The Love Note

by Joanna Davidson Politano

  “We’re agreed, then. We’ll make a go of it and see who is right.”

  fourteen

  People marry based on the scientific assumption that two halves make a whole, but that’s false. Only God makes something whole.

  ~A scientist’s observations on love

  Dr. Lucas Tillman paused with one arm in his riding coat and listened. Footfall neared the foyer where he stood ready to leave, but it was not a man’s heavy step as he’d expected. With a frown, he straightened and turned, shoving the other arm into its sleeve.

  “Beg pardon, sir.” A uniformed maid appeared under the glowing light, dipping a brief curtsey. “You’re wanted in the drawing room before you leave.”

  With a nod, he shrugged back out of his coat and handed it to her before making his way back through the house. He dared not hope at who had asked him to stay—Willa? Perhaps she’d changed her blessedly obstinate mind. His heart sped and he straightened, adjusting his cravat. Why was he always such a fool with that woman? Her mere presence tangled his tongue and twisted his brain.

  But it was a little brown-garbed figure with dark hair and a darker look that stepped from the shadows. “I’d like a bottle of tablets, please.” Celeste Gresham, of all people, looked up at him, knitted shawl wrapped around her like a shield. But from what? She looked ready to march into battle, dark eyes wide. What had happened to make this poised and easygoing woman seem so ill at ease?

  He attempted to warm the air with a smile as he stepped closer. “You mean my tablets, Miss Gresham?”

  “Yes, of course.” She looked down, smoothing her skirt. “I can pay for them, but this must remain between us.”

  He’d once coaxed his sister’s kitten from a tree, its wide, wary eyes staring down at him. This left him with a similar feeling, making him want to simply hold up his hands and declare his lack of ill intent. “Of course.” He tried a few steps forward. “But I’d like to first understand why you wish to take them.”

  Her shield went up. “You said they cure most anything. Is it important what they’re for?”

  “I’ve never given medicine of any sort without understanding the symptoms.” He folded his arms across his chest and lowered his voice. “Pray, Miss Gresham, what is it? I’m a physician, don’t forget. I have handled two or three unpleasant illnesses.”

  She hesitated, something jerking within her squarish jaw. “You’ll not tell anyone?”

  “Of course not.” He stood at the edge of this odd mystery, staring down into the darkness as he anxiously waited for the answer.

  She stepped forward, head down as she mumbled her reply behind her hand. “It’s for my tmpr.”

  He blinked, uncrossing his arms. “Beg pardon, what did you say?”

  She cleared her throat. “My tm-pr.”

  He pursed his lips. “You’ll have to speak up, Miss Gresham. I cannot—”

  “Tem-per!” She spit it out, then moved back, visibly shaken.

  “Right, then. That’s what I thought you said.” He leaned on the desk and folded his arms, studying her. If only she could appreciate the humor in what she was suggesting. “Miss Gresham, why do you believe you have a temper?”

  She stared, the whites of her eyes framing the dark centers. She shifted. Colored painfully. “Come to think of it, perhaps I don’t need pills. Yes, I rather believe I’ll be all right after all. So sorry, Doctor, to take your time. I suppose I need a good night of rest and—”

  Her tense posture compelled him to reach out and touch her arm. “Miss Gresham.”

  She jumped, spinning to look at him.

  “Everyone’s allowed moments of frustration now and again. Grant yourself the chance to express your thoughts without believing yourself mad.”

  She just stared.

  “You’re not wicked.” He spooned the simple phrases out to her, watching her melt into an acceptance of their truth. “And I don’t believe you have a temper.”

  Her features eased, fingers unclenching and chin tipping up a little.

  “What you do have, however, is a case of nerves. How long has it been since you’ve left your family and taken a holiday?”

  “A . . . holiday? Alone?” She laughed, a tight sound high in her throat. “What a notion, Doctor.”

  “I’d sell you my tablets if I thought they’d help, but I see nothing wrong. Not truly.”

  She turned when a noise echoed somewhere deep in the house. “Oh, excuse me, Doctor. I must go. Thank you so much for your time, and please do let me know if you need anything.” She spun with a swirl of heavy skirts and left.

  With a frown, Tillman walked to the desk and looked about. He took the liberty of borrowing a page of stationery from the blotter and scribbled his instructions in light pencil.

  Official script for Miss Celeste Gresham, written by Dr. Tillman

  One holiday, to be taken for the course of a full week.

  Nightly hot baths, with fresh scented soap.

  A full cleanse of all worrying thoughts into a notebook or a good friend.

  Daily diet of Scripture to replace falsehoods, fear, and worry.

  Avoid infectious ailments, such as pessimism and anger, and those who carry them.

  He couldn’t bear to take the two pounds from her. Much as the healing power of the pills excited him, they were the wrong cure for her ailment, and it didn’t take a licensed doctor to see that. He shoved the thick vellum page in his pocket and went in search of his newest patient.

  Another figure approached from the stairs, one who stirred his heart with a painful little jolt of out-of-reach. Every time he saw her, the effect was the same. He was struck speechless by that rosy complexion, the little dimples that appeared and vanished playfully.

  “You’re still here,” she said.

  “It would seem so.” He offered a slight bow, keeping every muscle in check under her bright scrutiny. Sweat beaded on his face. When her eyes beamed their lofty disapproval, the strain on his nerves heightened. “Have you seen Miss Gresham about?”

  The delicate frown deepened. “Celeste? You’ve not agreed to peddle your bottle of nonsense to her, have you?”

  The word nonsense hit him in the chest, winding him. Years of endless research, digging, prayer, trial and error, failures and epiphanies all stacked up before this pert woman’s stunning gaze and suddenly seemed silly and wasted. Infantile.

  She lowered her head. “I apologize, Doctor. There was no call to say it that way. But I do hope you’ve not taken her money.”

  He cleared his throat and forced a smile as images of those he’d helped flashed before his weary mind. He mustn’t forget them. “Not at all. I have something for her.”

  “I’ll deliver it for you.” She held out a hand.

  He thought of her reading the impromptu “prescription,” as she certainly would, and the idea of her lovely, keen eyes on his scrawled lines made him feel foolish. “I’ll simply leave it for her in the study, if you’d be kind enough to tell her.”

  He excused himself and pushed past his mentor’s beautiful daughter. Reaching the room, he felt flushed and cold at the same time from his encounter. He sank into a chair and shoved a hand through his hair, forcing an exhale.

  Nonsense.

  That’s what all his work amounted to. In the end, he rose and shoved the foolish “prescription” into his pocket and slipped out of the house. He knew Willa would read it, and the very idea made him feel like a boy in the schoolyard.

  Celeste sank into the stiff little parlor chair and touched both hands to her burning cheeks. What had possessed her to tell him of her temper? Now he knew. Every time he saw her, he’d look at her with new knowledge. Ugly knowledge.

  After a moment of berating herself, she made her way through the narrow halls to the study, where he’d apparently left something for her. “He seemed terribly unsettled,” Willa had said as she’d given her the message, “but I cannot imagine why.”

  Now alone in the room that still rang with her conf
ession, she glanced about the bleak, open space for what he’d left. Her frowning gaze finally landed on a folded paper on the floor before the cold hearth, highlighted by a streak of sunshine glowing through the drapes. It must have blown off the mantelpiece when he’d opened the doors. She knelt and fingered the paper’s lovely scarlet border. How curious.

  When she unfolded the paper and read, her heart erupted in shock and disbelief. She forced herself to slow and read every line carefully.

  You inspired in me a passion both bright and deep . . .

  This couldn’t be what he’d meant to leave her. She’d never inspired passion in anything or anyone.

  Yet she remembered what Willa had said—he’d seemed nervous. Flushed. Could it be?

  I marvel at the way you are, those strengths and weaknesses woven so deftly together, driving you through life with such passion . . .

  No. This wasn’t right. This couldn’t be for her. Celeste’s brow drew into a natural frown, as it always did when she encountered overt shows of affection, but the words gently probed the walls of her heart and loosened its mortar, finding the hidden softness within that wanted it to be for her. Did someone actually see her detachment, her attempts to heal, as strength?

  She read more.

  I choose you. Every day, every moment, I choose you.

  She’d forgotten what that felt like. Being not just tolerated, but desired. Sought after. The warm, intoxicating notion reached something inside her that she hadn’t known still glowed and stoked its coals. Her gaze darted to the window where the doctor was mounting his horse in the drive. He admired her? He thought her lovely and talented and remarkable? He thought her out of reach? A draft from the leaky old window brushed her hot skin as she watched him shake out the reins, straighten on his horse, and glance back at the house before riding away. Had any man ever looked more handsome than when on horseback?

  She turned, schooling her thoughts. Yet did she truly need to? He’d declared himself. Probably. She’d heard of gentlemen doing such things through letters, but still, it hardly seemed real. She’d laid out a fine road for herself, a lifetime of being a singular force of good in this world, but it seemed someone had stepped into that path and insisted on interrupting the journey.

  Something throbbed in her neck as she read it a third time, trying to wrap the beautiful sentiments around her prim appearance and aloof nature. How could anyone see beyond those things?

  I’ve seen the strength and kindness you believe go unnoticed, watched when you thought no one was looking, and observed what exists below the surface.

  An unexpected surge of femininity flooded her veins, and it was not altogether unpleasant. He knew her strengths and weaknesses, he claimed, and yes, even the secret she’d tried to hide. It was true, he knew the worst, now. He’d glimpsed the evil within.

  And moments later, he somehow still chose her.

  Doubt niggled at her when she realized the ink was far from fresh, so it couldn’t have been dashed off this minute, after she’d revealed what she had. What other secret had she? She must have been mistaken—and that knowledge brought a surprising stab of disappointment.

  Yet there was a terrible bleakness to her world without this letter in it, so she clung to the glimmer of hope that it was real. The “secret” could be anything. He had left something for her, and what else was there in the room? And the tender look in his eyes . . . No, there was simply no other explanation for it—he’d written the letter for her. The dry ink simply meant he’d written it some time ago and carried it around with him, waiting for the right opportunity to give it to her. Perhaps her moment of vulnerability had been that.

  A trace of hope invaded her spinsterhood. Could love and family truly be in her future?

  Yet she dared not hope, even if the letter was real, that it would last. After all, she’d been hurt before. The familiar jagged ache pierced her gut as if she were still seventeen and smitten with that abominable Frenchman. She’d been placed up on that heady mountaintop of romantic possibilities, only to topple off and go crashing to the ground. The rejection had been so unexpected, so sudden and thorough, that she could do nothing but reject, in turn, all other romantic attachments. It had given her a sense of dignity and safety, which she’d thoroughly appreciated.

  Until now. The letter stirred girlish fantasies and hopes, bringing to the surface the undeniable desire to belong to someone.

  Tucking the letter away, Celeste went in search of Burke, but instead she found Gabe in the servant’s hall, scraping his boots with a blade. “Playing in the mud again, are we?”

  Her brother lifted his kindhearted smile, welcoming her without a word. Men like Gabe Gresham were a warm embrace, a solid place to land. Not all men, it would seem, were the forceful, domineering sort the womens’ league fought against, and she forgot that at times. “Was that Caroline’s horse I heard leaving? Mother’s been relentless lately.”

  “Tillman’s.” She looked him over. “So why is it you’ve steered away from marriage, dear brother?”

  “Perhaps it’s marriage that’s steered away from me.”

  “Do you think . . . is it possible to have something better than they do?” She jerked her head toward the master suite. “Or is a better sort of love the thing of novels?”

  He stopped scraping and studied her, seeming to sense the depth of her wondering. “It’s real. It’s possible. Just not likely, when people approach marriage as medicine for what ails them, as they seem to do around here.”

  “Hmm.” Celeste leaned on a chair back, pondering. What was the ache inside her that she was finally acknowledging? Perhaps that was all she was longing for—a balm for past hurts. Not a true desire for something new. “I suppose Jacques simply left a wound that hasn’t been repaired. And sometimes I feel it again.”

  “Wounds are only useful for reminding us when to duck next time.”

  A smile tugged at her mouth. “Sometimes I think you’re brilliant.”

  He straightened and gave a small bow. “I do try.” Then he took her hand, towering over her with concern. “Don’t close yourself off from love—just from the wrong people, yes?”

  She gave him a nod, this big brother who absorbed the hurts of those he loved and carried their pain along with them, bearing it all on those broad shoulders of untold strength. Perhaps Tillman, who made his living in healing, would be the same way.

  Gabe was right. She had to know for certain what Tillman’s intentions were—no more coquetry and witty banter, no more guessing and second-guessing. It was the good doctor’s turn for a thorough examination. The very next time his boots crossed the threshold of Crestwicke Manor, she would find out for sure what was truly in his heart concerning her.

  fifteen

  Don’t disregard what a man says to you. If it comes out his lips, it was, in some form, in his heart at some point.

  ~A scientist’s observations on love

  “I despise being forced to do anything.” Golda’s voice cut through the peaceful night. “Almost as much as I despise an unknown destination.”

  On Saturday evening we rode like two opposing forces of nature trapped in the same carriage—Golda, the storm cloud, and me, the penetrating sunlight attempting to break through. “Give it a chance and perhaps you’ll enjoy yourself.”

  I’d finally received a reply to my audacious letter, and it was better than I had dared hope. We were invited to attend the sold-out event and given most enviable seating—included in the response were notes of admittance for Mrs. Gresham, her “clever nurse,” and one relation. Which turned out, thanks to Aunt Maisie’s cupid-like maneuvering, to be Gabe. Mr. Gresham had still not responded to my urging to return to Crestwicke, and Celeste wouldn’t give up her ladies’ meeting.

  “If everything in the world was known, what intrigue would be left to us?”

  She grimaced and turned away. On the rear-facing seats sat Gabe, and Golda’s lady’s maid, Jenny.

  “A clue, then.” I turned
toward my patient on the seat. “You’ll need your fan.”

  She glared at me. “I seldom have need of my fan. I’m not given to vapors over mere surprises.”

  The maid piped up from her seat. “You won’t keep us in suspense all the way to Brighton, will you, Miss Duvall? I can hardly bear it.”

  But keep the suspense I did, and soon we were rolling up New Street in Brighton before the expanded Theatre Royal, and the very sight of its lit-up columned entrance against red brick made me gasp. The stately old building had always imposed over Pavilion Gardens with a commanding dignity, but since it had come under the management of imaginative actor Henry John Nye Chart some years ago, the new face of this four-story structure lent it a gleaming magnificence that hinted at the talent displayed inside.

  “The theatre?”

  I turned to smile at Gabe, but the poor man looked stricken and pale at the notion of entering the social spotlight of Brighton. I’d warned him to dress for the event—what had he expected?

  We all climbed from the carriage, and with a gallant bow, Gabe escorted his mother up the torch-lit steps along with the throngs of well-dressed gents with ladies on their arms. Shoes clicked amidst the muffled tones of happy voices and swishing gowns. Soon we were escorted to a box seat near the stage, with red velvet chairs and gold-fringed curtains, the smell of gaslights filling our nostrils. It was a small auditorium compared to the houses in London, seating maybe one hundred fifty in the main level, but it was richly appointed and quite full.

  Gabe leaned over to whisper. “You are the oddest nurse I know, with the strangest treatments.”

  I gave a prim smile. “Why, thank you.”

  The red curtains parted, a weighty hush fell over the crowd, and a man stepped out onto the dim stage. He spoke his welcome and thanked everyone for coming to a most auspicious presentation. Golda gasped as a bearded gent in a brown tweed suit stepped onto the stage next, his weathered face framed by great clouds of white beard that had become his signature. “That’s . . . My heavens, is it . . . ?”