“I’d rather sit here if you don’t mind.” Nostalgia. It fluttered in his chest, making him feel like a green boy again.
As he munched on the warm bread and sweet marmalade, he closed his eyes and moaned. “Why did I stay away so long? Not a chef in London could delight my tongue like this, Mrs. Willoughby.”
She beamed. The fire cast a glow over her skin, but Gus saw the lines around her eyes and mouth. Silver now threaded her hair. Time had not stopped at Bliss Manor.
“I wish I could have been here for Grandmama. If she’d sent word, if I’d known she was ill, I would have come. I’m a physician for Christ’s sake.” The guilt still poked at his gut that he hadn’t seen her one last time.
“Her Ladyship knew how busy you were, and she loved you so much.” Mrs. Willoughby blinked rapidly and pressed her lips together. “She was a diamond of the first water, she was.”
He nodded, remembering the proud but loving countess.
“Your conveyance has arrived.” She wiped her hands on her apron and moved toward the hall. “You finish that up, and I’ll get them organized.”
“How do you know? I didn’t hear anything.”
“I heard Pup bark.”
“Pup?”
“Jasper’s dog.”
“And who is Jasper?” He knew the lad wasn’t a grandson.
“An orphan, so to speak. His mother died long ago, and his father is in debtor’s prison. The poor boy snuck onto a mail coach, trying to find relatives across the border. They caught him in the village and turned him out.” Mrs. Willoughby shrugged. “What could I do?”
He laughed. “Exactly what you did. And he came with a dog?”
“Oh no!” she laughed. “Jasper got him from a peddler who passed through last summer. His bitch had several pups, and he didn’t want to feed them.”
“I see.” Gus stood and stretched, his fingers almost touching the low charred beams of the kitchen. “Any other news I should know about?”
The housekeeper’s eyes darted up toward the ceiling, then she waved a hand at him. “Oh, just the usual rumors. Let me find Jasper.”
Rumors? The housekeeper was gone before he could ask, so he made his way to the library for some scotch. After a long, cold day, he needed liquid fire in his veins and a relaxing evening, fussed over by Mrs. Willoughby.
Gus entered the familiar, comforting room and took a deep breath. He’d always loved the smell of the leather bindings and polished panels. The jester-like faces in the corners of the crown molding grinned at him as he settled behind his grandfather’s walnut desk. He poured some liquor into a crystal glass and reached into his jacket for the letter that had arrived the day he left London. Cracking the seal on the paper, he sipped his scotch and sank into the overstuffed chair.
It was from an old university chum. Dr. Nathan Froning had kept up his correspondence over the years, sending notes throughout his many travels. Gus remembered the conversations they’d had about the afflictions of the human mind, and the compassion—or horror—society held for those lost souls. Nathan insisted that many of the “lunatics” of the day were misdiagnosed or misunderstood. Gus scanned the page and chuckled.
His friend was now employed at a small retreat in York, run by the Society of Friends, and attended just such patients. The religious group was known for their unique view of madness and used few restraints, insisting that all persons had souls and should be treated as such.
I’m learning more about the human condition than you can imagine. It is truly fascinating, and the most worthwhile work I’ve ever done. But we need good men. The Friends are staunch supporters of the downtrodden and are presently investigating the York Asylum. Atrocities are committed daily inside those walls, and we hope to bring the mayhem to an end.
A man with your qualifications, a physician with ties to Parliament, could demand the attention of the authorities when we are ready. Your voice, joined by your brother’s, would give much-needed legitimacy to our complaint.
Accept my invitation to visit us after the New Year. We’ll have a grand chitchat, and I will do my best to convince you to stay.
Gus took another sip of his scotch, rubbed his jaw, and turned the idea over in his mind. The proposal—and the challenge—intrigued him. It could be a curious distraction from his present dilemma while maintaining his role as a physician. Doctor the mind along with the body. Less death, but more possibilities to aid his fellow man. Isn’t that what he had been searching for? Plus, it would be good to see Nathan again.
He sighed as he stretched his long legs under the desk. A whisper of a breeze caressed his face and ruffled his hair, cooling the back of his neck. Strange, there were no windows open. Mrs. Willoughby must have left a door ajar.
He leaned back again and closed his eyes, his decision made. A calmness settled over him, soothed his discontented soul. For the first time in years, he looked forward to what tomorrow might bring. His mind wasn’t whirling with next week’s cases, or next month, or next year. Just tomorrow.
Chapter Three
Mid December 1813
Northumberland, England
“Blast, the country is a humdrum place after dusk. In London, my circle would just be waking up.” Turnsley paced the room and stopped in front of the dark windowpane to study his reflection. He adjusted his cravat for the third time and tugged on his Spanish blue waistcoat. “Mr. Miller seems a decent fellow and landed gentry, at least. I’ve invited him to hunt with me tomorrow.”
“They’re thoughtful neighbors. Mrs. Miller was such a comfort when Papa passed.”
“Their daughter is a rum doxy, though she’s tongue-tied in my presence. I’m sure men of my quality are rare in these parts.”
Etta bit back the smile. Their cousin had lived up to his own description: congenial, self-serving, and vain—but harmless. He clasped his hands behind his back and went back to his pacing.
Her sister’s nose was in a book, as usual. She barked a laugh at something on the page, which drew their cousin’s attention. His eyes went wide at the volume of her chortle.
“What in deuce are you reading?” he asked.
Etta answered for her sister. “She’s quite obsessed with romance novels.”
“A romantic, is she?” He stopped, his silver gaze intent on her. “And what about you? Notions of love and courtship, or are you a practical lady?”
“I-I’m not sure. I haven’t given it much thought.” Would their cousin want them to return to London? Would she finally get the Season her father had promised?
“I have.”
His tone had changed from pleasant to detached in a blink.
“I spent the afternoon with the steward. Good man, knows his trade. The income from the estate should keep me flush in the pocket. However, I will need to make some adjustments in order to cover my present debts.”
Her gut twisted. “What kind of adjustments?”
“If I remove you both to London, I can close this house up. You would have to leave at some point, eh?”
“Well yes, but I hoped to stay until I was married.”
“Which brings us to the next part of my scheme. By marrying me, I not only save a generous dowry, but you will retain your childhood home. Your sister will stay with us, of course, until we find her a suitable match. Both of our dilemmas solved.”
Dread clutched her throat. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Her eyes flashed to Tia, who had looked up from her book. Her sister recognized the panic in Etta’s eyes but not the cause.
“What is it?” she cried too loudly.
Turnsley’s lip curled at the strident shriek. “This is sudden, and I see you’re overwhelmed. I can’t say I blame you.” He moved from behind Tia and stepped in front of Etta, the warmth returning to his gray orbs as he took her hand. “I’m sure you never imagined such good fortune.”
“W-we barely know one another,” she stammered.
Her cousin chuckled and shook his head. “You are a fet
ching little gudgeon, refreshing really. It’s quite an advantageous match for you. My family is well connected.”
“But you don’t love me.” Etta knew the ton had different standards for marriage, but she’d been raised in the country. Far, far away from London.
“I’ve been groomed for a marriage of convenience, and I have no doubt your affection will grow.” He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Yes, I’ll teach you things that you haven’t read in a book, my sweet.”
Etta cringed inside. When had this petulant blunderbuss transformed into a pragmatic whipster? His fingers trailed down her neck and traced her collarbone. She blinked furiously. “Etta! What is wrong?” Tia stomped her foot, her book falling in her lap.
“We’re betrothed. I will be your brother.”
Tia’s eyes went wide, darting to her sister for confirmation. Etta nodded and tapped her ring finger. Tia’s mouth formed an O before her laughter filled the room. It took a moment for her to realize Turnsley was serious. She struggled to compose herself. “I’m sorry,” she said with a soft hiccup. “You surprised me.”
“Of course. You’re young and do not understand the ways of the world.” He cleared his throat and spread out his hands. “Now, it’s time to celebrate. Please, sing for us.”
Etta’s mind was whirling.
“Miss Henrietta?” he asked again, a slight edge sharpening the request.
“Oh, yes, of course. Tia?”
The younger girl stood and walked across the room to the pianoforte. Etta followed, her feet numb as she leaned against the mahogany and sifted through the music. Something melancholy. Something appropriate. She found the sheets for “The Soldier’s Adieu” and placed it in front of her sister.
When they finished, Turnsley studied Etta. “You have a bird’s voice.”
Tia gasped. “Bad choice? Then you choose the next one!”
Their cousin’s mouth fell open, his chin swallowed by his elaborate cravat. “No, I said—”
Etta quickly tapped her sister’s shoulder and finger spelled “bird” then ran her finger down her throat.
Tia giggled. “My apologies, Lord Turnsley.”
“What was that?” he asked Etta mildly, moving his fingers in imitation.
“She has limited hearing since the scarlet fever. We learned the manual alphabet and spell any words one of us can’t decipher.” Etta held her breath.
“How long has she been this way?”
Tia answered herself. “Three years, just after my tenth birthday.”
The air left Etta’s lungs in a rush. The cat was out of the bag, and he seemed intrigued rather than taken aback or disgusted. “She’s very skilled at lipreading,” she added.
“Obviously,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “How limited?”
“She can hear some high-pitched sounds, like a whistle.”
“No words? No human voices?” His gaze raked up and down the girl in question.
Etta shook her head. “But she’s still accomplished. Music has always been her passion, and she’s able to count beats with a metronome.”
Turnsley’s attention now focused on Tia. “Play some more. Something happy and lively,” he ordered, twirling his hands in the air.
The sisters performed several more songs while their cousin polished off half a decanter of brandy. Etta yawned and Tia mimicked the gesture. “It’s been an eventful day. I believe we’ll both retire, my lord.”
“Of course, my sweet.” He nodded at Tia as she left the room. Etta’s feet had just crossed the threshold when he stopped her. “Could you stay for a moment? I have a few questions.”
So close!
He patted the chaise longue where he sat on one end.
She perched on the edge of the pea-green velvet, studying the tassels that lined the bottom of the cushion. His hand covered hers. This time, she yanked it free and clasped her fingers together.
He only grinned. “By the devil, you’ll be an amusing ice queen to crack and melt.”
“I have not accepted your proposal. Please do not use such vulgar language in front of me.” Her limbs trembled. She hadn’t meant to blurt that out.
Turnsley guffawed. “You poor little country mouse. You really have no idea, do you?” He wrapped a thick strand of her glossy hair around a finger and held it to his nose. “As your sister’s guardian, I’m in the position to make her life comfortable or miserable. I can keep her close or send her very far away. I will leave that choice up to you.”
“If I marry you, then Tia will accompany us to London?”
“I’m afraid there is no way Miss Horatia could come to Town. I understand why your father never ventured south. I’ll need to change strategies.” His thumb stroked the back of her hand. “Is that why she’s prone to those fits?”
“Fits?”
“Those outbursts.” He sighed and ran a hand through his curls. “Disconcerting, to say the least.”
“She forgets to gauge the volume of her voice if she’s startled or excited. You’ve been here a week and just discovered her secret,” Etta reminded him.
“Yes, but I drink a decanter of brandy a day, love. How can I put her on the market when she’s damaged goods?”
“What does that mean?” Foreboding settled over her like mosquito netting.
“It means I didn’t expect to be saddled with a lackwit. A penniless nobleman would laugh me out of Almack’s with her in tow, let alone a bachelor of prominent standing. No, marriage is out of the question.”
Etta gasped, her hands fisted on her hips. “There is nothing lacking in Tia. She is intelligent and witty and—”
“Deaf. Damned rotten luck.” Turnsley sighed and scrubbed his face. “Henrietta, I’m not a cruel man, but I cannot afford to pay for her care for the rest of her days.”
“Why can’t she stay with us?” Etta pleaded. “She’s my sister. She’s all I have left of my family.”
“I will be your family now. I plan on a horde of children. Besides, my mother would most likely have her drowned in the Thames like a stray cat once she finds out.”
Etta sucked in a breath. What kind of people lived in London?
Turnsley stepped closer and tucked a stray lock behind her ear. He fingered the delicate Vandyke points along her neckline. His hand snaked around her waist, pulling her against his length. She swallowed, eyes closed, heart pounding with fear. “I’m afraid the circles I move in do not accept, er, misfits. Do you want your sister to be a circus sideshow? Pointed at, laughed at?”
She shook her head and blinked back tears.
“Of course not,” he murmured. “My poor, sweet, noble Henrietta. You are indeed a diamond waiting to be polished.” He stroked her cheek and whispered in her ear, “And I promise to make you shine.”
December 22, 1813
The glass fell from his limp fingers with a thunk. A soft snuffle floated from the prone body in the stuffed leather chair. Lord Turnsley wasn’t just jug-bitten this time. MacIntyre had added a few drops of laudanum to his brandy. Etta chewed her bottom lip, watching the golden liquid spread across the wool rug.
“You’ll make it bleed,” quipped Tia. “Do you feel guilty?”
Etta shook her head. Not enough to waver on the decided plan. She paced the room, avoiding the male lump and wet spot on the rug.
“Good. He’s lucky. I’d have run him through.” Tia glared at her snoring cousin. A bit of drool pooled at the corner of his open mouth, and she wrinkled her nose.
Fate—or MacIntyre—had intervened instead. A stranger had arrived several days ago with a letter meant for Lord Turnsley’s eyes only. The butler had informed the man that his lordship would be out until late that evening and warned there was sickness in the house. After some indecision, the messenger left his missive with MacIntyre. The ever-skeptical Scot had called on Etta with paper in hand.
Turnsley’s friend from York turned out to be an administrator for the York Insane Asylum. In exchange for making good on a debt and
a small donation, the “afflicted girl” would be well cared for under an assumed name. Two employees would be sent to retrieve “the patient” within a week.
Etta had been at sixes and sevens for two days, trying to keep their knowledge of the scheme quiet while they decided their best plan of action. Even now, she blinked back furious tears that Turnsley could be so coldhearted.
MacIntyre entered. “Is the blethering scunner out yet?”
Both girls giggled at his affected regal tone mixed with the colorful Highland brogue.
“Verra good. Yer luggage is on the carriage. There’s an inn just over the border. I ken the owner, and he’ll be happy to assist two bonny ladies on the run.”
Tia threw her arms around the stout man. “Thank you.”
Etta pulled her rabbit-trimmed mantle around her and followed her sister out the front door. They both looked up at their home, possibly for the last time. Life was not fair. Her family had experienced enough loss. Why would God let this happen?
Tia slipped her gloved hand inside her sister’s and squeezed. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
Etta gave her a fierce hug. “Nonsense! I love you, and we must be together,” she said simply. “He’s a vile creature.”
MacIntyre handed them up the steps.
“I don’t know what we’ll do without you,” Etta said. She blinked back tears as Tia settled against the soft leather squabs. “We’ll be lost.”
“Weel, I’m glad ye’ll no’ have to worry about that.” He grinned as he slammed the coach door and climbed up front. With a shake of the reins and a soft cluck, the pair of bays set off.
Near Bliss Manor
“Thank you, Dr. Wharren. It’s so good to have you home.” The old woman pushed a basket into his arms. “I don’t have much coin, but these scones are fresh and the jam made from the best cherries last summer.”
“I appreciate the baked goods.” Gus smiled. “Your husband should rest easy tonight. Follow my instructions with the tincture in his tea and the ointment on his chest. If his fever rises again, send for me.”
“Be careful on the road with no moon to guide your way. The snow has been falling thick and heavy.”
O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales Page 43
