The Healing Season (24 page)

The show was a hit. She could feel it, sense it in the very marrow of her bones. With a slight sidelong glance at Kean beside her, she bent and curtsied once more, realizing much of the success of the show was due to his performance of the evil Sir Giles Overreach.

He had been a preening, egotistical man to work with, but the result had been well worth it. This show had been a testing for her, and she knew she had passed.

She could still scarcely believe she was standing on the same stage as the great Kean. The man might be half mad, and drunk the other half, but when he was onstage
portraying a greedy, malevolent creature, he was brilliant. His deep-set dark eyes glared at the audience, his mobile face exuded malice, his voice rose and fell like an orchestral movement.

Eleanor’s own role had not been a bad one, although she played the older woman. She glanced to her other side at the young actress who played the young heroine. Miss Stephens was only seventeen. She was a passable actress, Eleanor conceded grudgingly, but owed her presence upon the Drury Lane stage more to the fact that her father was a veteran actor than to any excessive talent.

As she rose from her final curtsy, Eleanor swept the packed house one last time with her eyes, feeling the staggering absence of one individual whose presence would have made her success complete.

She was being silly. Mr. Russell would have found nothing different in her role on this stage from the one at the Royal Circus. Both would have been degrading and lacking in common decency in his eyes, she reminded herself. This was her moment and she would let no thought ruin it for her.

The actors exited by the two side doors at either end of the proscenium. Congratulating each other on a good performance, they separated to their dressing rooms.

After she’d cleaned off her makeup and removed the seventeenth-century-style gown she wore, she dressed
in her own dress and pelisse, wrapped herself in a warm, fur-lined cloak, and went to the side rear exit of the theater. Although much of the cast were going to a nearby tavern to celebrate their triumph, Eleanor felt no such desire. She was a veteran actress, and for the first time all she longed for was her quiet house and cozy room.

Her house. Her heartbeat quickened at the thought of her new abode. A very tidy brick town house on Jermyn Street, in the heart of the fashionable world, only a short ride from Drury Lane, and a mere block from St. James’s and Piccadilly. D’Alvergny had chosen well.

She descended the coach with a satisfied sigh, her earlier moment of melancholy having passed. Tonight was her peak and she would savor it. No one could take it away from her.

“Good evening, madam,” her new housekeeper greeted her at the door. D’Alvergny had generously insisted on hiring a whole houseful of new servants for her. Mrs. Wilson had stayed at her old house with its new tenants. “How was everything?”

“Wonderful, thank you,” she said, as the woman helped her off with the cloak. She handed over her bonnet and gloves, missing her old housekeeper. She hadn’t yet warmed up to this woman, who seemed severe and humorless in contrast.

Eleanor turned away from the woman and gave a quick look in the mirror. Her color was high from the cold winter air, and her pupils were large, matching the rims of her irises and making her eyes look dark and frightened. She dismissed the silly notion and patted her locks.

“The duke is here. I’ve put His Grace in the drawing room.”

Eleanor met her housekeeper’s impassive gaze in the mirror. “The duke?” she repeated, feeling her windpipe constricting.

“Yes, ma’am. I told him I didn’t expect you until late, but he said he was willing to wait. I took him a tray of hot water and scotch whiskey.”

“Thank you. You did well.” She managed the words in a composed tone. “That will be all, Hanson. I’ll bid you go-good-night.”

“Very well, madam, good night.”

When the woman had disappeared down the darkened corridor, Eleanor looked at her reflection once again. She dampened her lips and pressed them together, then took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders.

Time to pay the piper, it seemed. Why then was she so reluctant? She had known it was coming. She had made a bargain, and she certainly intended to keep it. Why this sudden dread?

Was it because she’d been her own person, independent and comfortably well-off for so long? How could
she now voluntarily cede her independence to a man she had no regard for? It was a business transaction, like signing a contract with a theater troupe, she insisted to her reflection.

Or was it the memory of one searing kiss with a man who was pure and wholesome and everything she was not? She put her hand to her mouth, willing the thoughts to oblivion.

She removed her hand and straightened her shoulders. Best to get it over with. She practiced a careless smile, a toss of her curls. She was an actress after all. Tonight had proved that.

Each day Ian felt strengthened by God’s Word, but each day’s end brought defeat in some way, whether it was more blurred vision, a spasmodic jerk of a limb, or simply blanking out of something he’d just done or said. Each night, he doggedly got back into God’s Word, and felt like a man clinging to the only source of sanity he knew.

“He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon Him; and with His stripes we are healed.” Jesus had paid the price for Ian’s healing.

Each week as he stood in the operating theater, he called upon God’s grace to get him through, to prevent him from blacking out, to steady his hands. He clung to
the verse from his beloved Psalms, “I will guide thee with mine eye,” so that if his eyesight should fail, God would see him through.

He stood at the operating table one wintry February morning, prepared to perform one of the operations he was renowned for, a lithotomy, otherwise known as “removing the stone.” The best surgeons could do it in less than thirty seconds. Ian averaged it in twenty-five seconds.

He took the round-edged knife held out to him by his assistant and made the incision next to the patient’s os pubis and through the integuments. Quickly, he took the next knife and widened the wound. A third knife was handed to him, the one he called the “crooked knife,” which he used to cut through to the bladder wall. He slit downward, and a second later, the water that had been injected into it with a large syringe gushed out and with it the bladder stone that had caused the man so much pain.

Ian straightened, glad the stone had been expelled so easily so that he wouldn’t have to use the gorget to dislodge it from the bladder wall.

Just then one of Ian’s legs buckled under him. He managed to grab the chair behind him, falling away from the patient. His last view was of his young assistant’s pale face over him, shouting, “”Mr. Russell, are you all right?” and then everything went black.

When Ian awoke, he felt that same torpor weighing down his limbs that he’d felt every time he’d lost consciousness.

He was lying down. Looking toward his feet, he realized he was in one of the ward’s beds, but he wasn’t in one of the large wards, because he seemed to be by himself. He tried to move his head to get a better look at his surroundings.

“Ah, you’ve come to.”

Ian recognized his uncle’s voice and then saw him as the man moved into his field of vision and sat upon a chair beside the bed.

“Where am I?”

“In the room adjacent to the operating theater. They moved you here when you collapsed and sent for me immediately. I told them to keep you here for the time being. More private than one of the wards.”

“The operation—” Memory was returning and with it the horror of what had happened.

“It’s all right. Jensen was right there and he was able to take over. The patient is already in the ward.”

What had he done? He’d almost killed a man. How could he have even thought of operating when the possibility of losing consciousness loomed over him? Ian felt himself suffocating with the enormity of what he’d done.

“What happened, Ian?” His uncle’s voice came from far off.

How could he reply to that? He was little better than a murderer.

“One of your apprentices rushed to the garret telling me you’d keeled over right in the middle of an operation.”

Ian pushed the hair off his forehead, his hand feeling like a leaded keel. “Everything went black. One of my legs felt numb and the next thing—nothing.”

“Is this the first time you’ve experienced this?”

He looked away from his uncle’s concerned face and shook his head.

“How many times?”

“A few.” He’d lost count.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry.” No, that wasn’t true. He hadn’t wanted to have his own diagnosis confirmed in the eyes of another medical man.

His uncle made an impatient sound. “What else have you felt?”

Ian looked up at the ceiling. “Headaches…blurring of vision in my left eye…clumsiness…”

“How do you feel right now?”

“Tired…as if I’d been swimming against the Thames.”

His uncle was quiet a few moments and Ian stole a look at him. He appeared deep in thought, his head bent, his chin in his hand, the way he’d hunch over his
worktable when he was contemplating the best remedy for a patient.

“How long have you experienced these symptoms?”

Ian let out a gust of breath. “Too long…several weeks…I don’t remember when the headaches first began, a few months ago probably. They’ve gotten worse.”

“Everyone is most concerned. They want Harold to examine you when you come to. I told them I’d look you over first,” he said with a faint smile.

“He’ll probably poke and prod me no end and then suggest trepanation,” Ian said of the hospital’s head surgeon.

“I wish you’d told me sooner.”

“Why? What could you have done? When I die, you and Stemple and Cridley and all the others can open me up and find out what is growing in my brain.”

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

“Why not? I’ve done enough dissections to know what ugly things can start growing inside a body.” He shoved off the blanket and attempted to sit up.

“You stay put—”

Ian succeeded in standing. “No, thank you. I’m not waiting for the entourage. If anyone needs me, they can find me at the dispensary.”

“Ian, you can’t just take off after what happened.” Uncle Oliver looked frightened. Ian had never seen him like that.

“Don’t fret. I’m merely going home. There’s nothing anyone here can do for me.”

“What are you going to do?” his uncle asked, a bleak look appearing for the first time in his eyes.

Ian gave him an uneven smile. “I’m going to pray. That’s all that’s left for me to do.”

I
n the quiet of his room, Ian’s head sank down on his desk.

Oh, God, what am I to do? I read that You’re my healer, and yet I’m not getting better, only worse.
He paused, not even sure how to pray anymore. What did he want?

His desires had so long been subsumed to the greater notions of good, that he wasn’t even sure he could articulate them.

God, I’ve never asked for healing for myself, only for others.
He felt his own helplessness at having to ask. Was it pride…or fear? Fear of refusal. Had he been serving God all these years out of a need for approbation, and had never learned how to receive?

God didn’t need his services. Had Ian been currying favor with God in order to mask his own lack of an experience with Him? For so many years his medical training had taught him to accept nothing that couldn’t
be seen, felt, touched, smelled. Is that why he stood like a rigid statue while others were weeping or shouting for joy at the services?

Whatever the reasons, Ian knew there was only one source of help. He slid down from his desk chair and knelt beside it.
I ask You now, Lord. Would You heal me?
Even as he prayed the words, he realized his own lack of faith. He didn’t really believe in his heart that God could—or would—heal him of this…tumor. There, he’d said it. He whispered the ugly word in the silent room.

He remembered the leper’s plea.
“Lord, if thou wilt, Thou canst make me clean.”
That was the crux of it, did he truly believe God was willing?

Jesus had answered without hesitation: “I will: be thou clean.”

Lord God, I need Your healing. I’m asking you the impossible. I know You’ve done the impossible. You healed the leper. You raised Lazarus from the dead.
Tears wet his fingers as he sobbed the plea.

He thought of the father of the son possessed by a demon spirit. He had come to Jesus seeking help for his son, and Jesus had answered him, “If thou canst believe, all things are possible to him that believeth.”

The father had cried out to him, “I believe; help thou mine unbelief.” Ian was in the same predicament. He needed God’s grace even to believe.
Help thou mine unbelief,
he prayed.
Grant me the grace to believe, to believe with every fiber of my being.

In the stillness he felt a quietness in his soul, as if Jesus Himself had said “Peace, be still” to the turbulence and fear raging within him.

When he finally arose, his muscles felt stiff. Looking out the window, he saw it was dark already, although when he glanced at the clock, he saw it was only half-past six.

Feeling a need of air, he went to his bedroom to change his shirt and wash his face. When he emerged into the corridor, his hat and greatcoat in his hands, he encountered his housekeeper.

“Are—are you going out, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Should you—”

Hearing the hesitation in her voice, he asked with a trace of impatience, “Should I what?”

She cleared her throat, twisting her hands in her apron. “Should you go out alone, sir? After what happened this afternoon?”

He rubbed his hand over his mouth in annoyance. His uncle had insisted on having Jem accompany him home this afternoon, so of course, his housekeeper had been apprised of everything.

“I shall be fine,” he said more calmly. “You needn’t trouble yourself.”

“But—but where will you be?”

“Out on the town,” he answered shortly. Regretting the sarcastic words as soon as they’d been spoken, he
added more gently, reaching a hand out to cover hers, “Forgive me. It’s hard to be watched when one is used to going where one pleases. I shall just take a short stroll. I assure you I’ll be all right. My life is in God’s hands now.”

Mrs. Duff just pressed her lips together, her eyes showing a brightness of unshed tears, but she said no more.

He let himself out of his house, feeling as if he’d escaped. From what? The danger was within him. Without making a conscious decision he turned the corner and headed down Union Street for the theater.

When he stood outside the Royal Circus, nothing had changed from the last time. Hawkers stood outside the entrance advertising the evening’s billing. Prostitutes continued strolling along the pavement, eyeing the gentlemen descending from their curricles. The lobby doors stood wide-open, revealing a glimpse of the rich, lit interior, promising a slice of magic for the evening.

Nothing had changed except this time he didn’t have a hope of meeting one of the theater’s principal actresses after the show for supper. What conceit! What a blind, conceited fool he’d been for a space of time.

He shook his head and was about to turn away, wondering why he had come but finding himself still unable to leave. He walked closer to the entrance, telling himself he would simply see what the evening’s fare was.

He could no longer find any sign of the Don Giovanni
production Mrs. Neville had appeared in. Instead, all the playbills announced a show called A Tale of Mystery, a “comedy set to music in two acts.” He scanned a poster for Mrs. Neville’s name and frowned, not seeing her in any of the casts of characters. It was as if she’d never formed a major attraction at the theater.

He walked over to the box office.

“Two shillings the pit, four for a box,” the ticket woman told him in a bored tone before he had a chance to open his mouth.

“Excuse me, but is Mrs. Eleanor Neville in any of this week’s performances?”

“Mrs. Neville? She ain’t been with this company in over a month,” she said, disdainful of his ignorance.

“Not with this company?” Had she really lost her place since her illness, or had she left them?

The woman looked beyond him to the next person in line. “Excuse me, sir, but I got tickets to sell. Show starts at seven sharp.” As he turned to go, she said, “You might try the Drury Lane if you want to see Mrs. Neville. Heard she was over there.”

The Drury Lane? What a slow-top he must appear, repeating everything he heard. He stood at the corner, uncertain, but feeling a pull across the river. He reached the corner and, seeing a hack stand, he hailed a jarvey.

“The Drury Lane,” he told him, climbing inside the coach.

A quarter of an hour later he descended the cab and paid his fare in front of the magnificent theater building. It had only recently been rebuilt after a fire. He couldn’t help thinking of the last time he’d been there. He walked slowly up the shallow steps leading to the lobby. Spying a playbill, he went closer and read it. He scrolled down the list of players, recognizing only Edmund Kean’s. There at the bottom of the list of dramatis personae were the only two female characters, one played by Mrs. Eleanor Neville, the other by a name unknown to him.

He turned toward the box office and requested a box. Paying, he received his ivory ticket check.

When he was seated inside, he scrutinized the program.

There followed the list of characters and the actors who played them. He skimmed these, not caring who played what, until he came to her name.
Lady Allworth…Mrs. Neville.

So, she had achieved her goal. A pity he couldn’t congratulate her. He sat back, covering his eyes from the gaslights with one hand, not interested in his ornate surroundings or in the celebrated company around him. Why was he here? To punish himself? He had no answer.

When the play began, Ian found himself caught up in
the story unfolding on the stage. The piece was a comedy, the actors were good, and unlike the pieces Eleanor had played previously, this one was not set to music.

His attention was truly captured when Kean came onstage. The man played an unscrupulous character, using his daughter Margaret for his greedy ends.

Ian’s breath caught when Eleanor came onstage. She was more beautiful than ever. She might never have suffered the ravages of fever. She played an elegant lady, desperate to stop the evil Sir Giles Overreach.

Ian forgot everything but the story unfolding on the stage. Only once did he glance toward the pit, his attention drawn by the crowd’s laughter. It was then he noticed the packed house, and that the audience was clearly enjoying the play.

Eleanor must be happy, knowing the play was a success. He wondered how she had gotten the part. Not that she didn’t deserve it: her acting was superb, an understated dignity the perfect foil to Kean’s evil genius.

He found himself wondering who the real Eleanor Neville was. He could easily believe the role she played onstage now. But there had been that other role, the innocent young maiden seduced by the lecherous parson. And how about the kindly lady entertaining the young children at the mission?

He swallowed, the memories digging at him. What about the woman who had offered herself to him so artlessly, and then kissed him with such passionate abandon?

He rubbed his mouth with his palm, unable to forget her touch. The pain intensified as he thought of her next incarnation, the scornful woman belittling his inexpert lovemaking. Which had been the real Eleanor Neville?

He remembered something she’d told him long ago—that even her name was an invention. Had any of her words to him been sincere? Was everything about her artifice?

During the intermission, Ian idly watched the people below him milling about. He felt no desire to go in search of refreshment in the coffee room. As he skimmed the box seats opposite him, he froze, recognizing the gentleman who rose from his seat and exited his box.

The Duke d’Alvergny. Distaste curled in the pit of Ian’s stomach. Still following Eleanor about. Ian wondered how she was handling him these days. As if it were any of his concern, he told himself bitterly.

He found it hard to concentrate on the remaining acts when the play resumed. His glance kept straying to d’Alvergny’s box. The man seemed as at ease as if he owned the theater.

When the show ended and the actors took their bows, Ian clapped along with the enthusiastic crowd, although his heart was no longer in it. Eleanor deserved the applause, but he felt only a dull aching melancholy in his heart.

He rose to leave, not interested in seeing the panto
mime that was to follow the play. He couldn’t help glancing one last time at d’Alvergny’s box, but the man had already left. Where? Ian thought of the greenroom with its lounging dandies, men in wait of their prey. Was d’Alvergny among them or was he admitted to her dressing room?

Pursued by these thoughts, Ian left the theater. Once outside, he hesitated, still unwilling to return to his lonely house. But it was too cold to linger outside, so he began walking with no clear destination in mind. The streets were packed with theatergoers, prostitutes, and late-night diners. He headed to Covent Garden and wandered around the booths, wondering how long he would be able to stand and walk as he was doing.

Feeling tired and cold, he reached the Strand and continued his aimless promenade, jostled by pedestrians. He passed the Sans Pareil Theater, where more theatergoers were exiting. Men shouted for their coaches, laughter mingled with conversation as people discussed their evening plans. Farther down he passed the Lyceum. More crowds to press through. He should have stayed home, safe within his study. The side of his head throbbed with a familiar pain.

Gazing across the street, he glimpsed Waterloo Bridge in the distance. He could call a hack and be on his way home. Instead he plodded doggedly on, not knowing what he was searching for. To recapture the recent past? That was finished.

He ended back up near the Drury Lane, a futile circle. A boisterous group burst forth from a door in front of him. He looked up at the swaying sign, The Craven Arms. Through the thick mullioned windows, he saw a merry crowd seated inside the cozy-looking tavern. Before the door swung shut again, Ian stepped inside.

At least it would be warm. He’d have a bite to eat and something hot to drink and then he’d return home, a pilgrim on an unsuccessful journey.

There didn’t seem to be any table available, but the brawny waitress squeezed him into a dark corner. He gave his order, no longer feeling hungry for anything. At least he wouldn’t be noticed in this shadowy nook. No one here knew of him and his disgraceful collapse in the operating theater today. He could imagine the headlines—Surgeon of Repute Imperils Life of Patient When He Falls into a Swoon During Operation.

Cridley would probably call him in on the morrow. Ian would tender his resignation, of course. Cridley could call it a “leave,” but in any case, they would both know it to be permanent. Ian sat sipping his tankard, the pasty on his pewter plate forgotten as he went over the recent events of his life, everything seeming to unravel in a few short weeks…months.

A gust of fresh, cold air pushed the smoke farther into the room each time people entered or exited the tavern. Ian glanced toward the door, watching the latest en
trants. His tankard stopped before it reached his lips, as he watched Eleanor come in, followed by the Duke d’Alvergny.

The tankard never reached his lips. He heard its thud on the wooden tabletop, not noticing the contents spilling over it until they splashed his hand. Without conscious thought, he removed his hand, his eyes all the while on the woman who retained the power to slice him open and disembowel him with excruciating finesse.

She handed her cloak to d’Alvergny with a practiced smoothness and followed the waitress. Despite the crowded tavern, the two had no trouble procuring a choice table by a window. Ian remembered his first evening with her, in just such a place. Her back was to him, so there was no danger of his being seen.

He needn’t have worried. She seemed completely engrossed with her present companion. Ian watched her profile as she turned a moment to consult the waitress. She was breathtakingly lovely as always. His scientific mind went over every detail with meticulous thoroughness.

Finally, when he could bear it no longer, he rose slowly, the ale curdling in his stomach, and threw down some coins. He’d just endured the most agonizing few minutes of his life.