple fact was, she found him intriguing.
He paused and spoke and she looked up at him with a soft frown, shaking her head, "I will do no such thing. You might not think it so severe, but then apparently you haven't seen yourself. Now then, in you go... and straight to bed. I'll watch over you, until Mary comes along. And not a word of argument. She'll have my head if I left you in such a state."
"Do you remember when I called this estate a terrible prison? Oh, no, what was the word for it I ascribed? Cursed? Mmm," it was suddenly clear that Mason was disconcerted when she refused to leave. He could have ordered her off and had he been in his better state of mind, he might have. His chambers were something an elusive secret to the maids; he even refused the maids to sweep through it in their cleaning rotation, stating that his own affairs didn't need to be touched so intimately. Still, Georgiana refused to go and Mason didn't think to order her off behind the veil of a great, terrible fever.
His wrist twisted and the door popped on its lock, swinging open to lead straight into what could only appear as the most luxurious of chambers on first glance. It was blue with beautiful murals on the wall, hand painted by someone who knew what they were doing. The curtains over the huge stretch of glass along the far wall were a thick red velvet that hung in generous fold around the mullioned windows and were lined with thick cotton of the deepest plum. If they had been closed, they would have instantly cast the entire room into blackness, even during the brightest days. In winter, they stood guard against the biting cold, making even the deepest of winter nights cozy and warm. Everything was as exquisite in the room as the rest of the estate home, but once eyes looked a bit more closely, it was quite evident something was very unusual about it indeed.
The wall against which the bed had been pushed was blackened. The paint was stripped entirely clean from the plaster in places and in its stead, dark streaks of shoot remained. The wall must have burned at some point in its history, and had never been repaired. The scorched bed, the singed curtains, the charred furniture had all been replaced… the fire had been swept up entirely except the singular scored wall, which had never been chipped clean and repainted to hide its history. The smell of fire was no where present in the room, meaning the scorch marks were quite old, indeed.
"Wintersmith had a fire nine years past," he explained idly, "It is my prison." But he was feverish and quickly excused his sudden outburst with a brisk shake of his head, as if trying to agitate some more sense into himself. "I've yet to have it repaired," he mused, pulling his coat off the broad line of his shoulders and tossing it away on the armchair.
Political intrigue, fantasy, futuristic, sci fi lite, superheroes, historical fiction, alternate universes. Smittings of romance, but only as side plot.
Stepping in after her, still staying close by, but allowing him the freedom to move about as he saw fit, she glanced instead at the state of the room. While most would have sized up the decor, noticed the luxury of the fabrics and intricacy of the artwork, or even admired the architectural pieces, the glamour... but Georgiana noticed those charred marks without a second between entering. She said nothing, but she needn't for a moment later, Mason began to explain and with a solemn nod, she looked away.
"In so many ways, Mr. Osment, we are our own jailers." She murmured, quietly, and idly she traced a fingertips along her upper arm. There, beneath the fabric of her dress, the scar remained - faded now, barely distinguishable from the pallor of her skin, but there, nonetheless. Six years, it had been, and she could almost feel the heat of the iron poker...
Blinking, she lowered her gaze and her eyes moved to Mason. He was still standing, which was saying something for the way he looked, but her concern was only growing as she considered how long it might actually take a doctor to make it to Wintersmith from the town. What little she knew about medicine, she did not that they needed to bring the fever down, "Is this the washroom? I'll get some damp cloths for your forehead... You need to get beneath the covers, warm as you can..."
"Perhaps," he mused quietly to her note about who truly jailed anyone as he sat down at the edge of his bed and began to remove his shoes, letting them fall where they may before picking them up neatly and tucking them under the edge of the bed so they were put away neatly. Even ill, brandished with a terrible fever and a pallor as white as marble, he seemed keen on keeping his hands busy. Sweat dampened the space between his shoulder blades and pressed the light beige tunic to his skin, causing it to stick. It might have been an ideal time to admire his form, had he not looked so dreadful in the face.
Clearing his throat in haste, he looked to Georgiana and again tried to soothe her nerves and whisk her away. "I assure you I am well, Georgiana," he stated, "Return to your nest like the dove that you are and get some rest for the next hour. In an hour's time, Mary will be awaken and fed and will be ready for any bidding." It was clear he was trying to muster his usual sternness and his face had taken on the expression of cool indifference, though that was much more difficult when his eyes were reddened and his breathing a bit hoarser.
Unlike her, a cold did not worry him. A bit uncomfortable he felt, perhaps, but not uneasy about the outcome. He'd recover in a day or two time, he safely assumed, and once he did he could return to his business in town and London, which was only a day's ride off from Wintersmith. Sighing, he reclined back against the bed, his head falling to the pillows and his eyes immediately closing. Over his stomach, his hands folded neatly and he expelled a sigh—not of comfort, or even discomfort—but quiet resignation to his state.
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"Well as a man can be, with one foot in the grave. You really ought to look at yourself, and then try to tell me you'll make it an hour on your own, now under the covers with you." As he moved to the headboard, she moved as well and pulled the covers up over him. It occurred to her that he very well could have ordered her to leave, and not to listen might have resulted in the end of her employment, but he would need to have her physically removed before she would leave his side.
After he was covered, she crossed the floor to the washroom and found a small basin by the sink, no doubt for shaving, and beside that, a small pile of towels. Using the pump, she filled the basin and dunked the towel inside before she returned to the bedroom, settling on the edge of the bed. Squeezing out the towel, she brushed the hair from his forehead, then laid it across his brow, "Now then... what else are you feeling? I'll need to inform Mary, so she can tell the doctor. And don't worry, I won't interrupt her breakfast, though I really do think it's best not to wait..."
It wasn't something she was accustomed to, playing nurse to an ailing man - particularly when that man was, by all intents and purposes, her employer, but it came rather more naturally than she might have expected it to. He was a good deal easier this way, and perhaps because he was no nearly so intimidating.
Waves of heat coursed through his blood, a cold sweat glistened in his full features that seemed uncharacteristically hollow. Desperately, he wished to will himself to easy sleep, but it seemed impossible. His body ached through and through, though no part of him truly hurt in comparison to the splitting aches in his head. He knew it would pass in time, it always did, but the illness was so sudden and unexpected was what caught him most off his guard. Without opening his eyes, he listened to the soft pattering of Georgiana's feet as she retreated. He thought she had gone off, perhaps to fetch Mary against his wishes, but she returned much too soon for that to have been the case.
"Doctor Rosalin is a fine gentleman," he declared as the cool water against his forehead did some level of soothing against the rising heat in his cheeks and flesh, "He will do better uninformed by Mary's wild exaggerations of anything I do say, and yours, for that matter by claiming me one foot in the grave." He did not find his situation nearly as dire as Georgiana did, but he took gratitude in the care she took for him all the same. He needed to be well enough to greet the incoming carriage that would bring little Elizabeth, Lizzie, to his manor come the next morning, and he intended to be well enough to work in only a few hours. He would will it in himself, if he had to.
In less than another month, a great host of ladies and gentleman would be at his doorstep expecting a week of feast, sport, and entertainment. He could provide none if he was ill, and he expected both himself and his estate to be in the utmost position for their arrival.
"See to it you yourself get some breakfast as well. Tomorrow, comes the little girl for whom you will be governess and I fear she will not give you a beat to yourself at any time, if I can recall her air perfectly well." His mind did not seem like one that could so easily forget or misinterpret. "Even I were to have one foot in the grave, I have another out of it, so I shall be perfectly fine until Doctor Rosalin is able to attend to me."
Political intrigue, fantasy, futuristic, sci fi lite, superheroes, historical fiction, alternate universes. Smittings of romance, but only as side plot.
"Hm." Smiling faintly, she shook her head, with moving from her place of vigilant guard. She would not relinquish her position, no matter how much the man insisted he would be fine on his own, "You are a stubborn one, but so am I. If you won't let me fetch Mary, then I insist on staying put until breakfast is finished. I'll be fine. I've missed a meal or two in my time and been perfectly alright. Now, hush..."
Rinsing the cloth in the cool water again, she returned it to his forehead, holding it gingerly in place, "You'll do better to sleep, if you can. I promise I will not starve myself... As soon as Mary arrives, I will get something to eat, then I'm sure she'll put me right to work." She had forgotten entirely, after the miserable day she had prior that Mason's young guest would be arriving the following day. It was something of a comfort, or might have been, if she wasn't so worried about whether or not Mason would even be well enough to host her...
"Besides... if I am to be governess to your young Miss, it's best I get some practice in caring for someone, anyhow. Children are notoriously ill, often, and it will do to know a thing or two about what to do in such an instance." It wasn't much of a bid, but she didn't actually think she needed to convince him anymore that staying put was for the best. He would have sent her away more forcibly, if he genuinely believed she needn't be there...
"Perhaps, but would you ever know a child who would remained so calm and long-bearing as I while ill? I fear I will be a very poor example for her when she arrives. Very well, I have learned it a folly to try and argue with a mischievous elf such as yourself. I wouldn't be the least surprised if it had been you who had cursed me this illness," he teased.
He mentioned nothing of sleep—whether he could, could not, or even wanted to. His eyes remained steadily closed, but there was steady alertness in him that signaled that he had not fallen asleep during that time. Whether he hadn't the energy or the will to send her away, it was hard to say. In truth, even Mason sure of which was the result of her remaining there at his bedside. There had never been a woman in the house he would have let stay to care for him in such a way, which made him internally meditate on his illness.
The only thing he could for certain agree with her on was her assessment of Mary. She would certainly put the young lady to work at her earliest convenience, which was likely to be not a minute after she had finished her breakfast. Per the master's orders, the estate was no where near as clean and ready as it ought to have been with less than a month until the autumn ball, but he didn't fear. Mary had never failed one of his tasks and he didn't believe her to do so this year, either. The moment it was needed, all of Wintersmith would be stunning and spotless in every aspect, gleaming as it welcomed the guests in through its doors—people of all the highest society from near and from far.
"But yes, the child," he mused again, his thoughts returning to the young miss who would be appearing on his doorstep the next day around lunch. "A talentless, mannerless little fiend, she is. Perhaps you'll be able to mould something of her."
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"Ah, see..." Smiling, Georgiana shook her head, "Now I'm beginning to think you're delirious. For a few minutes ago, I was a dove and now I'm an elf, again. You're very clearly seeing things, Mr. Osment..." Cursed... It was a funny sentiment, but not one entirely ridiculous - for he had grown ill only a day after her arrival. Perhaps she had, to some degree, cause him trouble by causing stress.
Or, perhaps he had spent too much time out in the musty, cold air and it had not agreed with him. Whatever the cause, it didn't matter - he had finally relented on sending her away, and she could breathe a little easier, knowing she needn't worry he would die alone - Not that she actually expected him to die. Stranger things had certainly happened, but a fever was general little to a grown man of his size and stature.
Her smile warmed her features as he continued, and she shook her head, "Some might suggest, Mr. Osment, not that I would encourage such suggestions, personally, that I myself am a bit lacking in manners. You are perhaps mistaking a lion's den for a bird's nest, but I suppose only time will tell." Exchanging the cloth for another cooler one, situating it in the same place, she glanced to the small mantle clock, "Not long until Mary's up and about... Now really, do try to rest."
"An elf disguised as a dove. Tricksters, they are. Tricky enough to weaken even myself." He laid there completely stern and though it had been a lighthearted comment, his expression did little in the way of changing. He had fallen quite ill, Mason, though he refused to accept just how ill he truly was in favor of pretending himself better. Generally speaking, Mason was a strong, healthy man that showed in his figure. He was not a slight man, either, and was a great deal taller than most everyone when gathered in a room together with others. His height did not lead him to be scrawny though, as he filled his loftiness with a good amount of muscular heft. He was handsome, but he would have been a great deal more so if he smiled a little more readily, a little more kindly.
He considered her points, but he already had before he had made the proposition to her, as well. "I considered those very points," he agreed, "I did concern myself that you may her more unruly a child with your whimsical ideas, but then I also considered that the child could not get any more unruly herself so, you cannot make her any worse off than she already is, but you could make Mary a great deal worse off. So, the decision was made." He sighed and his eyes opened for the first time since he had laid down, following her gaze to the clock and acknowledging the time himself.
"Yes, very good. I suppose she is in the saloon eating. Fetch her and inform her that Doctor Rosalin is required." He detested the idea of bidding for a physician, but if he was to receive a young demoness into his home next day and, shortly thereafter, host a gala, he needed to be in his most well state, and not in some intermittent, blurry delirium like he was currently. A physician would do the fix faster than rest and will alone, so Mason acknowledged his need. "Good day, Miss Everdale."
Political intrigue, fantasy, futuristic, sci fi lite, superheroes, historical fiction, alternate universes. Smittings of romance, but only as side plot.
"Or perhaps a dove, trapped as an elf... Hm? We shall see, I think..." For in truth, while it might have been a tease there was some sentiment to his words that she could not ignore. Not even she understood, fully, who she was. Not on her own, at least. Someday, maybe she would be able to grasp it, but for now, she would need to grow and learn, day by day, minute by minute. Today, though, she rather liked the person she was turning out to be.
He continued, and she laughed, softly - the first time she had laughed in as many days as she had been to Wintersmith, and briefly, it felt good. She would have been a terror to Mary - not intentionally, of course, but she simply could not deny her tongue it's freedom, even if she tried her best to temper it. She made it a point to be honest, whether or not it made her popular, and Mary, for all her sternness would no doubt find her irritating after only a short while... as she had proven during Georgiana's interview.
"You're probably right... But I promise, I'll do my best with her." And she meant it. She was no governess, but she would do all that she could to prove he hadn't made an error in judgment.
He continued, and she nodded, rising to her feet, "Promise you'll stay in bed..." She remarked, though it was more a command than an expectation, "And for Heaven's sake, Mr. Osment... It's Georgiana." And without another word, she turned and left, moving swiftly to seek out Mary in the saloon.
If Mason had a word to respond with, he didn't, in his usual fashion. He was not a vindictive man, and did not often feel compelled to get the last word in edgewise, even if he could. Many would ascribe him the trait of pride, though many of his closest relations had nothing but good things to say of the man. Whether or not he would hold the promise to stay in bed was left to be seen, but at the moment he seemed quite content with his resting repose. The door clicked behind her quietly and he was left alone in his terrible, scarred, cage.
Downstairs, meanwhile, Mary had just finished her breakfast and had dusted her hands off lady-like in a linen before going to lift her tray for washing when Georgiana entered. Her eyes did not narrow, nor did they light up, and instead remained stationed on the woman blandly for a moment's time before she went to turn away. "We shall resume where we left off yesterday," she mentioned off-handedly, barely polite enough to be called civil, "I have been informed by the master as of yesterday he has offered you a position as governess for Miss Elizabeth starting tomorrow. Very good, that will just have to do, then."
The other hands must have already been at work, for Mary was alone. She always took her breakfast last, out of custom and because she liked to be alone more than in company. From the kitchen, the smells of lunch cooking could already be made out. A warm stew was bubbling away happily, emanating the most delightful of aromas throughout all of the downstairs. It had certainly not been missed that the Master had not been down for breakfast—his tray remained icy and rigid, long since expired, on the dining hall table. It was a lonely, silver tray on one far end of the table with no one to join him. No one thought too gravely of it and another woman, with frizzy red hair and a handsome nose, had come to retrieve it for washing.
"Master has not risen yet, has he?" the redhead said, her voice shrill and high, like someone was loosely gripping her windpipe. "What a shame. Slothfulness breeds ill manners!"
Mary offered no response and the girl scuttled off like a cat that was unwanted underfoot.
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It was difficult, getting a word in, particularly when the woman was already so determined not to allow Georgiana a moment to interrupt her... and try as she might, she was continually cut off. It was only when the red haired woman from the kitchens had come out that Georgie managed to break in a word and as she did, it came out in a flurried, urgent gasp.
"Master Osment is ill!" Hand to her ribs, she took a second or two to catch her breath, not realizing quite the haste with which she had made her way to the saloon... Had she run? She could scarcely remember, yet her lungs felt as though they were nearly on fire, and a light sweat had broken across her brow.
"A fever. I've seen him to bed and put a cloth to his forehead, but he'd not well, at all. He's asked me to find you and see that you call for the doctor, immediately. He's... he's a bit in denial, but he'd very warm, and pale as the moon." It occurred to her that she might not be taken seriously, but if Mary chose not to listen, chose to ignore her suggestions then Georgiana would simply have to find a way to fetch the doctor all on her own.
"Seen him to bed?" Mary inquired, hardly believing a word the woman had said. Everyone knew that the Master allowed no one in his chambers, though Mary finally reduced her vexation by trusting what she had intended to say was that she directed him to bed. Either matter were grossly out of her realm of propriety for a woman of her rank to their Master, but what could Mary say? She realized quite suddenly that it was the Master's decision to respond to such gross actions and not hers. She held her tongue quietly and shifted her thoughts instead what it meant to have the Master feeling unwell.
"Yes, Doctor Rosalin," she echoed after a moment's pause, expelling the deepest of sighs. "Get to work, Georgiana," she directed coolly, "I shall see to it that the physician is called upon and will arrive in post haste. Luciana!" she called and the redheaded mousy girl came darting back out the kitchen door and into the saloon.
"Ma'am?" she asked, though with her heavy accent, it sounded more like 'mum.'
"Fetch Johnathon and have him prepare a coach at haste. We shall depart within the half hour for Derbyshire for Doctor Rosalin to attend to Master Osment."
"Yes, ma'am," she answered and was gone in a flash of bright red and mossy greed from her frock.
"Georgiana, continue with the guest rooms and do not disturb the Master. Take special care for the room closest to the Master's. That is to be miss Elizabeth's room for her arrival tomorrow and it must be absolutely exquisite. The Master will accept nothing less than perfection." She ought to have offered some level of gratitude towards the younger woman, but she did not. Instead, she turned off in haste and worked her way out of the kitchen and towards the stable yard that rested a short ways off from the outward facing kitchen door.
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It irritated Georgiana to no limit that the woman seemed to take what said at so little value. Whether or not she felt as though Georgiana, herself, was worthy of Wintersmith, Mary was meant to be its keeper, and thusly, was directly responsible for Mason. That she wouldn't at least check on him before deciding it wasn't as severe as Georgiana had indicated was very nearly enough to drive Georgiana to words...
But she bit her tongue, quite literally, and as Mary bustled off, she watched her go with a moderate amount of fury. But then, why should she care so much. It wasn't as if she had any personal stake in seeing him well, swiftly. He was her employer, certainly, but she had been there little over a day... she owed him no grief, and certainly shouldn't have been fretting over him the way she did. Whatever had gotten into her head, perhaps it was she that wasn't thinking straight.
Shaking her head, she moved out of the kitchen and with a small sigh, returned to the guest rooms - or at least that was where she intended to go, but instead, she found herself in the corridor that housed Mason's room. Vaguely, she reminded herself that Mary had instructed her to make ready Elizabeth's room, and she tried to convince herself that had been her motivation, but as she passed by that brilliant red door, it took more than a modicum of courage not to knock and inquire...
Forcing herself to pass by, she opened the door next to his and with almost violent focus, threw herself into cleaning, determined that she wouldn't stop until it was positively spotless...
The physician, Doctor Rosalin, arrived by horse ahead of Mary just about lunchtime. The coolness of the morning had subsided and the rain ebbed into a slight mist instead of proper rain. His horse was immediately cared for and with nothing more than one knock, he was allowed into the house by Jane Reid and quickly ushered himself up to Master Osment's room. He left behind quickly Jane Reid, who struggled to keep pace with his long stride and when he reached that opulent red door, the physician, who seemed to know Mason's desires for personal secrecy quite intimately, slammed it properly in poor Jane's face.
Huffing with frustration that she couldn't have so much as gleaned a look, Jane crossed her arms unladylike across her chest for but a moment. Once she realized what she had done, she quickly slackened them and let them fall back to her sides as she waited patiently for news or instruction. The men spent nearly a half hour in the room together and not a sound could be heard except for the occasional clank of ceramics being met together in chime. Mary's carriage, much slower than a singular horse, began to wind its way up the drive finally, though by the time it had parked and Mary saw herself out, the physician had opened the door and shut it quietly behind him once more. His bag was firmly gripped in one hand and he looked down at Jane with firm, dark eyes.
"Quite unwell, your Master," he commented slowly, but not in a hesitating manner. "If he were not such a young, healthy man I may very well have been concerned. Alas, I see no reason as why he won't pull through with his vigor. I have given him some medication, to help him sleep, and have trusted his dosages in his own account, per his request. Thank you, Miss Reid," he spoke with comfortable acquaintance with most faces in the house. He had been the trusted physician for Master Osment for some years, and had been called upon for all people in the house, including the maids, as he was required. "Now, do you have a Miss Everdale in the house? Master Osment spoke of her."
A twisted look of confusion quickly came over the young lady—shaking her head at once. "We don't have a Miss Everdale here, sir, I'm sorry. He must truly be so ill as to be delusional about people who do not exist!"
"Your Master spoke of one Miss Everdale. I count him sick, but not delusional. You must be mistaken, Miss Reid."
