The Healing Season (9 page)

“And what about you? Will you be as pure as you expect your future bride to be?”

He could feel himself reddening in the face, but he refused to back down. “I have kept myself pure for my future wife.”

He could see the incredulity in her eyes, and it irked him.

“You must be a lonely man.” Before he had a chance to negate the charge, she answered for him, “No, of course you aren’t. You have your work. You don’t have time to be lonely. You wouldn’t have time for a wife. Where would you ever fit one in?”

She gave a mirthless laugh. “We have that in com
mon. I have little time for amorous entanglements. I work half the night like you, and sleep half the morning.”

He shrugged, feigning an insouciance he was far from feeling. “You can believe what you like. It makes little difference to me. I care only for the Lord’s good opinion.”

“You are serious, aren’t you? Aren’t you afraid you will grow old before having tasted the delights of the flesh?” The question teased him.

“A Christian is more concerned with eternity than with the temporal of this world.”

“Don’t you like women?”

The outspoken question took him aback, and when he understood her meaning, he felt his face flush again, this time in anger. “I like them well enough,” he answered shortly.

She sighed, as if the conversation were completely beyond her ken. “What happens if God withholds your future bride for another ten years? Aren’t you afraid you’ll be a little old to be enjoying matrimonial bliss?”

“Then He will redeem the time for us,” he answered. Her words weighed on him despite his confident tone. What would happen if he were obliged to wait another decade?

“I have seen too much of the fruit of worldly vice,” he answered after a moment. “Every day I treat poxed
men and women. I see too many die on the streets. No, I have no desire to compromise my trust in God’s way. He has ordained
holy
matrimony between a man and a woman. I am content to wait for that union.”

“So you will keep yourself virtuous and unspotted until that blessed day?”

“I plan to continue so, yes.”

“You poor gull.” Her tone dripped with pity, and Ian knew he had been a fool to come with her tonight. He deserved her derision.

He pushed away from the table. “I may be so in your eyes, but since I am not concerned with the approbation of the theatrical world, I may rest easy.”

When she had dropped him off, Eleanor sat a moment in her dark carriage, watching Mr. Russell reach his door. The evening had ended badly, and she was sorry she had teased him. But his high-toned morality had irritated her and she had merely wanted to knock him off his pedestal a bit.

She hadn’t succeeded. Instead, she’d been made to feel as soiled as a girl from a flash house.

She tapped on the panel to signal her driver to go.

As the carriage rattled over the cobblestones, her mind went over the evening’s conversation.

Could the good surgeon truly be faithful to some far-off hope of a divinely appointed bride?

Eleanor couldn’t credit that such a man existed on the face of the earth. Every man of her acquaintance was susceptible to a female’s charms.

Undoubtedly, Mr. Russell was no different. He just hadn’t been tested by the right set of circumstances.

It would be amusing to discover how high his moral standards truly were.

Eleanor decided at that moment to make it a game to test the righteous surgeon. Let him dare to judge the likes of Betsy and herself then.

It would be interesting to find out what type of woman he preferred. She could play the part soft and demure like a debutante in her first season, or bold and alluring like a siren, singing her seductive song. She could even play the role elegant and ladylike.

Or perhaps none of these. Perhaps she’d already discovered the key—a helpmate in his work. She remembered the mission. She could visit it again and offer some assistance.

She laughed inwardly. How long could Mr. Russell resist her charms? She had seen many lesser men fall. There had been something in his eyes the day of the street riot. Under all that disapproval lay a man like any other. He was no better than d’Alvergny with his offers of jewelry and other as-yet-unnamed favors.

It would be amusing to toy with the good doctor, she decided, her thoughts returning to Mr. Russell. She
would carry out a little wager with herself. She wouldn’t let it go too far. No one would be hurt. After all, she had bigger fish to fry, and had no possible interest in an entanglement with a low-paid surgeon.

It would serve Mr. Russell right to be brought down a peg or two.

Ian entered his quiet house and hung up his coat. As he was making his way down the corridor, his cat appeared at the top of the stairs and sat staring at him.

“Hello there, Plato. Did I wake you up?” he asked.

As he entered his bedroom, the cat followed him.

Mrs. Neville’s mocking tone and looks came back to him as he stroked his cat and felt its purring beneath his fingertips.

Was he a normal man? He felt like the rarest oddity in her eyes.

But oh, yes, he was very much a normal man. If she only knew the very natural reaction he experienced every time she stood near him and he smelled her perfume or she slid her hand into the crook of his arm.

His fingers clenched into fists. He forced himself to abandon the path his thoughts and feelings were taking.

She was
not
the one for him. He must be patient and wait, trusting in God for the eventual choice of helpmate for him.

His future wife would be as pure as the driven snow. He’d been waiting for her for a long, long time, and he wouldn’t compromise now.

“O
h, look, isn’t that Lord Halford?”

Eleanor followed Betsy’s gaze. “Where?”

“Over there on the bay.”

“Yes, I see him.”

Betsy looked around Hyde Park enthusiastically, like a child at a fair. “All the ton seem to be out driving today! It’s so funny to see the same gentlemen I see in the theater now riding in the park in such stately processions with their ladies.”

Eleanor agreed. She glanced over at Betsy seated beside her in her carriage, to make sure the girl wasn’t tiring. It was her first outing since that awful night.

“How are you feeling, my dear?” she asked, adjusting the carriage blanket around her friend’s legs.

“Oh, I’m fine. Really. I just wish I didn’t feel so weak all the time.”

“You have to be patient. Each day you’ll get stronger if you follow Mr. Russell’s advice.” Her stomach fluttered when she said his name. “Has he been by to see you lately?” she asked casually.

Betsy nodded. “Yes, just a few days ago. He said I was vastly improved.”

Eleanor nodded. She had not seen him since the dinner, almost a fortnight since.

“Tell me again about the new show.” Betsy’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Oh, it will be a true extravaganza, as Mr. Dibdin is billing it. ‘A specter on horseback, a comic, heroic, operatic, tragic, pantomimic, burletta spectacular extravaganza!’ How is that for hyperbole?”

Betsy laughed in appreciation. “How I wish I were in it. You are so lucky!”

“Yes, but I’ve been walking the boards much longer than you have.”

Their carriage continued down the congested row. The October day was mild enough to have the top removed, and the turning leaves formed a canopy overhead.

“Just think, it will only open a few months after Mozart’s production at Covent Garden. You’ll be following Kemble’s act,” Betsy said in exaggerated terror. “It will be interesting to see how the crowds react to such a different production of the Don!”

“Oh, I think the two pieces are nothing alike.
Dibdin’s is pure amusement. Besides, Mr. Dibdin is a genius when it comes to upstaging his competitors. I think he’s even planning on a live horse onstage in the finale.”

Betsy eyed her in wonder. “I shall so miss being part of the cast. Perhaps I may come to the rehearsals?”

“Of course, as long as you feel up to it.”

“Eleanor?”

“Hmm?” she answered, continuing to scan the carriage crowd around them.

“Do you…think I did wrong to…do…what I did?” she said in a low voice that ended in a whisper.

Eleanor turned to her, knowing immediately what she was referring to. She had dreaded this question. The topic was not an easy one for her. She knew so well the terror of finding herself in Betsy’s predicament. And yet, would she have ever done anything differently? Her love for Sarah was so all-consuming that she could not imagine having rid herself of her unborn daughter. But Betsy hadn’t had any place to go. Eleanor knew nothing of the man responsible for Betsy’s predicament.

She took her friend’s hand in her own. “You mustn’t even think about it. Just put it behind you, and think of the future. You’ll soon be back at the theater. You’re fortunate Dibdin loves you,” she said with a face. “I seem to have run-ins with him all the time. I suppose I’m too outspoken for his taste.”

Betsy fidgeted with her gloves. “The gentleman…well, the one…I was seeing,” she explained, her voice hushed. “He has never come to see me.” Her lower lip trembled. “I was so foolish…I th-thought he loved me.”

“Don’t cry, Betsy.” Eleanor patted her clasped hands, knowing well that scenario. Once, she had been just as foolish, believing a gentleman’s avowals of love.

“Just forget him. He’s a scoundrel, and that’s all there is to it. Think about the theater. Someday you’ll get a lead role like I did. You’ll see.”

Betsy sighed. “Yes, I suppose so. Sometimes, though, it’s hard to forget.” She pressed her lips together, visibly trying to hold back her tears. “It helps when Mr. Russell and Jem come.” She gave a watery giggle. “Jem makes me laugh.”

Eleanor smiled. “That’s the best medicine you could have, I’m sure of it.”

“Mr. Russell has been so kind.” She stared off into space. “That’s the kind of gentleman I wish I could meet someday. If I’d known someone like him, I never would have…you know…”

“Oh, nonsense, don’t let your head be turned by a man like Mr. Russell,” Eleanor scoffed to hide her dismay at the younger girl’s words. Betsy saw Mr. Russell practically every day. How cozy were they getting?

“A poor surgeon, who gets called at all hours of the night,” she continued, “whose life is never his own. What
kind of husband would he be? You’d be left all alone most of the time. He’d never let you back on the stage, and where would you be when he tired of you? High and dry.”

“Oh.” Betsy’s voice was small, and she looked down at her folded hands. “I was just being foolish.” She sighed.

Eleanor stifled an impatient remark. Why had Betsy’s harmless infatuation gotten her so out of countenance? It was an absurd notion—Mr. Russell with Betsy! The irony was certainly not lost on her. If only poor Betsy knew how high Mr. Russell’s standards were.

“Good afternoon, ladies.” A familiar male voice intruded upon her thoughts.

She turned to find the Duke d’Alvergny tipping his high-crowned beaver to them from atop his white stallion. She acknowledged his greeting.

“Your Grace, how delightful,” she said, feigning pleasure. In truth, she found the man impossibly conceited.

“The delight in finding two such lovely young ladies abroad is all mine.”

Betsy blushed and thanked him for the compliment.

D’Alvergny sidled his horse up to Eleanor’s side of the carriage. “Did you find my gift last night to your liking?” His gaze strayed to her unadorned neck.

“It was a pretty bauble,” she replied, referring to the necklace of garnets entwined in a gold-filigreed design.

“But not pretty enough to sport this afternoon?”

“I’ve placed it in my jewel case…sandwiched
between my diamonds,” she added with a sidelong look at him. Men like him needed to be put in their proper place.

“You prefer diamonds,” he answered smoothly. “If I send you diamonds, I shall expect something tangible in return.”

“Jewels don’t tempt me. I have enough to please me.”

“What does tempt you?” he asked, his gloved hands resting across the pommel, the riding crop held between them.

She pursed her lips, as if seriously considering his question. “An invitation to a fashionable party of the ton?”

“Your wish is my command.”

She gave him a mocking smile. “It must be truly fashionable. Nothing in some gentlemen’s club. No lightskirts present.”

He bowed over her hand. “You will see the power I wield.”

“We shall see.” If he were able to bring this about, he might be worth a small favor of hers in return.

The next day after rehearsals, Eleanor dressed in her plainest gown and directed her carriage to Whitechapel. Thankfully, her coachman remembered the way to the mission.

When she expressed her desire to help in the work,
she was introduced to a woman about her own age named Miss Breton.

“Good day,” she said, offering her hand. “I came by the other day with the surgeon, Mr. Russell.”

Miss Breton looked at her with a pleasant smile. “Oh, yes. I heard you kept the children quite entertained. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to meet you then. Would you care for a tour?”

“Yes. I was very impressed with the work, although I only saw the infirmary with the sick children.”

“Well, we also have a few classrooms, and a dining hall, a chapel next door…” As she spoke, Miss Breton escorted her down the long corridor.

After they had poked into the various rooms she mentioned, they came to the infirmary.

Eleanor glanced around. There were only a few children in the beds. “There were more the other day,” she commented in a low tone.

Miss Breton nodded solemnly. “Two have passed away, and three have recovered. Thankfully, there have been no more outbreaks of illness. These warm days are a blessing.”

Eleanor noticed a couple of the children looking her way in recognition. As soon as she smiled at them, they smiled back. With a look to Miss Breton, who nodded encouragement, Eleanor approached their beds.

“You came back,” one of the young girls said.

“Yes, indeed.”

The girl’s smile disappeared. “You said you’d bring us a treat if we promised to be well. I’m sorry I’m not better.” She hung her head in disappointment.

“Ah, but you are looking much better to my eyes.” She tilted the little girl’s chin with her fingertip and examined her face. “Yes, I detect a definite improvement. What do you think, Miss Breton?”

“Oh, yes. Alice is much improved. She’ll be back at home in no time.”

“What about me, Miss Breton?” the little boy piped up. “Aren’t I much improved, too?”

Eleanor turned and surveyed him critically before breaking into a wide smile. “Very much improved.”

The children’s eyes widened. “Does that mean—?”

Eleanor rummaged in the capacious reticule she had brought with her. From it she extracted two hand puppets, then removed her gloves and replaced them with the puppets.

“I should like to introduce you to Mr. Bashful and Mr. True Heart, two of the most comical individuals you are ever sure to meet.”

The children laughed and clapped their hands.

Eleanor turned to Miss Breton. “Perhaps if we could get a makeshift theater together? All I need is somewhere to kneel behind.”

Miss Breton looked around. “I know! We’ll overturn
this table…” Quickly the two women cleared off the table and placed it on its side, in view of the children. Eleanor sat behind it and began her show.

“I will present to you a farce of major proportion. It involves the story of my friend Mr. Bashful. Hark! Here he comes now….”

Ian stepped into the infirmary. He was late coming by for his weekly visit, but he knew there were not many patients there, and none of them in grave danger.

He stopped in the doorway. The sound of children’s laughter drew him to the scene at the end of the room. Their thin bodies were turned to the puppet show being enacted from over the edge of a table.

“You are a coxcomb and a wastrel, Sir Livermore.”

“Hold your tongue, True Heart. If ever there was a reason to call a body out, it would be now. By Jove, I shall have satisfaction. Anthony! Anthony! My sword case. Where are you, my man?” The puppet twisted around, looking for his manservant.

Ian leaned against the doorpost, watching a few moments. Had Althea found someone to entertain the children? He didn’t recognize the voice, which changed with each puppet. But when a female puppet appeared, he recognized Mrs. Neville’s voice immediately, although it was shrill and shrewish.

Mrs. Neville. The very timbre of her voice gave him
a pang. Whatever was she doing at the mission? He was sure he had seen the last of her the other night at dinner. He’d gone home disappointed in her and disgusted with himself for wanting her to be someone she was not. He was long past the age of being taken in by a mere pretty face.

Since that evening in her company he’d kept repeating the Scripture he’d recited to her, as well as an equally familiar one to him:

“For the lips of a strange woman drop as a honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil: but her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword…Remove thy way far from her…”

There was no misunderstanding the warning, and he was no callow youth to seek temptation. Why, then, must he run into her here, of all places, when he’d resolved for himself that to see her anymore was dangerous?

The puppet show ended, and the children clapped heartily, shouting for more. Althea seemed equally entranced.

Mrs. Neville did not comply, however. The puppets made their final bows, and then she emerged from her crouched position. To silence the children’s protests, she gave them the puppets to examine up close. Seeing him, she smiled above the children’s heads. Ian resented her knowing look, as if she understood his struggle and reveled in it.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Neville,” he addressed her curtly as he approached the children. “I see you’ve met Miss Breton. Hello, Althea,” he said, his tone softening.

“Yes, we’ve met,” Althea answered. “I told Mrs. Neville how sorry I was that I wasn’t here the other day, but now I am doubly sorry, when I see how talented she is. I hope this is not to be the last time we see a performance. The children clearly love it.”

Mrs. Neville smiled demurely, looking down.

Why did she have to look so beautiful? His heart ached from standing in such close proximity to her and knowing she was not what she appeared to be.

Eleanor stayed around the mission while Ian examined the children. Other parents brought their sick children to him, knowing he would be at the mission on that day. She accepted a cup of tea from Miss Breton, whom she was soon calling Althea, and sat in a small room off the infirmary.

When Mr. Russell came to let Althea know he was finished, he seemed surprised to see Eleanor still with her. The three walked out together, where Althea bid them farewell.

Eleanor stood on the front steps of the mission. As the doctor turned to take his leave of her, she said, “Where shall I drop you—the dispensary?”

“There’s no need. I’ll hail a hack at the corner.” His tone was brusque.

What was the matter with him? Was he still offended from the other evening? “Nonsense,” she replied, trying to remember what she’d said that night. “I’m just on my way home. My coachman has the rest of the afternoon free.”

“I thank you, but no.”

Realizing he was going to walk away from her, she knew she had to do something. She put a hand to her brow and pretended to stumble.

Immediately, the doctor’s hand came to her elbow. “Are you all right, Mrs. Neville?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Just a sudden faintness. My carriage—if you could help me to my carriage…” She leaned heavily against him.

“Yes, of course.” He turned and called to her coachman who already had the door open for her.