Page 83 of The Duchess Audition

“Poetry?” She quirked an eyebrow. “I did not think you cared for it.”

“Mostly, I do not, but I sometimes envy the poets for their ability to look at something beautiful, like pretty gardens or an exquisite sunset, and know how to express their admiration. I cannot do that. I do not have the words.”

Picking up the tray of potent medicinal tea that she had brewed, she brought it over to her uncle and set it down on the side table. The taste was beyond bitter, no amount of honey or strained apple juice helping to sweeten it, but the worse it tasted, the better it worked. At least, that was her belief.

“Not having the words does not mean you cannot admire it, though,” she said. “I know a sunset is beautiful without having to write a tedious sonnet about it.”

Bernard snorted a laugh. “I wonder if I should have put a book of poetry in your hand instead of a book of science now and then. People need poems and novels, too.”

“People who have time to spare, perhaps,” she replied, pouring some tea for him. “I have always been too busy for that sort of thing.”

Bernard pushed himself higher, leaning back against a mighty stack of pillows. “Does your husband favor poetry? Has he written anything for you?” He furrowed his brow. “It occurs to me that I know almost nothing about him… other than his letters are very direct.”

Marina almost spilled some of the precious tea, a strange rush sweeping through her, a shivery, unsteady sensation that prompted her hand to shake a little.

“I do not think he has time for such things either,” she said, putting the teapot down.

“Does he have time for you?” Bernard asked. “Is he good to you? Does he not mind that you are staying with me for a while? I had hoped he might join you, but I suppose he has too much to do.”

She cleared her throat and passed the teacup to her uncle. “I… think he is content with my absence.”

“What does that mean?” Bernard took the cup.

Marina shook her head. “It is not important. What is important is that you concentrate on getting better. Now, drink up.”

He held the teacup on his palm, his brows knitted together in consternation. “Marina, we have always been honest with one another. Let us not have any secrets between us now.” He sighed. “Whatever is worrying you, you can confide in me. Indeed, I will not drink this until you tell me.”

She gasped, casting him a mock-withering look. “I did not think you were suffering from a terrible bout of childishness, Uncle.”

“It is not childishness, it is outright manipulation,” he replied with a very childish grin.

Groaning, she sank down on the edge of the bed. “We argued when I went to Knotgill the other day. It was… a rather bad argument.”

“About you being here?”

“About a number of things,” she answered, swallowing tightly. “And ever since, I have… felt strange. No… I began to feel strange before then, and I have searched my books intently but I cannot find a cause or a remedy.”

Bernard took a small sip of his tea, grimacing. “Strange in what regard?”

“I have a pain here,” she explained, touching her heart. “Rather, it is a tight feeling. I am not sleeping well, I have little appetite. That started after the argument. Or the first argument. I forget. But before that, I… kept feeling unwell.”

“Unwell?”

She nodded. “Actually, it was more like I was about to be unwell. Whenever I was near Anthony, my heart would race terribly, I found it much harder to breathe, my stomach was all fluttery and weird, and I would flush as if I had a fever. But when I was away from him and not thinking about him, I found I was quite well again.” She puffed out a breath. “I believe I am averse to him, like you are with cheeses.”

All of a sudden, Bernard burst into rich laughter, holding the teacup and saucer with two hands so that his shaking shoulders would not cause it to spill.

Marina narrowed her eyes at him. “What? What is so amusing?”

He could not stop laughing so hard that he had to pass the teacup back to his niece. She could not deny that it was heartening to see him laugh like that, but she did not like that it appeared to be at her expense.

“What?” she cried. “What did I say?”

With a hand that was swollen from his illness, Bernard wiped the merry tears from his eyes. “You see, this is why I should have insisted on putting some poetry books into your bookshelves instead of merely science.”

“What?” she urged, exasperated now.

“Well, I can tell you that it is not a mystery illness that you will find in your books, although I suppose there is a reason it is called being heartsick,” he replied, hiccupping as his laughter ebbed.