Книга - A Debutante In Disguise

A Debutante In Disguise
Eleanor Webster


A society lady …with a secret! Determined to help people, Letty Barton has a double life – she’s a trained doctor! No-one must know 'Dr Hatfield' is actually a woman. Called to an emergency, she comes face to face with her patient’s brother, Lord Anthony Ashcroft… They’d once shared a spark-filled flirtation – now he’s a brooding, scarred war-hero. But how long will it be before he recognises her, beneath her disguise, and the sparks begin to fly once more…?







A society lady

...with a secret!

Determined to help people, Letty Barton has a double life—she’s a trained doctor! No one must know “Dr. Hatfield” is actually a woman. Called to an emergency, she comes face-to-face with her patient’s brother, Lord Anthony Ashcroft... They’d once shared a spark-filled flirtation—now he’s a brooding, scarred war hero. But how long will it be before he recognizes her beneath her disguise and the sparks begin to fly once more?


ELEANOR WEBSTER loves high heels and sun—which is ironic, as she lives in northern Canada, the land of snow hills and unflattering footwear. Various crafting experiences—including a nasty glue gun episode—have proved that her creative soul is best expressed through the written word. Eleanor has a Masters Degree in Education and is a school psychologist. She also holds an undergraduate degree in history, and loves to use her writing to explore her fascination with the past.


Also by Eleanor Webster (#u90f429ed-7cf0-57d6-95da-1c4519e89f15)

No Conventional Miss

Married for His Convenience

Her Convenient Husband’s Return

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


A Debutante in Disguise

Eleanor Webster






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-08909-8

A DEBUTANTE IN DISGUISE

© 2019 Eleanor Webster

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To my family, who has always supported my dreams and encouraged my persistence. To my daughters, who demonstrate their own steadfast persistence as they find and follow their own dreams.


Contents

Cover (#u69e62988-a849-531c-94e6-88ed87329f9e)

Back Cover Text (#uc9593942-0bac-50a4-8755-a3bac09d7783)

About the Author (#u1494b621-db06-5dce-900a-cd7904e466ed)

Booklist (#ubbafcdec-43f0-568c-af08-4445d4d12d58)

Title Page (#uc26b088f-0f53-5aef-9870-f90750eb036e)

Copyright (#ub060870f-6b34-5626-8409-f4fd0e11481d)

Dedication (#u61de0690-2157-5709-a358-d4226908b319)

Prologue (#u575f4c88-6784-51fa-ac1e-d05c68e72679)

Chapter One (#u7dd15948-176a-5c47-875e-a0cfef28007f)

Chapter Two (#u10869242-bc93-5570-949a-66c5c114be06)

Chapter Three (#ub3b7dd02-4bfd-51dd-99c2-93383bbb7a8b)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue (#u90f429ed-7cf0-57d6-95da-1c4519e89f15)

1812


It was one thing to be named after a leafy green vegetable, but quite another to resemble one.

Letty stared morosely at her reflection. Her mother had read somewhere that green flattered auburn hair and green eyes. In her opinion, this in no way compensated for the gown’s vibrant colour nor its plenitude of ruffles. Moreover, her eyes were largely obscured by the wire spectacles she wore.

She sighed, tugging at the stray curl her mother’s maid had forced into her stick-straight hair. If only her father was still alive. Of course, he would not have directly opposed the enterprise. He had never directly opposed her mother in anything. But they would have laughed. Together they would have poked fun at the marriage mart, the ludicrously complex dances, the trite conversations and endless rules of etiquette.

And the thought of standing surrounded by pretty girls in their pretty gowns making their pretty speeches would not have seemed so daunting.

Of course, if she were six inches shorter, with natural waves and pleasantly brown hair, pretty girls, gowns and speeches would have been considerably less daunting.

‘Gracious, Letty, must you frown so?’ Her mother bustled into the bedchamber, making a tsking sound to signal her disapproval. ‘You will turn the milk sour and I am certain neither Lord Randolph nor Sir Edwin wish to sit across the breakfast table with someone having a disagreeable disposition.’

‘Any more than I wish to breakfast with anyone having Sir Edwin’s Adam’s apple or Lord Randolph’s whiskers.’

‘Sir Edwin can hardly help his Adam’s apple.’

‘It bobs. And Lord Randolph could certainly do something about his whiskers,’ Letty retorted.

‘You could part him from his whiskers were you to marry him.’

‘Except I do not plan to marry him, not even to save the world from his whiskers.’

Letty kept her voice light, but her stomach plunged somewhere near her feet at the very mention of marriage. It wasn’t even that they needed the money. Her father had made a gadget, which had greatly expedited the manufacture of cloth, leaving them financially secure.

Unfortunately, it had in no way guaranteed their social status and her mother hoped that an advantageous match would serve where her father’s ingenuity had not.

Besides, in her mother’s mind, marriage was a woman’s only choice.

Mrs Barton made a second tsking sound. ‘Lettuce, stop frowning. You are old enough to be realistic. What other option do you have unless you wish to be the unwanted spinster in your brother’s home? Not an enviable position, I assure you. Your father too greatly indulged you, allowing you too much time on science which has a most deleterious effect on the female mind.’

Letty did not bother to reply. She did not even hope to explain how articles about science and medicine had opened up her world, transporting her from this sleepy village to ancient ruins, battlefields and the cosmos beyond.

Her mother could not understand. It wasn’t that Mrs Barton did not wish to, rather that she could not. Her world revolved around her husband, family and society. The concept that such a life might not be enough was foreign to her.

‘And do leave your spectacles here. You look so much better without them,’ Mrs Barton added briskly.

Letty groaned. ‘Except everything becomes annoyingly blurry.’

‘Then you will not be bothered by either Lord Randolph’s whiskers or Sir Edwin’s Adam’s apple, will you?’

With this statement, Mrs Barton firmly removed the offending spectacles, closed her lips with a final tsk and marched from the room.

* * *

Two hours later, Letty leaned against the wall at Lady Entwhistle’s ballroom. The heat had made her carefully placed curls frizz except for those now plastered to her forehead and dangling into her eyes.

Thankfully, she’d not had to dance, except one time with Lady Entwhistle’s eldest son. His toes had remained unscathed, but Letty was quite certain she’d miscounted her steps and sadly lost the rhythm.

It would be bad enough to lack co-ordination if one were petite with tiny dainty feet. It was worse when one was tall with feet which could never be called dainty.

He had not asked again.

Still, even blurry, the scene was pleasant to observe. Dancing had a science to it, she decided. Some individuals moved with fluidity, as though innately able, while others stepped with measured care, each movement requiring concentration. Sometimes, she wondered if the ability to move rhythmically was but another skill just like her brother could write while she retained everything she read so easily.

Which reminded her... Letty straightened with sudden determination. Lord Entwhistle had the most delightful, wonderful of things: a fully stocked library. Since her father’s death, her mother had cancelled the subscriptions to all scientific journals and Letty almost salivated with her eagerness.

With a furtive glance, Letty sidled along the wall. Her mother appeared to be conversing with a lady some distance away. Given the frequency of her nods and the way she leaned into the speaker, Mrs Barton’s attention seemed unlikely to waver.

With another furtive glance, Letty slipped from the bustle of the ballroom and into the corridor’s cooler air. She inhaled, thankful to escape from the noise and warmth of the dance. Now, she need only walk the few steps to the library and hope that it was not otherwise occupied.

It wasn’t. The large dim room was wonderfully empty. Its curtains were not yet drawn and pale moonlit shone through the windows. Wall sconces bathed the room in a golden light so that the embossed titles glinted with magical promise.

She loved libraries. She liked the excitement of seeing those bound volumes, each promising information, knowledge and unknown worlds. She liked the smell of them, that dusty, leathery scent, as though the air itself was steeped in history.

Anticipation mixed with the nostalgia of childhood memories pulsed through her as she stepped forward, running her fingers across the smooth leather spines. She knew exactly which title she needed. Ah, there it was. Grabbing the Edinburgh Medical and Surgical Journal, she pulled it off the shelf and clutched it to her chest. There was a fascinating article that she’d been wanting to read for ever. Well, since her brother had written to her about it. Ramsey was a wonderful brother, so like her father it hurt. It was quite possible that life as his spinster sister would be better than that of some bewhiskered worthy’s wife.

Except she didn’t want to be wife or spinster. She wanted the impossible.

Still, she refused to descend into the doldrums, particularly when she’d just found her favourite scientific journal. Sinking into the cushiony depths of the armchair, she pulled out her spectacles, thankful she had thought to secrete them in her reticule.

Positioning herself under the wall sconce, she glanced furtively to the door. Likely her mother would look for her soon, but she was a fast reader and able to skim through the words, retaining almost every word for review later.

Running her fingers gently over the leather bindings, she opened the tome. Very carefully, she found the article and with a sigh of deep content started to read.

* * *

Tony strode into the library. He felt like a fugitive. Indeed, if he had to talk to one more vapid school miss... What did those mealy-mouthed governesses teach anyway? Certainly not the art of interesting conversation—he did not know which was worse: the tongue-tied, big-eyed silence or the foolish chatter about ribbons, bonnets and the like.

A noise startled him. He scanned the room, irritated that even here he had failed to find solitude. To his surprise, he saw a female figure curled within the library chair and apparently perusing a large volume. She wore a dreadful, ruffled gown of vibrant green. Her hair was an equally vibrant red and she was so absorbed in her reading that she had not looked up. He cleared his throat.

She glanced in his direction. Her brows, surprisingly dark, drew together over gold-rimmed spectacles as she eyed him with an intense gaze. ‘I thought I was alone.’

Her tone and expression indicated that solitude would be preferable. Indeed, her rather stern aspect did not contain any of the giddy girlishness he had come to expect.

‘My apologies for disturbing you,’ he said.

She nodded, offering none of the usual polite platitudes and turned back to the book, an obvious dismissal which would irritate if it were not so damned amusing. For a moment, he watched her, fascinated by the apparent intensity of her concentration as well as the strong lines of her face, chin and high forehead.

Again momentarily aware of his presence, she glanced up, removing her spectacles. ‘Please sit, if you would like.’

She fixed him with her direct gaze. Her eyes were very green, a true green, not that wishy-washy mix of brown or grey which people called hazel. He sat, momentarily discomforted by the intensity of her gaze.

‘You also find dances overwhelming?’ she asked.

‘Pardon?’

‘You looked pale. You sat with an abrupt motion as though off balance. However, you appear too young and healthy to suffer from any malaise. And you do not seem intoxicated. Not that I have a great deal of experience with intoxication, but I saw my brother the worse for drink on one occasion and his speech was slurred and voluble while you have said little but with clear enunciation. Anyway, I wondered if you also found the noise and movement of the dance floor exhausting?’

‘Um...not usually,’ he said after this monologue. Indeed, this was a tame event, too full of debutantes, anxious mothers and warm lemonade to encourage inebriation. He would not have attended except for his sister. ‘I take it you are not enjoying the festivities?’

She pulled a face, but then smiled. He found the change from a serious demeanour to one of mischief intriguing. ‘Not entirely, although having access to Lord Entwhistle’s library is a solace, to be sure. You won’t tell?’

‘I am the soul of discretion.’ Although he doubted that the kindly Lord Entwhistle would care. He glanced at the book which so obviously fascinated her, uncertain what to expect. His sister liked novels and botanical books from which she would copy flowers and ferns with scrupulous attention to detail.

More recently, she had also taken to devouring fashionable journals and often begged their mother for the latest mode.

‘Goodness!’ He gave a spontaneous chuckle as he read the title of the article. ‘“Cowpox”? You are reading about cowpox?’

‘Yes, and smallpox. Neither of which is a subject for amusement,’ she said reprovingly.

He straightened his countenance. ‘No...um... I should not have laughed.’ This rather odd female seemed to have made him abandon a decade of niceties. And he was not exactly inexperienced. He had travelled the Continent and attended any number of balls and dances in London without feeling in any way socially inadequate.

‘You likely found the peculiarity of the subject amusing. My mother says that discussions about such topics will make me an oddity.’

‘She may be correct,’ he said, his lips twitching again.

‘She usually is. Or if not, her conviction of her own infallibility makes everyone believe it must be so.’

‘She sounds rather like my father,’ he said.

He was still angry about a lecture his father had given him on a large sum of money he had lost in a bet. It had started with a card game and ended with a fast gallop across Rotten Row. Fun, but not good for the pocket.

‘Did your father tell you to come here, then?’ she asked.

‘No, that was Mother, actually. She is quite positive that my presence will greatly enhance my sister’s marital chances.’

‘And will it?’

‘Possibly. I decided that if I had to suffer, I would ensure that my friends were similarly afflicted.’

‘Misery loves company.’

‘Indeed.’ Although his best friend, George, did not seem particularly miserable.

Infatuated, more like. What did one feel when one’s best friend suddenly falls head over heels with one’s sister? And George had always been such a sensible fellow. And he’d known Elsie for ever, except now he looked at her as though she was some miraculous creature—as if gowns and ribbons had the power to transform.

‘So, what is the fascination with cowpox?’ he asked, searching for a more pleasant topic.

She did not answer for a moment, again fixing him with her disconcertingly direct gaze. ‘Did you want to know? Or do you merely aim to be polite?’

‘Actually, I find I want to know,’ he said, rather to his own surprise.

‘Very well.’ She spoke with the tone of a schoolmaster. ‘The concept of introducing a pathogen to develop a strength is so interesting. And then there is the controversy. You see, Dr Jenner is thought to have first identified that a person may be less likely to contract smallpox if they have been previously infected with cowpox. But Jesty the farmer may have had the idea first.’

‘Controversial cowpox—even more entertaining.’

She frowned, fixing him with a dubious gaze. ‘Not the adjective I would use, but I surmise you are an individual frequently in search of entertainment.’

She spoke with surprising perspicacity for one so interested in cowpox.

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘My brother is the responsible one. Do you not find that life can become remarkably dull, remarkably quickly?’

‘At times,’ she agreed, nodding her head for emphasis. ‘But you have no excuse for boredom. You can read whatever you want and likely no one cancels your scientific journals.’

‘Er...no,’ he said.

He had never subscribed to a scientific journal in his life. He nodded towards the open book on her lap. ‘I take it yours were? Hence your interest in Lord Entwhistle’s library?’

‘Yes—you see, I would like—’ She stopped abruptly.

‘What would you like?’

‘I believe my aspirations might be considered odd. You will not laugh?’

‘I have managed thus far in our conversation.’

‘To provide medical care.’

The remark was so unexpected and unusual that he could not contain his reaction, which was a mix of both shock and amusement.

‘You mean like a—a—’ He had been about to say midwife, but realised this was hardly appropriate. ‘Like someone who gives out herbs and...and poultices,’ he concluded lamely.

‘Or a doctor, surgeon or even an apothecary.’

‘Good gracious, why on earth would you want to do so?’

She shrugged, the dreadful green ruffles rustling. ‘I’ve always wanted to do so. I cannot explain it. It is somewhat like questioning why one would want to walk or do any number of things which are instinctual to us.’

He was about to say that walking did not involve the removal of body parts with a handsaw, but there was again something in the green intensity of her eyes that made him stop. It was ludicrous, of course, for a lady to wish to be a doctor. It was ludicrous for a gentleman to do so, too, for that matter.

‘I imagine your mother doesn’t endorse that ambition?’

‘My mother’s sole desire is for me to marry someone of a higher social status. She keeps introducing me to titled gentlemen. Anyway, it is not possible. I mean for me to become a doctor. A female cannot enrol in medical college or even apothecary school.’

He laughed at her disgruntled expression. ‘I am certain you will find something more pleasurable to do.’

‘And is that our purpose? To find pleasure?’

‘Generally. At least it is the principle I adhere to—except on those occasions when I must march around a square.’

‘You are in the military?’ she questioned.

‘The lot of the younger son. Although my brother also joined in an excess of patriotism. For me, it was either that or the clergy. I did not find myself well suited to the latter occupation. So, I take it you are currently hiding from your mother?’

‘And the latest gentleman she has procured for me.’

‘She might have found someone young and pleasant.’

The young woman glanced down so that her long lashes lay like fans against her cheeks. Her skin was pale, but touched with just the hint of pink along her cheekbones. ‘Except I will not marry. I am quite decided on it.’

He was struck by the room’s silence. For a moment, time and space seemed distorted, stilling and narrowing so that everything seemed focused on this one moment in this one room.

‘That almost seems a shame,’ he said.

Then she shifted again, her smile widening and transforming her serious demeanour into one of wry humour. Her amusement was contagious and her smile engaging, the more so because it seemed a rare thing. ‘Not at all. Indeed, I believe it would be a goal quite destined for disappointment, given that I resemble a cabbage.’

He looked at her and, while she was quite strikingly different from other young ladies, he would not put her in the category of leafy vegetables. Indeed, she was almost beautiful in a strange, unconventional way. Her eyes widened as hot colour flushed into her cheeks at his scrutiny. He saw her inhalation. Her lips parted.

‘I apologise.’ He stood abruptly. ‘I was rude again. I seem to be making a habit of it. And really, I should return to the dance and doubtless your mother is looking for you.’

‘Indeed. Her brows drew together as she looked to the mantel clock. ‘And I am not even done the article.’

With renewed urgency, her gaze returned to her book, and he had the odd and unusual feeling that he had been dismissed in favour of the more fascinating topic of cowpox.

He strode to the door, but paused, his hand on the handle. ‘What is your name?’

‘Lettuce Barton,’ she said.




Chapter One (#u90f429ed-7cf0-57d6-95da-1c4519e89f15)

August 2nd, 1815


His head hurt. The pain thudded, pounding and stabbing into his temples with every beat of his heart. Tony pulled himself to an upright position, squinting at the obnoxiously bright daylight flickering through the narrow gap of the drawn curtains.

‘Good day, my lord,’ Mason said, crossing the floor and pulling open the curtains with a raucous rattle. Bright sunlight spilled through the glass, filling the bedchamber.

‘Must you make it so infernally bright this early in the morning?’

‘It is past noon, my lord.’

‘Fantastic, time for another drink,’ he muttered. ‘Why are you here anyway? Didn’t ring for you. Sleeping.’

‘Lady Beauchamp is downstairs, my lord.’

‘Actually, not so much “downstairs” any more,’ his sister announced, laughing from the doorway.

‘Elsie!’ he said, keeping his injured hand hidden under the bedclothes. ‘You can’t come barging into a gentleman’s bedchamber, even if I am your brother.’

‘I have visited for three days and I am tired of waiting. You are either out or sleeping or in your cups. Besides, you do not return one’s calls.’

‘And you insist on visiting in the middle of the night. Anyway, what is so damned urgent?’ He spoke too loudly so that he winced at the noise of his own voice.

‘I need to go to the country.’

‘Then go. You do not need my permission.’

‘I wanted to talk to you first. Provided I could catch you in a moment of sobriety.’

He glared. ‘Fine. We will chat, but for goodness sake, wait outside while I make myself decent.’

‘Very well, I will see you in the breakfast room, but do not think you can lope off again.’

With those words, his younger sister gave a decisive nod and, thankfully, left the room, the door shutting firmly behind her.

He again flinched, glaring irritably at the closed door. Truthfully, he had been avoiding her. Her presence reminded him too much of the gaping holes within their family.

As well, there was this peculiar, detached feeling. He knew her to be his sister and knew that he loved her, yet could not seem to find the emotion.

He lay back on the bed, staring between half-closed eyes at a crack in the ceiling. Even the concept of rising felt exhausting.

And his bloody head hurt.

‘My lord?’ Mason said, clearing his throat.

Tony groaned.

‘She will be back.’

He nodded, pulling himself upright. His sister had always been persistent. ‘Stubborn and obstinate as a mule,’ their brother had said.

While George, her husband, had called her ‘steadfast’ and ‘resolute’.

But she was his family. Even though he couldn’t find the emotion, he knew he loved her, or had loved her. He knew he had been best man at her wedding. He could see himself. He could see George. He could see Elsie.

But everything felt distant. As though recalling something he had observed—a wedding that was pretty, charming, happy, but in no way closely connected to himself.

Perhaps that was it. Everything felt distant. Both the wedding and that which had come next: the cannons, the corpses, the smell, the blood...

And Elsie and George and Edgar and his father, the happy and the sad, all seemed intertwined, so that he wanted only to shove them from his mind and lie within the dark, oblivion of this room.

* * *

Shaved and dressed, Tony exited his bedchamber. He still had a headache. As always, movement hurt. It was not excruciating any more, but rather a raw tautening, as his skin and muscles moved where the bullet had lodged within his ribcage.

He was already looking forward to his next drink.

Elsie glanced up as he entered the drawing room. As always, she wore the latest fashion. Of course, she was in deep mourning but even this suited her. George, Edgar, their father. Gone.

He hated black.

Sitting opposite, he stretched his feet towards the hearth, wincing slightly with the movement. ‘So why are you going to the country?’ he asked without preamble. ‘It seems a departure from your usual habits.’

Elsie had a low tolerance for boredom. In their youth, he’d tended to egg her on while Edgar, always responsible, had bailed her out of numerous scrapes until she married George, who had then assumed the role.

Until Waterloo.

‘I have been feeling unwell.’

He glanced up sharply. She looked pale, he realised, although her appetite must be fine. She had gained weight. ‘Too many late nights, I suppose.’ While grief and injury had made him a hermit, she had become a social butterfly.

‘You are one to talk—well, at least about the late nights. No, it is not that.’ Elsie paused, glancing downwards, her fair ringlets falling across her forehead. She rubbed the black silk of her dress between her fingers. ‘You see, I am having a child.’

He heard the words. They hung in the space between them, almost visible within the room. He felt nothing. He knew he should feel something: joy, worry, sorrow that George would never see his child...

‘Right,’ he said.

Elsie frowned, scrunching up her face almost as she done when younger. ‘I am announcing that you may soon have a nephew, that George, who was your best friend, might have sired an heir prior to his death and all you can say is “right”?’

‘I am happy for you.’

It was not entirely a lie. It was not that he was unhappy. Rather he was nothing. He felt an odd remoteness as though everything was miles from him—distant and inconsequential.

And then it happened. One moment he sat within the pleasant decor of the sunny salon opposite his sister and, within the next second, the salon had somehow turned into a mire of muck, churned and muddy from cannon balls.

He could even smell the war, a mix of blood, smoke, sweat, manure and urine.

His body felt different. His feet were heavy and his boots sank deep into the mire with a sickly sucking squelch. All around he heard the groans of dying men, their whispered prayers and anguished calls.

‘Tony?’

His sister’s tentative voice came as from a great distance.

‘Tony, you’re white as a ghost. Should I get Mason? Are you in pain?’

‘No,’ he ground out. His hand tightened over the chair arm, the pain intensifying about his ribs. ‘Do—not—I—do—not—need help.’ He pushed the words out.

And then that other landscape disappeared, as quickly as it had come, and he was back in the neatly appointed room with its pleasant floral curtaining and sunshine-yellow walls.

‘Sit down, Elsie,’ he said as she stood, reaching for the bell pull. ‘No need to raise the alarm. I am fine.’

‘You’re certain? You still look pale.’ She glanced at him and then away. People tended to do that as though embarrassed to see the scar snaking down his cheek to his collar.

‘I am fine. Happy to hear your news and to know I will be an uncle.’ He pulled out the trite words, relaxing as her worry eased and she sat back in the chair.

‘Oh, Tony, I didn’t even realise, at first. It was my maid who suspected. I am six months along and usually a person would know before that, but I didn’t. When I felt ill, I thought it was the grief. And now I am so very happy and sad all at once. It was so—so terrible losing George, but having his child—that will make it easier. It will make life worth living again.’

‘Yes,’ he said, again feeling inadequate.

He should feel something. George had been his closest friend. He’d watched the man die. And held him as he did.

‘And Father. This would have been his first grandchild. He would have been happy.’

‘Yes,’ Tony said.

He had been recovering from his own wounds in the hospital when their father died. He’d dropped dead like a stone to the floor when he’d heard about Edgar’s death.

That hurt. Even through the numbness, that hurt.

‘He cared a lot for George. He was happy when you married,’ he said, again because he felt that he ought to do so, that something was expected.

‘Anyway, I have decided to go to Beauchamp and I wanted to talk to you prior to my departure. Since Waterloo, you know, and after losing Father and George and Edgar, I stayed here to keep busy and to keep Mother company. I was afraid to be alone, afraid of my thoughts.’

He looked down. He had been so overwhelmed with his own pain, he had failed to see hers. She’d lost her husband, brother and father. Again, it seemed that he ought to feel more and that his emotional response was inadequate. Since when had feelings ceased to be spontaneous, but become ‘shoulds’? Like one should wash one’s hands before tea.

‘Tony?’

He looked up. ‘I’m sorry, I was miles away.’

‘Anyway, these days I am feeling so tired. My head aches and everything is so noisy here. And even near my house, London does not smell pleasant and vehicles pass day and night. Besides, I am not so afraid of the quiet.’ Her hand touched her belly. ‘I think I will almost like it.’

‘Is there a good doctor there?’

‘I—Yes. I think so.’

‘And Mother?’

‘She is doing well. She socialises much as she always did. She thinks the country will be good for me and will visit after the child is born.’

‘I will go with you.’ He spoke suddenly and felt a jolt of surprise at his own words.

‘You will? Why?’

He didn’t exactly know, except that he was failing his remaining sibling and must make it right. ‘I might like the quiet, too.’

Besides London was too filled with people and empty chairs.

He and Elsie had never been particularly close as children. He’d been closer to Edgar. He remembered fishing with him at Oddsmore, learning to ride that bad-tempered, stout little pony, sharing a tutor, Mr Colden—except Tony had insisted on calling him Coldfish.

He’d viewed Elsie rather as an irritant as she tried to chase after them. Indeed, it had taken a month at least to adjust to the fact that his best friend had suddenly, and without any warning, fallen in love with her.

Still, Elsie was his only living sibling and his best friend’s widow. He should feel something... He frowned, trying to find evidence of sentiment mired within this odd, cold, numbness.

‘You are not going to Oddsmore?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘It is your estate.’

‘Oddsmore is fine. Mr Sykes does an admirable job and doesn’t need me interfering.’

He had not been there since his father’s death. George... Edgar... Father... Like dominoes.

‘Very well,’ Elsie said. ‘I will enjoy the company and you might be able to help run the estate. I have been feeling I should do more, particularly now.’ She patted her stomach again with a mixture of pride and protection.

‘I would imagine you should do less, particularly now.’

‘Perhaps. Anyway, Oddsmore is not far—’

‘No,’ he said.

‘Well, at least the country will be healthier for you than drinking your days away here,’ she said with some asperity.

He smiled grimly. ‘I doubt the countryside will preclude me from pursuing that endeavour.’

* * *

The delivery of Mrs Jamison’s third child was not as easy as Letty had hoped. She’d had to reposition the baby and the labour progressed slowly so that the night seemed long within the stuffy, airless room. She’d tried to convince the family that fresh air would not cause any harm on such a warm summer night, but country folk were not ready for revolutionary thought. The fear of bad spirits still lingered.

Letty scratched her head. The ancient, old-fashioned, powdered wig always made her scalp itch and prickle with sweat. Of course, by now she had largely got used to her ‘disguise’. She quite enjoyed the freedom of men’s trousers, loved the ability to wear her spectacles whenever she wanted, but still resented the wig.

At least she no longer had to wear it daily as she had during her training, or rather Dr Hatfield’s training.

The fifth Jamison arrived with a lusty cry as her mother collapsed against the birthing stool, her face wet with sweat and tears. The maid wiped her mistress’s face while Letty cut the cord. Taking the damp cloth, Letty wiped the blood from the red, wizened, angry little face. Then she swaddled the infant in the blanket, handing her to her mother’s waiting arms.

‘Thank you,’ Mrs Jamison whispered. There was a sanctity in the moment, Letty thought, a joy that was also pain.

She turned away, rubbing away the sweat from her own forehead. What would it be like to bring life into the world, to be responsible for, to protect and love this fragile, new human being? She hadn’t attended many births during her training at Guy’s Hospital. Most people that came there were incurable, clinging to life by the merest thread. There had been more death than birth.

Helping Mrs Jamison to rise from the birthing stool, she settled her more comfortably on the accouchement bed and tidied the bloodied cloths needed for the birth.

‘A girl. I’m that glad—Lil, my eldest, will be wanting to get wed herself and it will be nice to have someone to help out around the house, mind,’ Mrs Jamison said, bending over the child cradled within her arms.

‘Lil can’t be ready to marry yet?’

‘Well, no, she’s only eleven, but they grow up so quickly, mind. It seemed like only yesterday she was this size.’

‘A few years to wait yet, then. Anyway, perhaps your lads could help.’

Mrs Jamison chortled. ‘Have you met Cedric? He’s a one. Likely burn the house down as like as not.’

Letty smiled. She’d given Cedric stitches on more than one occasion. ‘I have indeed. He is a repeat customer.’

* * *

For the next hour, Letty kept busy, the afterbirth was delivered and then the Jamison family trooped in solemnly to meet their new sibling. Of course, Mr Jamison offered a sup of something to wet the baby’s head and, as always, Letty refused.

She never lingered. With the child born, Mrs Jamison would be more likely to notice her doctor’s feminine features, too poorly disguised. She might see the tufts of red hair peaking from under the wig, the swell of her breasts, despite the binding, or that her hands were too small and delicate for a man.

While treating any patient, Letty seldom worried that she would be discovered. It was as though her mind was too occupied with treatment, remembering the details of anatomy, relieving pain, determining the correct poultice or herb, or placing stitches into flesh. But once finished, her mind circled, worry omnipotent.

At times, she still could not believe that the crazy idea she and Ramsey had concocted four years ago on a bright, starlit winter walk was working...had worked.

Besides, she was too hungry and exhausted to do anything save return home with all possible dispatch.

So, after checking once more on patient and child, she packed her belongings into her doctor’s bag, made sure any stray hair was tucked under the wig, adjusted her jacket, straightened her shoulders and strode out into the bright daylight with a masculine swagger. The Jamison lads had already hitched up her horse, the stalwart Archimedes, and Cedric stood on the second plank of the fence, balancing precariously, a long yellow straw clenched between his lips at a jaunty angle.

‘Hello, Cedric,’ she said, clambering into the trap and watching as he climbed down to open the gate. ‘You happy with your new sister?’

‘She’s all right. A brother would have been better.’ He peered up at her, wrinkling his freckled nose. ‘Girls are dull. Still, at least I’m not the youngest no more.’

With that consoling thought, he swung open the gate and Letty tapped Archimedes into reluctant movement and he ambled forward, happy to find his own way down the narrow lane.

At times, she missed the lectures at Guy’s Hospital, the lively discourse between students, the classes in anatomy and the excitement of the illegal autopsies and new procedures.

Today was not one of them. In London, there had also been an undercurrent of fear. She remembered hurrying through poor, narrow streets with her collar turned high and her shoulders hunched, even more determined to hide her gender than at the hospital.

Sewage from the Thames tainted the air. Garbage littered the streets and beggars and drunks would lie at the entrances of the shops, hospital and along the river bank while urchins would run up to her, grimy hands out-thrust. Sometimes prostitutes would sidle up with their toothless, painted faces, taken in by her male garb.

This was much nicer, she thought, gazing through heavy-lidded eyes at the country’s clean, morning brilliance. It was nice, to relax to Archimedes’s rhythmic movement, the reins limp in her hand.

Sometimes her secret felt heavy, but on this fresh, shimmering hopeful dawn it was delightful and precious.

As always, she took the back route, skirting the village centre so that she could approach the stable by the lane. Doubtless, the villagers thought the doctor an odd recluse and Miss Barton equally eccentric. Still, she could take no chances. She had worked so hard for this life and it still felt fragile—like the houses they’d constructed as children from playing cards and toothpicks.

The lane behind her house smelled of lavender. Already the day promised to be warm. It had been an unusually hot summer and the air had that heavy, lazy perfumed feel of August. Mixed with the lavender she detected manure. Likely Arnold had been gardening, already eager to beat the day’s heat.

‘Ah, there you be, miss.’ Arnold stepped out from the stable. She’d known him since childhood: groom, gardener and friend. He always kept an eye open for her when she was out at night and irritatingly insisted on calling her ‘miss’ despite trousers and wig whenever they were alone.

He was quite stooped with his years, moving with a rolling nautical gait as he stepped forward, taking hold of the reins. ‘You must be that tired. You go up to the house. Sarah will have a bite ready for you, no doubt.’

‘Thank you.’ She gave Archimedes’s wide girth a final pat before getting down from the buggy and entering the stable.

She found her clothes in the small valise under the hay and dusted away the yellow straw, before hurriedly removing her trousers and thankfully pulling off the powdered wig. She shoved this into the valise, running her fingers with relief through her straight red hair. Then she pulled on her dress and exited the stable’s dustiness.

In the winter months, she’d likely abandon this practice. Even now it seemed like an excess of caution, but worry was deeply rooted and in these bright, long summer days she feared that someone might see ‘Miss Barton’ enter the doctor’s house or vice versa.

Thanks to her inheritance from her father, she owned both the two stone houses visible at the far end of the garden. Eagerly, she hurried towards the one on the left, stepping across the paving stones of her overgrown herb garden. The leaves brushed against her skirts which would likely be yellow with pollen.

‘I am that glad to see you back.’ Sarah came to her the moment she’d pushed open the back door.

Sarah had first worked as a nursery maid and was also more friend than servant. ‘Sit there. I have fresh bread and the kettle is hot so I can make tea.’

‘Thank you. I was going to head straight to bed, but perhaps I will eat first,’ Letty said.

She had not eaten for hours and the kitchen smelled delightfully of cinnamon and fresh bread. Kitchens always smelled wonderful. Even as a child, she’d loved kitchens above all other rooms, except the library. Of course, her mother had seldom entered the kitchen, or had done so only to lecture the staff. Her mother was the daughter of a housekeeper and had spent her life trying to forget this fact.

‘Well, I have food enough, but you won’t be having that much time to sleep if you’re planning to visit your sister-in-law.’

‘Good gracious, I didn’t know I was!’ Sarah sat rather heavily, propping her head on her elbows, too tired to stay erect.

‘It is the fourteenth and your mother and Mrs Barton invited you weeks ago—most specific she was.’

Letty groaned. She loved Flo. She owed both Flo and her brother everything. She would never have been able to register at Guy’s Hospital without her brother’s help. Certainly, her mother would never have allowed her to live in London if Flo had not offered her accommodation. Nor would she have pulled off her peculiar double life without Flo’s ingenious excuses.

However, the garden party would doubtless involve her mother.

Letty was a tremendous disappointment to Mrs Barton. Indeed, her mother would have disowned her except she feared it would cause talk. Mrs Barton hated to be the topic of ‘talk’. Besides, Ramsey had convinced one of his more aristocratic friends to provide some mumbo-jumbo about the upper classes adoring eccentricity.

Living alone in her little stone house was certainly eccentric.

Not that Mrs Barton knew about the doctoring. Letty smiled grimly. That information would doubtless have sent Mrs Barton into a decline or given her fits. Indeed, the fact that Letty had wasted almost two years in London without finding a husband was sufficiently dreadful.

‘I suppose I must go,’’ Letty said, her head sinking lower.

‘A failure to show might result in a visit from the elder Mrs Barton.’

Letty groaned. ‘I’d best avoid that.’

‘Indeed,’ Sarah agreed.

‘Give me an hour to sleep,’ she instructed. ‘Then get me up for this flower party.’

‘Garden party, I believe, miss.’

* * *

As expected, her mother’s influence was clearly visible and nothing had been done by half-measures. Liveried servants lined the flagstone path leading towards the comfortable brick façade of Letty’s childhood home. The box trees now resembled African animals and the ornamental fountain frothed and burbled. The flower beds were colourful perfection, the dark soil freshly turned, the weeds removed and a statue of a lion placed in the very centre of the rose garden.

A huge tent stood on the emerald lawn. Long tables covered in white linen extended from its shadows, laden with food, drink, silver cutlery and crystal stemware. Meanwhile colourful groupings of the local gentry and other notables chattered, protecting their pale complexions under ruffled sunshades in pastel hues.

Letty frowned. What was the point of a garden party if one erected a house and hid from the sun?

Just then, she saw her mother. Mrs Barton was not as tall as Letty, but was still slim. She had been talking with several ladies close to the box tree giraffe, but stepped forward on seeing her daughter.

‘I am glad you are here and on time,’ she said, with a bob of her white parasol as she presented her cheek for a kiss. She looked well. She had Letty’s pale skin and reddish hair, but her locks had a pleasant auburn shade, threaded with a few strands of grey, as opposed to Letty’s more vibrant hue.

Letty tried to think of a suitable but truthful response. She couldn’t really say that she was glad to be here. In reality, there were any number of places she would have preferred to be.

‘I am glad you are happy,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I wonder if there is not a connection between one’s physical health and one’s emotions.’

Her mother’s forehead puckered, as though uncertain how best to take that statement. ‘Well, never mind all that. And where is your sunshade? You know how dreadfully you freckle. And why must you insist on wearing such dull shades?’

‘Likely a reaction to the overly bright hues of my youth,’ Letty murmured.

‘But grey? It is such a raincloud of a colour.’

‘But serviceable.’

‘Which you would not need to worry about if you had not decided to waste money buying a house. I am quite certain your father did not intend for you to fritter your inheritance.’

‘The purchase of a house hardly seems frivolous.’

‘It is when you could stay with me at the Dower House or with dear Flo and your brother. Well, no matter—I have a gentleman I particularly wanted to introduce—’

At that moment, Flo, or Florence, approached, her smile wide and genuine. ‘But first, Lord Jephson is here and I absolutely promised him an introduction. He wanted to meet you as he has a lively interest in humours. You do not mind, do you, Mama?’

She addressed this last statement to Mrs Barton while expertly steering Letty towards the house.

‘Humours! You know science has moved beyond humours. And who is Lord Jephson?’ Letty asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

‘A rich lord without a wife which will absolutely thrill your mother. But don’t worry, I don’t think he has any interest in acquiring a wife. Besides, I wouldn’t do that to you. Ramsey is in his study and will be so delighted to see you. He says you are the only person outside of London able to provide intelligent discourse—’

Just at that moment, a disturbance occurred beside one of the long tables and both Letty and Flo turned abruptly.

‘Good gracious.’ Flo lifted her skirts so that she could move with greater efficiency. ‘I think someone has collapsed or fallen.’

Letty hurried after her sister-in-law. Quite near to the tent, a cluster of women encircled a young female reclining on the grass. The woman wore black, but looked to be young with fashionable blonde curls peaking from under a dark bonnet.

‘Do not crowd her,’ Letty directed.

‘Really, I can get up,’ the young woman said, struggling to stand.

‘A fallacy. You are as white as a sheet and look ready to swoon again.’ Letty pushed through the bystanders, kneeling beside the young woman, instinctively reaching for her wrist to feel for a pulse. ‘Give yourself a moment. You are likely still dizzy and—’

Before she could complete this sentence, a second wave of interest coursed through the group of onlookers. A tall man approached, striding from the house, his gait uneven. From her kneeling position, the newcomer’s height was extenuated, his broad shoulders all but blocking the sun so that his size appeared superhuman, like Zeus or Neptune.

‘Elsie? What happened?’ His voice was harsh. ‘Are you in pain?’

‘No, I just went dizzy with the heat. Really, I am quite fine now.’ The young woman again tried to rise. Two splotches of colour appeared on her otherwise pale cheeks. Her skin looked damp with perspiration. Letty saw miniature beads of moisture along her upper lip and forehead. Moreover, her face had a fullness or puffiness which Letty did not like.

‘I disagree,’ she said, releasing her wrist. ‘Your hands and face are bloated. I cannot accurately measure your pulse in present circumstances, but it seems too fast which could indicate a more serious condition.’

‘Young lady—’ The man addressed Letty sharply as he knelt also beside the prone woman. ‘Who are you? And why are you attempting to scare my sister witless?’

Letty glanced at him. His face was still shadowed from the sun, but there was something arresting about him and she found herself momentarily bereft of breath.

‘I do not intend to alarm her,’ she said, her mouth peculiarly dry. ‘Merely to ensure that she seeks medical treatment.’

‘She is already under medical care.’

‘It doesn’t seem to have been entirely effective. I would advise further consultation.’

‘Thank you for that. Obviously, I will ensure her physician is called immediately.’

‘Please, Tony,’ the young woman said. ‘Can we move from here? Everyone is looking.’

‘Let them. And don’t flatter yourself. They are likely more interested in me than you.’

It was true, Letty realised. The group of onlookers had grown and stared openly with an avidity at the gentleman which seemed oddly devoid of good manners—particularly among a group who could forgive murder more readily than a lapse of etiquette.

Letty nodded. ‘Indeed, I would strongly advise moving out of the heat.’

‘It is still quite cool indoors,’ Flo said, now also bending. ‘I can help.’

‘Rest assured I can support my sister,’ the gentleman said, putting out one hand to help the young woman.

This single-handed gesture seemed oddly awkward, Letty thought, as she stood, also supporting the young woman.

‘Perhaps—however, you appeared injured when you walked here. You are only offering one hand and, depending on the nature of your injury, the strain might do further harm.’

‘You need not concern yourself. I am quite capable of managing my own physical condition,’ he said tersely.

‘Now, rise slowly and you will be less likely to feel vertiginous,’ Letty said, ignoring the irascible gentleman as they helped his sister rise.

Together, they moved towards the familiar stone bulk of her family’s home, crossing the lawn, an odd, unwieldly threesome, while Flo walked ahead. They left the crowd behind and the quiet deepened as the chatter of voices fell away and Letty could better hear the young woman’s laboured breathing.

With her arm about the woman’s waist, Letty could feel the bulge of pregnancy—about five or six months along—although these new fashions made her belly less noticeable. Occasionally, she peeked at the gentleman, but he kept his face averted and largely in profile, silhouetted against the bright summer sky.

Although tall and broad, he had a thinness also, likely due to whatever hardship he had endured. There was a familiarity about him. She saw it in his profile and the timbre of his voice. She could not place him, but she had likely met him during her eighteen months in London and her peculiar double life, that odd mix of days and night within London’s brightest ballroom and the morgue.

‘The front Salon will be hot,’ Letty said, as they stepped out of the warmth into the familiar front hall. ‘We should go into the library. It will be cooler.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Flo agreed. ‘And is there anything you need? Smelling salts? Brandy? Well, there is brandy in the library already. But if there is anything else?’

‘Solitude and quiet would be nice,’ the man said.

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Flo replied, her hands making the fluttering motions she always made when nervous. ‘I will let Letty—Miss Barton—take you to the library.’

‘You didn’t need to be rude,’ Letty said to the rather formidable gentleman, as soon as Flo had left.

‘It proves effective in clearing a room.’

‘So does the discussion of pustules—that doesn’t mean one has to do it.’

The man gave a sharp, spontaneous bark of laughter, which struck her as familiar. ‘You speak from personal experience?’

‘Yes. Well, it was actually an abscess.’ It had been during her adolescence and her mother had spoken rather harshly to her on the issue of suitability. She had learned some restraint since then.

He looked her, his expression intent, and she had the feeling he had not properly noticed her previously. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Might we focus on my sister and not my manners? Elsie, why don’t you sit here on the sofa?’

‘Thank you,’ the young woman agreed as they helped her sit. ‘I am Lady Beauchamp, by the way, and this delightful creature is my brother, Lord Anthony. And thank you, Miss Barton. Truly I appreciate your kindness.’

‘It is nothing. Hopefully, you will feel better after a rest. Oh, and I would advise keeping your feet elevated,’ Letty said, placing a brocade cushion under Lady Beauchamp’s feet and helping her to lift them. ‘Are you in any pain?’

‘No. I was just dizzy.’

Letty stepped back, trying to better study the woman’s face and wishing she could wear her glasses, but she dared not. Whenever possible she only wore them as Dr Hatfield.

‘Your lips are dry,’ Letty said.

‘Yes, my doctor advises that I do not drink too much.’

‘What?’ Letty straightened. ‘You mean wine or spirits?’

‘No, anything.’

‘Then we will get you lemonade or water immediately.’

‘Miss?’ Lord Anthony said, his tone again sharp and any hint of humour eradicated. ‘It would seem you are contravening the doctor’s advice.’

‘I am contravening a load of nonsense,’ Letty retorted.

‘You base that opinion on your extensive medical knowledge?’ His tone was unpleasant and yet again oddly familiar. Letty glanced at him, but he had turned away.

‘Some. I used to talk to the midwives,’ she said, truthfully enough.

She narrowed her gaze, looking carefully at Lady Beauchamp. Even without glasses, Letty could see that Lady Beauchamp was definitely increasing and her face had a fullness that did not look right. There was a puffiness about the wrists. Indeed, the skin just above her gloves appeared taut as though stretched too tight.

‘Lady Beauchamp, are your ankles similarly swollen?’

‘What? Why, yes, my slippers no longer fit. Indeed, I had to order new ones and now they are also dreadfully uncomfortable.’

‘Headaches?’

‘A few.’

‘Double vi—?’

Before Letty could finish the question, Lord Anthony turned, cocking his head towards the far end of the room. ‘If I might speak to you for a moment, Miss Barton.’

Letty nodded and followed him. When he turned, she noted that one side of his face had been recently injured, a mark like a burn snaked down his cheek while the skin was stretched taut, an odd mix of red and white until the scar disappeared under the collar.

‘I was injured at Waterloo,’ he said.

‘A burn, I would surmise.’ She studied the tautened skin with a clinical regard. ‘About third-degree, according to Heister and Richter.’

‘Are you insensitive or just plain rude?’

‘Interested. I have not seen that many burns and I have an interest in their care.’

For a moment, he said nothing. He fixed her with a steely grey-blue gaze, his expression unreadable.

‘You are unusual. What did you say your name was?’ he asked at length.

‘Lettuce Barton.’




Chapter Two (#u90f429ed-7cf0-57d6-95da-1c4519e89f15)


The words, the voice, melodious but firm, brought everything back. Tony remembered that last Season before he went to war. He remembered the dances, music, laughter, warm, perfumed rooms glittering with mirrors and chandeliers. He remembered card games, horse races, fox hunts and his facility for wit and humour—for saying the right thing.

Now, he said nothing or said nothing right. He was in a foreign landscape, uncomfortable within his own skin. He avoided his friends, hiding within the fog of alcoholic stupor.

Whereas before he’d enjoyed friendships and a good story or joke, now he was the story, always under curious scrutiny. Or an observer and everything about him was but a play, a bad play which evoked little interest.

She’d worn a bright-green dress, he remembered. She had been reading about smallpox or cowpox and she’d had remarkable green eyes.

For a moment, the memory was so vivid, it shook him. It was as though he could almost see the girl in her bright ruffles, with those mesmerising eyes.

The clarity of this memory was oddly shocking because, since his injury, his memory had been peculiarly warped. His recollection of his life before Waterloo had felt distant, separate from him as though details from another person’s experience.

But those insignificant moments with the peculiar Miss Barton seemed more real than anything else in this peculiar existence which had been so distinctly dissected; the before and after.

‘Right,’ Miss Barton said crisply. ‘Unless you wished to talk to me further, I will provide Lady Beauchamp with some water.’

‘What?’ He was jerked back to reality and felt again an oddity, a stranger in a world which should be familiar. ‘No, you will not. Lady Beauchamp’s medic advised against water, you should not advise otherwise, certainly not based on a few conversations with a midwife.’

‘Midwives,’ she corrected. ‘And I have never read that a woman’s fluid intake should be limited when with child and I have read extensively on the subject.’

‘No doubt.’ Again, the image of the odd girl in her odd dress flickered before his inner eye. ‘However, I am certain our physician has also read a considerable amount. Indeed, I do not feel that we need impose upon your time any more. I am certain a servant can get anything we might need.’

‘Actually, likely I do need to get you anything you need, because my sister-in-law has every servant out on the lawn and you scared her off by your unpleasant demeanour. Anyway, I am happy for the excuse. I am not particularly fond of chatting.’

‘I remember.’

She glanced at him, a frown puckering her forehead, and he realised that she had not yet placed him. Not surprising—he had been a man of fair looks and now—

With a tiny shrug as though tracking down his reference was not worth the effort, Miss Barton walked back to Elsie. She moved briskly, her unfashionable grey skirts swishing. He wondered that neither the elder nor the younger Mrs Barton had not yet improved her style. Although the gown oddly suited her, the soft grey making her hair and green eyes the more vibrant.

‘You are with child,’ Miss Barton said to Elsie, in that direct way of hers, which would have been shocking in any other unmarried female, but seemed in no way unusual for this woman.

‘Yes, six or seven months.’

‘Your wrists are swollen. Your ankles, too. And your fingers, although that is hard to discern as you are wearing gloves. From your comment about your slippers I would surmise that your feet are also distended. In addition, your face appears unnaturally puffy.’

Elsie laughed. ‘You certainly have a way with words.’

‘As I recall, Miss Barton is under the misapprehension that she has medical knowledge.’ Tony spoke sharply, although this was in part because he realised the woman was right. Elsie looked puffy and the bracelet she always wore was tight, as though cutting into the skin. Why hadn’t he noticed?

‘I am not under any misapprehension. I do not suffer from misapprehensions in general. Now I must get you water.’ Miss Barton took a glass tumbler from the tray which held water and other refreshments.

Her positivity grated. She seemed so sure of herself. This irritated—perhaps because he had once been sure of himself and now was sure of nothing. He remembered his amused curiosity as he had chuckled inwardly at the quaint girl with her strange ideas. He had told Elsie about her, although she’d scarcely attended. That was also the night that she and George had fallen in love. They had known each other for ever, but on that night, friend had morphed into suitor.

And two months later, Father had walked her up the aisle. Elsie had looked happy and beautiful. Edgar had been typically pompous in his regimental uniform and George had looked as though he would burst for joy.

Then the church bells had rung jubilantly as the wedding party stepped out into a bright, cloudless day.

The splash of water into the tumbler caught his attention, piercing through the memories clogging his brain.

‘Miss Barton!’ He spoke hardly. ‘Lady Beauchamp’s doctor says she should not have water.’

‘Then her doctor is a fool.’

‘He is a trained physician,’ he retorted.

‘One does not preclude the other.’

‘You are little more than a school girl and you suggest you know more than a qualified doctor?’

‘Based on my experience—’

‘Your experience? What experience?’

Colour flushed into her cheeks and she opened her lips before snapping them shut. ‘I—’

‘I don’t care,’ Elsie said suddenly and loudly from the couch. ‘I am so thirsty. It is all I can think about. Surely a sip will not do me harm.’

‘It will not. We have water here.’ Miss Barton handed her the tumbler. ‘And keep your feet elevated. You said you have been having headaches. What about vertigo?’

‘Yes, some. I told Dr Jeffers. He did not seem much concerned. Do you—do you think the baby is fine?’ Elsie asked.

Tony heard her fear and felt his worry balloon.

Miss Barton nodded, but Tony saw concern flicker across her mobile features and felt another twist of fear, cutting through his usual numbness.

‘I will summon Jeffers here,’ he said.

‘No, no, please, do not,’ Elsie begged. ‘I feel so tired and I would so much prefer to go home.’

Tony paused. To his irritation, he found himself glancing towards the authoritative young woman in her unfashionable garb and ruddy hair.

She nodded. ‘Likely Lady Beauchamp would feel more comfortable at home.’

‘See!’ Elsie said.

‘The fact that a young miss approves is hardly a deciding factor.’

‘But the ride is quite short—little more than an hour. Most of it is in the shade of the woods and, if we keep the windows down, there will be a breeze and I am feeling much improved.’

Elsie sipped her water, sighing, her relief so palpable that Tony wondered whether perhaps this irritating young woman was not in the right and not the self-important Dr Jeffers.

‘You are looking better,’ he acknowledged. ‘I will summon the carriage and request that a servant be sent to Jeffers so that he can meet us at Beauchamp.’ He went to ring the bell, but was stopped by Miss Barton’s sudden interruption.

‘I realised where we met before,’ she said, her usually serious face lit with delight. ‘It has been bothering me—you know, like a blister when one is walking. It was at my debut and we talked in Lord Entwhistle’s library. You have changed.’

‘A bullet hole and burns will do that.’

He said these things, he knew, to intimidate, to push people away.

‘Yes, although the scarring is limited.’ She eyed him critically.

Oddly, he felt a peculiar relief. Usually people would look his way as though oddly drawn to his wounds and then, their curiosity satisfied, glance away, their distaste and disgust evident.

Turning from her, he tugged on the bell pull, his movement awkward.

‘You are still injured?’ she said.

‘It is nothing.’

‘It impacts your movement which is not nothing.’

‘Regardless, it is certainly not your concern,’ he said, tightly. ‘Now, if you will permit me to focus on my sister, I will transport her home where she might receive the attention of her qualified physician. Provided you approve, of course.’

‘Indeed, that seems an admirable plan,’ Letty said.

* * *

Letty slept well. Perhaps she was just too exhausted to do otherwise. No child arrived and she did not wake until late the next morning. Indeed, the sun was high in the sky and brightly shining through the lace curtains when Sarah roused her.

‘What is it?’ she asked drowsily, rubbing her head and squinting against the sun’s glare.

‘It is past noon and Mrs Barton, your mother, is here,’ Sarah explained.

‘Huh.’ Letty pulled herself up to a seated position, still squinting. ‘No wonder you are looking perturbed. Bring me some tea and I will get dressed. Best make it strong.’

‘Be quick. She hates waiting and does not approve of sleeping in of a morning.’

‘Very strong,’ Letty muttered.

* * *

Some thirty minutes later, Letty entered the morning room. Her mother sat, as always, ramrod straight, having chosen the most uncomfortable chair available. In reality, her mother was not old. Letty had patients still bearing children at her age. Moreover, she didn’t even look old, her hair had only a few strands of grey.

However, Mrs Barton’s worried aspect always gave the impression not only of age, but of her never being young.

‘Lettuce, I am glad you graced us with your presence,’ Mrs Barton said, pushing her lips together with that characteristic click of the tongue.

‘I aim to please.’ Letty crossed the room, placing a dutiful kiss on her mother’s smooth cheek, before seating herself in a more comfortable chair opposite.

‘Although I do not know what time you think this is to be rising?’

‘One in the afternoon,’ Letty affirmed, glancing at the mantel clock.

‘Are you ill?’

‘I do not think so.’

‘Only severe illness is sufficient reason to lie abed until this hour.’

‘I will try to remedy the situation. Would a cold or chill suffice?’

A frown puckered her mother’s forehead. ‘Your sense of humour is too much like your father’s. And you disappeared yesterday almost as soon as you had arrived.’

‘Disappeared—gracious, I feel like a magician at a village fair. I went into the library and then home.’

‘You were invited to a garden party, not to skulk in the library.’

‘Indeed, skulking sounds positively criminal. You always make my life feel so much more exciting than its reality.’

Her mother’s forehead furrowed into a deeper crease. ‘Criminal is not “exciting”. And you always talk in riddles. Your father was much the same. We are lucky that your brother had the good sense to marry a young lady related to a duke.’

‘I believe the relation is distant and Father’s money, as opposed to Ramsey’s sense, might have had more to do with it,’ Letty murmured.

‘Your comment is ill bred and ungrateful. Your brother’s marriage to dear Florence provides you entrance into a level of society I never enjoyed. But do you not take advantage of this? No. You spent close to two years with her in London and did not acquire a single suitor. In fact, you hardly seemed to socialise at all—or only under duress. Now you live here on your own in a ludicrously eccentric manner while squandering your inheritance which is the only thing likely to entice a suitable husband.’

‘My delightful personality and good looks will not?’ Letty quipped. ‘Anyway, my lifestyle is much too frugal for much squandering.’

‘You have purchased a house and must run that establishment.’

‘Two, actually. I rent one to the doctor next door.’

‘Who is also odd, from what I hear. No one even sees the man. Anyway, back to the garden party. Dear Florence purposefully invited Mr Chester. Indeed, she arranged the party all specially for you, you know.’

‘I didn’t. It certainly looked lovely. I appreciated everything. Particularly the elephant. And the giraffe.’ Letty sat in the chair opposite, lolling in excess as though to compensate for her mother’s stiffness.

‘Elephant? I do hope you are not losing your reason. It is not done, you know.’

‘I was referring to the box tree sculpted like an elephant. In fact, the box trees all resembled wild animals. Combined with the stone lion, it felt like a veritable African adventure.’

Her mother’s frown deepened. ‘I am uncertain if African adventures are entirely appropriate.’

‘Really, that quite ruins my plans for next week. By the way, did you want tea or any other refreshment?’

‘Can Sarah make tea?’

‘She can boil water.’

‘Fine, but I won’t be diverted. Florence wanted you to meet Mr Chester. We both did. It was excessively irritating that you did not.’

‘Chester?’ Letty frowned. She remembered a middle-aged gentleman of that name.

‘He has a sizeable income and is related to an earl.’

‘Doesn’t he also have a bald head, a bad temper—and a wife?’

‘She’s dead. A month since,’ Mrs Barton announced with unseemly enthusiasm.

‘Gracious, I can’t drag the poor man down the aisle when she is hardly cold in her grave.’

‘You wouldn’t drag him down the aisle immediately. You would reach an understanding. The wedding would come after a seemly interlude. And really, you cannot be too picky. You are not in the first blush of youth and no great beauty.’

‘Certainly, I am guaranteed not to become vain,’ Letty muttered.

‘Moreover, you have chosen this eccentric lifestyle,’ her mother continued, ignoring the comment. ‘I mean you do not have a proper cook, butler or scullery maid. And sharing Sarah with that young doctor, I don’t think that’s the thing at all.’

‘I hardly think my virtue will be compromised because my maid also dusts for a gentleman.’

Her mother made another tutting sound. ‘You can scoff all you want. But Florence and Ramsey will have their own family soon. I know your father left you comfortably placed, but your funds are not unlimited. And Ramsey cannot be expected to support you in this nonsense.’

Letty rubbed the cloth of her skirt between her fingers, then stilled her hand. She’d heard this all a thousand times and refused to believe her mother’s doomsday prediction. After all, she was almost self-sufficient.

Although she did tend to be paid in rather a lot of root vegetables which, she supposed, might lead to a healthy lifestyle, but hardly one of affluence.

Yes, it was a tenuous, fragile success and one based on smoke and mirrors. The purchase of the two houses and the doctor’s buggy had taken a considerable sum and her training in London was not without cost. Moreover, it would only take ‘Dr Hatfield’ to make some mistake, or some sharp-eyed individual to see beyond the wig, spectacles, her flattened chest and man’s attire.

Briefly, her mother’s face softened. ‘Besides, this must get lonely. Your father and I weren’t close exactly, but we shared a common goal to look after you and Ramsey, to secure the best for you. Surely you must want a family, children?’

For a moment, Letty remembered Mrs Jamison’s expression as she held her baby. It would be something to feel such love. It would be something to create new life. Yet she remembered also the mothers she had seen in hospital whose children could not be saved. She remembered the desperation in their eyes. They had been broken by the loss.

The pain of losing a child must be more awful than anything she could imagine. She’d felt broken enough by her father’s unexpected death. Even now she could see him in stark detail, his face ashen, contorted with pain as his hand flew in a futile gesture to his chest before dropping to the floor.

There was nothing she could do.

Was that when she’d decided that she must find a way, however desperate and crazy, to pursue medicine? Was that when she’d realised that she could not be satisfied with reading alone or even sneaking after the midwives?

Those visits had started a few years earlier. Whenever her mother was in London, Letty would wander to Mrs Soames’s cottage, fascinated with its bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling, air heavy with the scent of caudle. Later, she became more daring, tagging along when Mrs Soames was summoned to attend a birth. At first, Mrs Soames had shooed her away, but eventually she’d been allowed to boil water or bring in the hot caudle for the mother to drink.

Of course, she’d been motivated in part by rebellion, a need to experience something before becoming enclosed within the noose of societal expectation. But it had become much more than that.

‘I don’t think I have quite the same aspirations as other women.’

‘Tell me something I do not know,’ her mother said with a rare glint of humour, albeit grim. ‘Again, I blame your father. He educated you in a way which did not prepare you to fit into society.’

‘Perhaps you are right about that,’ Letty said.

‘And I was away too much in London. I always found the country so dull. Besides, I worried about the wrong things. One fears one’s daughters will go to dances before they are officially come out or make a fool of themselves over some handsome boy, not wander about as a ministering angel.’

At that moment, the door swung open and Sarah bustled in with the tea tray, placing it on the round table with extra care, as though well aware of Mrs Barton’s critical eye.

Thankful for the interruption, Letty poured the tea and for a few seconds the room was quiet except for the trickle of liquid and Sarah’s soft retreating footsteps as she exited into the corridor and towards the kitchen. Letty handed her mother the cup and Mrs Barton sipped, making no comment.

Fortunately, Mrs Barton chose to abandon the topic of Letty’s adolescence. It had not been pleasant. Her mother had eventually learned of her escapades and put an abrupt stop to those excursions. Even her father had not entirely approved when he’d become fully aware of her activities. Indeed, he’d suggested that she would do better to read about modern advances than to acquire knowledge too steeped in superstitious folklore to be of use. He added also that the former would be safer and considerably less distressing for her mother.

As she drank her tea, Mrs Barton focused more intently on recounting Mr Chester’s virtues and insisted that she introduce Letty to that gentleman as soon as she could determine an appropriate and timely manner to do so.

‘You must realise that a widower of good character and sizeable income will not remain available for long and it is incumbent upon us to move in an expeditious manner.’

‘But—’

‘And if you wanted a younger man with hair, you should have acquired one while in London with Florence, which was the perfect opportunity.’

Letty opened her mouth and then snapped it shut. She had no desire for a husband, with or without hair. In fact, she knew she would be a dreadful wife, but it would be impossible to convince her mother about this.

Instead, she listened stoically, hoping that Mrs Barton would eventually run out of adjectives to describe Mr Chester. Surely, there was only so much one can say about a dead wife and a solid bank balance.

Standing at last, Mrs Barton glanced around Letty’s drawing room. ‘Sarah keeps it tidy enough, I’ll grant you, and I am pleased you do not have too many of those books in evidence which absolutely screech “bluestocking”. But living here with only a servant for company is no substitute for family.’

With those words, her mother left. Letty saw her to the door and then flopped down with unabashed relief, lying on the sofa with her legs inelegantly draped over its arms as the carriage wheels rattled into the distance.

Departure was always the best thing about her mother’s visits.

Her poor mother—she would have been so happy with a nice girl who wanted to get married to a nice gentleman of superior social status with a moderate bank account and have nice children who also wished to marry nice individuals with superior social status and moderate bank accounts.

At times Letty wondered whether she should be grateful to her father for enabling her to escape such a dire fate, or angry that, as her mother said, he had ensured she could never fit into an appropriate role, as prescribed by society.

The door opened. Sarah entered, her face crinkled with worry.

‘What is it?’ Letty asked, lowering her feet and sitting upright.

‘A note, miss. For the doctor.’

‘Very well.’ Letty took the note. It appeared to be on good-quality paper and more literate than the usual summons from a villager or farmer. Her gaze skimmed the terse lines. The writing was in bold black ink and in a masculine hand and she felt a start that was half-panic and half-excitement.

‘Good gracious—Dr Hatfield is requested to provide a consultation to a Lady Elsie Beauchamp,’ she said.

* * *

Tony glared out of his window. He sipped his coffee which was strong and harsh the way he liked it. He was being a damned fool, he knew. It was ludicrous to be swayed by the notions of a redheaded miss with interesting eyes, but lacking a shred of medical knowledge. Dr Jeffers had trained in Edinburgh. He plied his trade successfully, or so it would appear, given his horse, carriage and clothes.

Tony drummed his fingers against the window sill. Indeed, Jeffers had turned up promptly enough following their return from the garden party. He had immediately suggested leeches to withdraw the excess fluid in Elsie’s arms and legs, which made sense, he supposed. The physic had also directed the continued limitation of Elsie’s fluid intake, which also made sense.

After these pronouncements, Dr Jeffers had settled himself with Tony in the library and dedicated himself to his own fluid intake in the form of several brandies.

And Elsie had almost cried when she’d heard she should not drink water or lemonade.

Today she did not look a whit better.

She looked worse.

A lot worse.

Tony could feel the fear. It cut through his numbness. It lined his stomach. It made his mouth dry and his body hollow. Elsie was his only living sibling and the child she carried was his best friend’s heir.

He rang for Mason. ‘Has that new doctor come yet?’ he asked as soon as his man had entered the study.

‘No—sir—but the footman returned and said that he would attend her ladyship.’

Tony nodded. ‘It cannot do any harm to get a second opinion. I would take her up to London, but she begged me not to do so. She said the journey would make her feel too ill, especially in this heat.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘I will not have my sister suffer because Dr Jeffers is too busy drinking brandy to properly concentrate on her.’

‘No, my lord.’

‘And you said he was good?’

‘According to the cook’s sister. She spoke quite highly of him, sir.’

‘I am relying on Mrs Greene’s sister?’

‘Mrs Peterson, my lord. Mrs Greene is the housekeeper.’

‘I am relying on the report from a random relative of one of the staff here?’

‘Two, sir. The second footman’s mother had a good report. She didn’t like Dr Jeffers, sir, although you were kind enough to pay for the cost of his visit. Called him foolish, sir.’

Then her doctor is a fool.

He smiled, remembering Miss Barton’s words. ‘The second footman’s mother is not alone in her opinion.’

‘Er—no, sir.’

Tony had felt something yesterday as Miss Barton had brushed by him. He’d experienced a tightening within his stomach and an added level of awareness as she’d skewered him with that bright luminous gaze. It was like a shadow—a reflection of what had been. Or what he had once been capable of feeling.

Before Waterloo, he would have noted her curves, the creaminess of her skin, the elegance of her neck, that russet hair and the firm line of her lips, the bottom lip full and slightly pouted. The very dowdiness of the grey dress almost enhanced her appeal, like an intriguing package, delightfully obscured.

He swore. His hand had jerked, spilling the coffee.

‘My lord?’

‘Clean up this mess. I seem intent on burning my good hand, as well.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘And tell me as soon as that new doctor arrives.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Mason dabbed at Tony’s hand and at the liquid spilled on the sill.

Tony brushed away his efforts irritably. ‘“Yes” and “no”—is that the extent of your linguistic capabilities?’ he muttered. ‘You sound like a bloody parrot. Go. You know I hate hovering.’

‘Yes, my lord. I mean, no, my lord.’




Chapter Three (#u90f429ed-7cf0-57d6-95da-1c4519e89f15)


Letty sat within the shaking chassis of the doctor’s elderly vehicle. Arnold was driving and she began to wish she had chosen to do so herself. Arnold drove somewhat ponderously which, when combined with Archimedes’s aversion to over-exertion, meant for a slow journey. Besides, if she had driven herself, she would have been outside which would have been considerably pleasanter than this sweltering heat which seemed to exaggerate every noxious scent ever contained within the vehicle.

Sweat prickled her palms and armpits while her stomach tightened so that she felt quite ill. The window did not open so there was no way to ensure a breeze and her scalp under the wig itched quite dreadfully.

Trying to distract her mind, she applied herself to the study of the passing scenery. It had been a hot, dry summer. The fields had turned yellow and the cows huddled under the shade trees. What should have been small bogs or shallow ponds were dried mud, beige patches marked with a criss-crossing pattern of cracks.

At least, as the doctor, she could see the view with clarity. As Miss Barton, she never wore her spectacles and her world was blurred.

The trap swung from the main road and into a small copse, a shady pleasant place. It reminded her of afternoon visits with her mother when they had called in on Lady Beauchamp—Elsie’s mother-in-law, she presumed.

Letty pushed a finger under her wig, trying to make it more comfortable. She felt a fluttering of nerves. Sarah’s fault, no doubt. She’d hovered about earlier, her face so furrowed she’d all but resembled a death mask at a feast.

So why had she taken this extra risk? Letty supposed she could rationalise it from a purely financial viewpoint. At some point, she needed to grow her practice and to be paid in money, as opposed to root vegetables.

But why start with Lady Beauchamp and Lord Anthony with his sharp, hard eyes and bitter smile?

Generally, she understood herself well enough, but today her motivation seemed more complex. She was genuinely worried about Elsie. She’d read about a condition where the expectant mother’s face and extremities became puffy and swollen. She’d also spoken to local midwives and had once seen a mother, with similar symptoms, have fits.

She had died.

Letty also knew there were preventative measures, but no cure. Indeed, she might well be unable to help.

She placed her forehead against the carriage window. No, it was not only worry for Elsie, but something else. There was another element, a thrill of excitement, a feeling of daring and exhilaration. The very riskiness of the enterprise appealed.

But this was not logical and, while she had taken risks in the past, they had been calculated. By any measure, she should avoid Lord Anthony at all costs. He had seen her as a woman and a cynical intelligence glinted from those grey-blue eyes.

She’d liked his eyes.

She frowned at this errant thought, pushing her hand further under the wig. She hated it. She hated having to dress up in this stupid disguise to do the job she was meant to do.

As they passed through the woods, twigs and branches scratched against the buggy as it bumped over the uneven path before pulling on to the well-tended drive. For a moment, Letty knew a sudden longing to return to the dim, shadows of the woods.

Shafts of bright sunlight returned, spilling through the carriage windows. Trees flanked the drive so that the light flickered as they progressed towards the mammoth structure at its end. Good heavens, she had quite forgotten its size. It made Oddsmore seem but a country cottage. On either side, she could see the green expanse of the immaculate park, punctuated by bright flower beds, shimmering ponds and neatly trimmed box trees.

At least, payment would not be in root vegetables.

But the very elegant opulence of this place served to spike her worry. These people had power. Any complaint, any disclosure would be believed.

Arnold pulled the vehicle to a stop. Up close, the house seemed even more imposing; a three-storey structure with a stone façade and turrets. Ramsey had enjoyed a brief fascination with architecture and they’d studied turrets with their tutor.

Arnold clambered down and opened the carriage door. For a moment she hesitated, then climbed out, looking up with a shiver of apprehension at the wide staircase and imposing bulk.

‘Good gracious, they even have lions,’ she muttered.

Indeed, two stone lions flanked the staircase as it ascended towards an impressive black-lacquered door.

This portal opened even before she’d walked up the stairs and a rather grim-faced butler stood within the doorway.

‘Dr Hatfield...’ the elderly butler intoned, more like a statement than question, as though announcing her entrance to a grand banquet.

‘Yes,’ she agreed, keeping her voice gruff, her spine straight and her shoulders square.

He had a squint. Hopefully, the squint indicated limited vision.

‘Her ladyship is resting in her sitting room,’ the butler continued. ‘I will lead you to her. And His Lordship also requested that you visit him before you leave.’

‘Naturally,’ Letty said brusquely, ignoring the peculiar fluttering within her stomach.

After removing her hat and cloak, she followed the tall, somewhat stooped gentleman along a narrow passageway and into Lady Beauchamp’s sitting room.

A maid opened the door and Letty stepped into a dark apartment, the curtains so tightly drawn that the only light entered through a tiny crack between the cloth.

‘Good Lord, it is like a morgue in here,’ Letty said impulsively.

‘Not the best turn of phrase perhaps, Doctor.’ The voice came from a form just visible within the gloom.

‘Lady Beauchamp?’

As her eyes adjusted to the low light, Letty recognised Elsie. She lay on a daybed and gave a wan smile. ‘You are Dr Hatfield?’

‘Yes,’ Letty said. She must keep in mind that the doctor had never met the woman.

‘My brother wanted me to see you. I suppose that must mean you are the best. He always gets the best.’

‘Your brother is kind,’ Letty said.

‘That adjective is not frequently used to describe my brother, at least within the last year. Although he was different before.’

Letty curbed a flicker of curiosity. She longed to talk about Lord Anthony. Indeed, the man at the garden party had seemed in stark contrast to the young gentleman at her debut.

But Lord Anthony was not her patient and, even in the dim light, she could see that Elsie was not improved. Her face had a roundness she didn’t like and her speech lacked the brisk clarity she had recalled from their previous encounter. In fact, there was a listless apathy which seemed quite contrary to the woman she remembered.

‘Is it possible to open the curtains so I might better examine you?’ she asked.

‘No, please. The light makes my head worse.’

‘Your headaches are worse?’

‘Yes. So much.’

‘Very well. I will ask your maid to light a candle. Close your eyes if you must.’

She heard the striking of a match and the maid’s movements as she lifted the candle to provide a small, puddle of light.

Within its amber glow, she could discern the woman. She lay on the daybed, her eyes scrunched tight shut against the limited light.

‘I am glad you have your feet up. But keep them elevated higher than your heart.’ Letty took a pillow from an armchair opposite, placing it under Lady Beauchamp’s feet. ‘May I see your ankles?’

Lady Beauchamp acquiesced. Gently, Letty lifted her skirts. As she had surmised, her ankles had swollen. Her feet were so distended that she had discarded her slippers.

She let the skirt fall back with a soft swish. ‘You have headaches, you said. Blurriness of vision?’

‘Terrible headaches, but my vision is not impaired.’

‘And what treatment has Dr Jeffers recommended?’

‘Leeches for my headaches. Limited fluid. Rest.’

‘Leeches?’ Letty muttered. That treatment had gone out with the ark.

‘What would you suggest?’

Letty paused. Truthfully, she knew that birth was the only ‘cure’ and Elsie was only in her seventh month. She also knew her condition to be serious, but feared that increased anxiety would aggravate her symptoms.

‘No leeches. Plenty of water. Rest with gentle walks when you feel able. Bland food. Meat and eggs. I will also prescribe a draught from the willow tree. We will start with the water now.’

‘I can have water?’ Elsie asked.

‘Yes.’

Elsie smiled. ‘Then I do not care if you call this whole house a morgue. It is a morgue. In fact, it is a mausoleum to George, Edgar and Tony.’

‘Lord Anthony? But your brother is alive?’

Elsie looked down. In the candlelight, Letty saw the shimmer of tears just visible under the lashes. ‘Perhaps. But he is so changed. Sometimes I hardly recognise him.’

Again Letty had to curb that quick sharp pulse of curiosity.

‘Perhaps he is still adjusting to his injuries.’ She turned to the maid. ‘Do you have a jug for water?’

The girl bobbed a curtsy and hurried from the room. The opening of the door brought a welcome draught of cooler air.

‘Also, this chamber is too hot. At least during this warm weather. Is there a cooler room you could spend time in?’ Letty asked.

Elsie shrugged. ‘I suppose. The house is gargantuan.’

The maid re-entered, handing over a glass of water. Letty gave it to Elsie, watching her relief as she took a sip.

Then she turned back to the maid. ‘Make sure her ladyship spends time in a cooler area.’

‘Yes, sir. The other side of the house is usually in shadow.’

‘Good, make certain that she goes there and keeps her feet up. And she can drink. But not too much all at once.’

‘What will happen if I drink that whole jug?’ Elsie asked, with greater energy, eyeing the jug which the maid had put upon a dressing table.

‘I am uncertain, but I believe in moderation.’

Elsie giggled. ‘You are an unusual man.’

Letty stiffened. ‘How so?’

‘You said the word “uncertain”. So unusual for a man and a doctor,’ Elsie added with another tiny giggle.

But it should not be unusual, Letty thought. There was so much doctors did not know—the mysteries of physiology and disease. The exact method involved in the spread of disease and how one could help the human body to withstand illness.

‘Doctor?’ Elsie queried.





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