Two days later, Dr. Mowbray arrived. He was tall, narrow, and carried a black bag as if it contained doom wrapped in velvet. His sidewhiskers were too sharp, his collar too high, and his manner too smooth for medicine. Lady Portia received him like a savior; Lord Edmund received him like a creditor he had already paid; Mrs. Kettle received him like a stain.
Mrs. Kettle handed me fresh towels. "Doctors always asking for hot water. If hot water cured everything, laundresses would be immortal."
Dr. Mowbray examined Sebastian in the morning room; Lady Portia and Lord Edmund attended. I was sent in with tea and biscuits because Providence loves a tray.
Sebastian sat facing the window, which made lipreading harder. I understood the choice: if Dr. Mowbray thought him less capable, the doctor might speak freely.
He did. Dr. Mowbray spoke very loudly and very slowly: "Your Grace, do you know where you are?"
Sebastian looked at him with polite emptiness.
Lord Edmund sighed. "You see, he fades more each month."
I poured tea. My hand stayed steady only because the pot was heavy and anger respects boiling water.
Dr. Mowbray took Sebastian's pulse. "The lack of ordinary response is grave. Deafness alone does not explain it. His intellect may be clouded."
Sebastian stared past him.
Lady Portia lowered her voice: "Will your certificate satisfy the magistrate?"
Dr. Mowbray adjusted his cuffs. "With your statements and Lord Edmund's, yes. I will recommend immediate temporary guardianship."
I set down a cup too hard; tea jumped.
Lord Edmund glared. "Careful, girl!"
I curtsied to Lord Edmund. "Yes, my lord. The tea became emotional."
Sebastian's mouth almost moved.
Dr. Mowbray glanced at me. "Remove her. Servants unsettle examinations."
Lady Portia waved me away. I left, but not before turning the teaspoon upside down on the tray beside Sebastian's hand: Mrs. Kettle is furious. His fingers brushed the spoon; he understood.
That afternoon, Mrs. Kettle became our third conspirator. She found me in the linen room and said, "His Grace has asked me in writing whether I trust you."
I narrowed my eyes. "That depends how he phrased it."
Mrs. Kettle read the question aloud. "He wrote: 'Is Clarabel loyal, or merely noisy?'"
I considered both. I folded my arms. "What was my answer?"
Mrs. Kettle shut the door. "I have served this house for thirty years. I served His Grace when he was a boy who hid frogs in Lord Edmund's boots. I served his father. I also serve the truth before any Vale cousin with a debt ledger. Tell me what is happening."
So I told her. Not everything—enough. Mrs. Kettle listened without interrupting, which frightened me more than shouting would have.
When I finished, she removed a ring of keys from her belt. Mrs. Kettle lowered her voice: "The old glasshouse accounts did not all burn. The late Duke kept duplicate household ledgers in the strong pantry because he trusted bankers less than jam. Lady Portia does not know; His Grace may have forgotten."
I leaned toward Mrs. Kettle. "Can we see them?"