by Paula Paul
“I’m afraid I rather doubt that,” Nicholas said. “That you will see that Nancy does or doesn’t do anything, I mean.” He seemed to be laughing at her with his sea-colored eyes. “She’s rather like an unruly pup, I say. But witty. I’ll grant her that. Almost a match for you.” He held her eyes with his for a moment and she saw something ancient burning in their depths. In spite of that, he went on with his banalities. “Leaving in this weather would be most unwise as well as ungenerous, as you would be depriving me of your company.”
“Really, Mr. Forsythe—”
“What is it, Dr. Gladstone? What is it that makes you so cautious? You hide behind your caution.”
He had once again caught her off guard, and for a moment she thought he might have, in his uncanny way, glimpsed that part of her she kept hidden even from herself, but she recovered quickly, at least to the extent that the wine, which was now making her dizzy, would allow. “Perhaps it is my profession,” she said with as much aloofness as she could muster.
He did not speak, but his eyes said enough to make her feel uncomfortable. She was relieved that the moment was interrupted by the servant bringing in the next course. She took a small portion of the beef as well as some of the larded sweetbreads but found that, in spite of their superb flavor, she could eat very little of either.
“Shall I call for another entree?” Nicholas asked. “Perhaps a larded guinea-fowl would be more to your liking.”
“No. Thank you. As you said, I’m accustomed to a light dinner.” She had stepped behind her barrier again, and she knew he was aware of it as well.
“Whatever you wish,” he said. She saw him raise his chin slightly, and in the next moment Morgan was pouring more wine for her. “Perhaps a dessert?” Nicholas said.
“No. Thank you, I’ve had quite enough. And I’m afraid I’m rather tired,” she added. “If you don’t mind, I should like to retire early.” It was a lie, of course. She didn’t feel at all tired now, after her short nap while she waited for Morgan, but she was afraid he would ask her to join him in the drawing room. That was something she would ordinarily have looked forward to. He had spent long hours in her parlor in Newton-Upon-Sea discussing a variety of subjects that she’d found intellectually stimulating, just as they had discussed the germ theory of disease on their way to his house. But something had changed between them, something she didn’t understand. Perhaps it was being here in his house that made her feel so disconcerted. Or perhaps it was the rain pounding on the roof and the wine pounding in her veins and Nicholas seeing far more than she wished to reveal.
She was grateful that he didn’t protest her early retirement and grateful to be alone in the confines of her room. The bed had been turned back and the soft glow of a lamp next to her bed seemed to invite her in. It was altogether an immensely enticing scene, and she was eager to slip into bed and to push all thoughts of Nicholas from her mind—to fall asleep thinking of nothing except the anticipation of an enlightening and stimulating lecture tomorrow.
She was surprised by a soft knock on her door. “Yes,” she called over her shoulder with some impatience.
“’Tis me, miss. Broomsfield. I come to see if you need anything before you sleep.”
“Thank you, no,” Alexandra said, thinking how she missed Nancy, who knew her habits well enough not to interrupt her when she didn’t wish to be bothered.
“Mr. Forsythe instructed me to open the window. He said you would prefer the fresh air even if ’tis night air. But the rain…”
“Thank you, it’s quite all right,” she said, and then, because she was once again taken aback by how much Nicholas seemed to know about her, added in defiance, “I shall open it myself when the rain stops.”
When she had undressed and gotten into bed, she lay on her side, staring at the painting of the woman, barely visible by the dim light that still burned at her bedside. It was a trick of that pale light and the dancing shadows it threw out that made the woman’s face appear animated, as if she were trying to tell her something. Something pleasant, Alexandra thought, as she allowed her thoughts to drift. She fell asleep thinking not of lectures on the germ theory of disease, nor of murder in Newton-Upon-Sea, but of Nicholas.
She awoke the next morning with the day already dressed in sunlight and birdsong. She was briefly disoriented, not knowing for certain where she was. Then, realizing the truth and the obvious late hour, she sat upright. As if on a cue, there was a knock on her door. It seemed to her as if it had been only minutes since the last knock. Before she could respond, the door opened slightly, and Broomsfield peered around the edge. Alexandra instinctively pulled the coverlet up to her chin as the girl entered.
“Ah you’re awake, miss. I brought your breakfast,” she said as she entered, carrying a tray covered with a linen napkin. “I hope ’tis eggs and cold beef you like, along with muffins and a bit o’ tea.” She placed the tray across Alexandra’s lap and removed the napkin. She waited patiently until Alexandra let go of the coverlet, then placed the napkin over her chest. “Will there be anything else?” the maid asked as she poured the tea.
“What time is it?” Alexandra asked, ignoring the tray.
“Half past nine, miss. Mr. Forsythe has gone to his office, but he said to tell you that you are to make yourself comfortable until he returns at half past eleven for the luncheon with you and the other guest.”
“The other guest? Who?”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be knowing that, miss.” Broomsfield stood with her hands folded in front of her, waiting. It took Alexandra a moment to realize she was waiting to be dismissed.
“That will be all, Broomsfield,” she said. Her tone, she realized was a little too sharp, but it was her own behavior that disturbed her, not the maid’s. She had planned to rise early and hire a cab to take her to the address Constable Snow had given her for the alienist. She would interview him, she had reasoned, and still have plenty of time to attend Dr. Lister’s lecture at two o’clock in the afternoon. It must have been the wine that made her sleep the morning away. Now, she knew there was not enough time to carry out her plan. She would have to wait until tomorrow to meet with Dr. Mortimer. The best she could do now was see that no more time was wasted.
“Broomsfield!” she said, calling the maid back when she was barely out the door. At the same time, she moved the breakfast tray aside, jumped out of bed, and pulled on her dressing gown.
“Yes, miss.”
“I must write a message,” Alexandra said, buttoning the dressing gown. “I shall need pen and paper as well as someone to deliver the message.” She had decided to send a message to Dr. Mortimer informing him of her wish to see him, and she would instruct the messenger to wait for his reply.
“Yes, miss,” the maid said again.
She was gone only a few minutes when a knock came at the door. When Alexandra opened it, she was surprised to see, not Broomsfield with pen and paper, but another servant, this one a girl of no more than fourteen, carrying two large pails of steaming water, one in each hand.
“Good morning, miss,” the girl said. “Broomsfield said I was to help ye with yer bath whilst she sees to yer request.”
Alexandra was astonished. “My bath? But I…”
The young girl entered the room and set the two pails of water down while she pulled a metal tub from the bottom of the wardrobe closet. Next, she took a bottle of liquid from her apron pocket, poured it into the tub, and then poured the steaming water over it. A delicate scent of lavender rose up with the steam. Alexandra continued to watch, speechless, as the girl brought the stool from the dressing table and placed it beside the tub then placed the towel from the washbasin rack on the stool, along with a bar of soap, which she took from another apron pocket.
She stepped back from the tub and asked, “Will you be needing help with yer buttons, miss?”
“With my… Oh. No, I shall be quite all right,” Alexandra said, eager for the girl to leave. When she was gone, Alexandra stared at th
e tub and inhaled the lavender scent for a moment, then, deciding it was too inviting to resist, unbuttoned her dressing gown. She picked up the cup of tea Broomsfield had poured and set it on the stool before she slipped into the water.
She had enjoyed both her soak and her tea for several minutes when Broomsfield returned. “It’s me, miss,” she said from outside the door. “With yer writing paper.”
Alexandra was nonplused, silently chastising herself for having succumbed so quickly to such decadent behavior that allowed her not only to sleep until half past nine, but also to forget her duties as she lounged in a bath of scented water. “Just a moment,” she called, scrambling out of the tub, drying quickly, and slipping into her dressing gown before she opened the door.
“Danny is waiting downstairs. He’ll deliver the message, miss,” Broomsfield said, standing by while Alexandra wrote the note requesting a meeting. “Shall I ask him to wait for a reply?”
Alexandra told her yes, then handed her the note. By the time she was dressed and downstairs, it was past ten. She still had more than an hour to wait for Nicholas to return for luncheon. It would be rude to leave, of course, but the wasting of time made her restless. Even a short stroll through the still damp gardens behind the house didn’t consume enough time. She went back inside, hoping to find the library where she could at least pass the time reading.
The library was not difficult to locate. A door was opened just up the hall from the room she knew to be the dining room, and when she passed by she saw that the walls were lined with leather-bound volumes. Stepping inside, she was momentarily surprised to see that she was not alone. A woman stood near one of the bookcases, wiping dust from the top of a row of books with a white cloth. She was a rather handsome woman of about sixty, small of stature. She was wearing a dark dress with delicate lace cuffs and an old fashioned lace cap. She could have been mistaken for a highborn lady, but her dusting cloth gave her away.
“Forgive me, I hope I’m not disturbing your cleaning.” Alexandra spoke in a quiet voice so as not to startle the housekeeper. “I just wanted to find something to read while I wait for Mr. Forsythe to return for luncheon. I shall be out of your way in a moment.”
The woman turned to look at her with pale blue eyes framed by delicate lashes and finely arched brows. “It’s quite all right, miss. And I shall be happy to have you remain here with your book if you wish. You shan’t disturb my cleaning at all.” Her accent and grammar were impeccable. How like Nicholas to have a housekeeper of such caliber. The woman made one more swipe at the books, then folded the cloth and placed it inside her cuff as if it were a handkerchief—a rather odd gesture, Alexandra thought. But, having lived with Nancy practically all her life, she was accustomed to servants with odd habits.
“Thank you,” Alexandra murmured, glancing at the shelves in front of her. They were packed with law books. She turned toward another shelf and happened to spot a book lying face down on a nearby table as if someone, Nicholas most likely, had left it that way to mark his place. She picked it up and noted the title. Ben Hur. She had heard of the book. It was new and gaining in popularity, especially among the less intellectual. It was said to be a rather well researched historical romance in a biblical setting, written by an American who was a territorial governor in an American province called New Mexico. Interesting that a man in an uncivilized wilderness should be so knowledgeable of ancient Roman and Jewish history, Alexandra thought as she scanned a few pages.
“Were you looking for anything in particular?” the housekeeper asked.
“No, nothing in particular,” Alexandra said, replacing the book to the table. “I’m afraid I’m just a bit restless.”
“Indeed?” The housekeeper’s fine brows rose a bit.
“Please don’t concern yourself,” Alexandra said. “It’s all my own doing. I’m afraid I made a terrible mistake by staying here, in spite of the storm. I’m afraid I’m simply going to waste Mr. Forsythe’s time, and certainly my own.”
“Come now, my dear,” the housekeeper said in a half-scolding tone. “There’s no point in grieving over anything you call a mistake. I believe that we may look back on any particular moment of the past and truly feel that it was impossible, God’s laws being what they are, that we should have done other than as we did.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Alexandra said, a bit taken aback.
“Of course, I’m right. Guilt is counter-productive and remorse is not a true feeling.” She moved across the room until she was face to face with Alexandra. “Think of it this way. God himself is the author of all evil for which we blame ourselves, so that through our mistakes we will find truth.”
“An interesting theory.” Alexandra was genuinely intrigued. “And rather bold I might add. There are those who believe God will punish you for daring to speak your mind that way.”
“Oh, I believe in God’s punishment all right,” the housekeeper said.
Alexandra gave a little laugh, enjoying the lively conversation. “You seem to have contradicted yourself. You undoubtedly mean you believe in His mercy.”
“Not at all.” The woman tossed her head as she spoke until her cap was slightly askew. “God must inflict us with evil consequences for our sins and ignorance. Otherwise, how would we learn? Mercy would be cruel.”
“I suppose you believe in eternal damnation, then.” Alexandra prompted her, the way she might have done Nancy.
“Certainly not.” The housekeeper was indignant. “God administers only remedial punishment. How could eternal damnation promote human progress?”
Alexandra was about to ask her if she thought human progress was truly a divine purpose when she was startled by Nicholas’s voice behind her.
“Dr. Gladstone! I see you’ve already met Miss Nightingale. She’s the surprise I promised you.”
Chapter Ten
Nicholas wanted desperately to speak to Alexandra in private, but he was momentarily distracted by the puzzling expression on her face. The sudden rush of color, however, was rather attractive. It gave her a fresh, girlish look. Then, the odd conversation that followed between her and Miss Nightingale puzzled and distracted him even more.
“Miss Nightingale, I must apologize. I didn’t know—”
“Of course you didn’t, Dr. Gladstone. And I didn’t know you were a—”
“But there’s no way you could have known since I—”
“Likewise there is no way you could have known that I am—”
“I’m afraid I was rude since I assumed you were the house—”
Miss Nightingale laughed. “I should have told you. I spied a smudge of ink on one of the volumes, and I can’t bear to see a book defaced. It was rather amusing really that you—”
She laughed again, and oddly enough, Alexandra laughed as well. The two of them gave each other one of those pseudo embraces that women are inclined to perform in which they almost but not quite cause the sides of their faces to touch. Then, as if they’d purposefully conspired to confuse him even more, they each turned to him as if they expected him to say something pertinent.
“Shall we…have lunch?” he said lamely and stepped back for the two of them to precede him to the dining room.
The two women exchanged a look, the meaning of which he had no inkling, and walked into the dining room. The formality of the room was relaxed somewhat by the intimate seating, with Nicholas at the head of the table and the two women on either side of him. When they were seated, each spoke to him in a most charming manner, thanking him for arranging the luncheon. He accepted with as much grace as he could muster. He was now regretting the fact that he had arranged the luncheon. Not that he didn’t find each of the women charming in her distinctively different way. It was simply that he had heard some quite disturbing news about Newton-Upon-Sea while he had been in his office. He was having difficulty focusing on the conversation.
“But statistics, of course, give us insight into how those laws operate,” Miss Nightingale said. Nicho
las had no idea what she was talking about. Miss Nightingale, like Alexandra, however, did very much enjoy philosophical discussions, and she was a great proponent of the science of statistics. He had been introduced to Miss Nightingale by his mother, who was one of the few women who, as far as Nicholas could tell, called the out-spoken and opinionated woman friend. For now, however, it was a struggle for him to listen to what he ordinarily considered her enlightening if sometimes shocking opinions. He was much too concerned about Alexandra. Perhaps it was unreasonable to think she was in danger because of what he had learned about the recent gory murders in Newton, but he was concerned, nevertheless. He was also puzzled that she hadn’t mentioned the deaths. She always had been an enigma to him.
“And I’m sure you agree that the mischief in that is obvious, don’t you, Mr. Forsythe?” Alexandra said.
“What?” Nicholas felt momentarily disoriented. “Oh yes, the mischief. Obvious. Yes, of course, you’re quite correct.” All he could think of now was getting as much information from Alexandra as possible. But she would insist on attending that lecture. He’d have to think of something. Perhaps he should keep her here indefinitely, especially if there was danger in Newton-Upon-Sea.
“Is it too much to hope that before the millennium—before the year two-thousand—that no longer will be the case?” Miss Nightingale said, addressing her question to him.
Nicholas, by this time, was so bogged down with concern he could not think of even the simplest response. The best he could muster was a blank stare.
“Mr. Forsythe, are you ill?” There was genuine concern in Alexandra’s voice.
“Ill?” he said, slowly coming out of his fog. “Of course not, I’m…”
“You really should have told me the physician who would be joining us was a woman, Nicholas,” Miss Nightingale said as his voice trailed off. There was a lilt in her tone, as if she might be teasing him.
