Delia had brought potted palms and ferns from all over the house, and found some ivy that had stayed green. The efficient Winsted had brought early violets from a flower seller in Canterbury, and roses from someone’s succession houses. There was also a large arrangement on the dressing table that looked suspiciously like an altar piece. The bedchamber smelled like a garden now, though, instead of a sickroom. After conferring with Lord Tyverne, Delia had decided against disturbing Belinda by moving her to the master suite sitting room or, heaven help them, the formal parlor. Trying to wrestle the unresponsive, unwieldly bulk down those narrow stairs would have been hazardous for all of them. Instead, they had dressed poor Belinda in a pretty pink robe of Delia’s, with a fall of lace added to the front so no one would notice it did not close. Delia and Aunt Eliza had added more lace to the cuffs, to cover the girl’s bloated hands and wrists. They’d washed and dried her hair, fanning it across the pillow in a golden sweep, and placed a garland of pink roses atop her head.
