I looked at her, noting the slight tremor in her fingers as she touched her throat. The family was broke, living on the twenty-five thousand dollar monthly transfer I authorized from Elise Grace Properties, yet she carried herself like a queen reviewing a peasant.
“I am going to find Thatcher,” I said.
“He is in the dining room checking the wine,” Beatrix said, turning her back to me. “Do not distract him with this nonsense.”
I walked down the long hall, the floorboards silent under the heavy Persian runner. Through the open doors of the library, I saw the empty silver trays waiting for the champagne flutes.
The dining room was silent except for the soft clink of silver as Thatcher adjusted the place settings. The long mahogany table was set for twenty-four, each crystal glass catching the light from the bronze chandelier.
“Look at this,” I said, holding the digital thermometer toward him.
The small screen showed 104.1 degrees in red numbers.
Thatcher did not look at the screen. He adjusted his heavy gold cufflinks, his fingers moving with practiced, slow grace.
“Give her the children’s aspirin, Vivian. Keep her upstairs where it is quiet.”
“This is not a sniffle, Thatcher. Her breathing is too fast.”
“We have sixty guests arriving for the conservatory benefit,” he said, his voice carrying that smooth, formal cadence he used for donors. “We cannot have you hovering over her like an anxious nursemaid all evening.”
“She needs a doctor.”
“Marcus from Oak Park Bank is attending tonight,” Thatcher said, his fingers pausing on his left cufflink. “This is a crucial night for my investments, and I need you downstairs.”
“Our daughter is significantly ill,” I said.
“She needs her mother to fulfill her obligations downstairs,” Thatcher said. He turned back to the dining table, adjusting the alignment of a silver fork. “Take her up to her room now.”
