The Lady in the Coppergate Tower (Proper Romance)

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  “She is not . . . dead,” Hazel finally managed and sucked in a desperate breath of air. “She may never walk again, however.”

  “Oh dear, dear, dear . . .” Landon touched her arm with a fingertip but quickly drew it back.

  “You’ll not be afflicted, Landon.” She groaned and turned onto her side. “I’ve not contracted an infectious disease.”

  “Miss Hughes, I cannot imagine what happened. Lucifer is usually the most docile of creatures. His gentle nature prompted his ironic name, in fact.”

  She shoved herself into a sitting position, wincing at the sharp pain radiating through her shoulder. “Where is the rotten devil?” She squinted down the path after her horse. The last she had seen of him was the moment when he’d reared up on hind legs, thrown her spectacularly to the ground, and then raced off.

  “Do not worry about him for an instant, Miss Hughes,” Trent hastily told her. “I shall track the beast down.”

  She hadn’t been worried about finding the horse. “I am”—she shifted painfully—“much relieved to hear it.” She glanced at Landon, who hovered close, his brow pinched in a worried frown. “Do you suppose you might lend me an arm?”

  “Oh. Oh!” He stuck out his elbow, and when she swiped at it twice without success, he finally cupped her arm and helped her, awkwardly, to stand. “You know, this rather brings to mind yesteryear, does it not? Constantly falling out of trees, you were.”

  Hazel swayed on her feet and clutched Landon’s hand when he released her. “I was never the tree climber, Landon. Emme was the tree climber.”

  “Ah, yes. Quite right. That Emme.” He chuckled. “Trent, you remember Emme? Saw her last week at the shifter symposium.”

  Lord Trent edged closer with the horses, one of which roughly nudged Hazel’s shoulder. “Nattie!” He tugged on the reins. “What is the matter with these horses? Miss Hughes, you have my word this will not happen again. Next time—”

  “Trent, I cannot thank you enough for agreeing to this mad scheme and meeting me here. Now that I have done it, I shall move forward.” She tested her balance before releasing her grip on Landon’s arm.

  “But, Hazel, you ride beautifully! Only your third time on horseback and you looked every inch the natural!” Landon’s protest soothed her ego, if not her bruised and battered body.

  “Thank you, but I do not need to further improve my skills. I only wanted to race through the park in the early morning hours.” She frowned, regretting it as pain stabbed through her head.

  There was the rub, truly. Why had she been so determined to race through the park? Likely it had been the same prompting that had placed her on a bridge, high above a river, from which she’d jumped with a rope attached to her feet. Or the same inducement that had insisted she and Emme search for adventure at the dockside late one night. The bridge leap had resulted in a sprained wrist when she hit the water, and the dockside had seen her imbibing cheap ale, vomiting on Emme’s shoes, and getting mugged while attempting to hail a hack.

  The strangest part of all was that Hazel was not adventuresome by nature—to the contrary. Over the course of the last several months, she had felt compelled to attempt things she had no desire to even think about, let alone try. When such compulsions overtook her, they brought with them a sense of desperation, along with a heavy dose of despair. She was consumed by the idea that life in all its fullness was passing her by as she sat trapped in her staid existence.

  She quite enjoyed her existence, normally, and her odd sense of dissatisfaction struck randomly and without warning. The only way to dispel the despair was to surrender to the compulsion. It made little sense to her as she made plans and tried new things, and even less after completion of the task. The only relief she felt was that the insanity had passed, even if only momentarily.

  “Shall we see you home, Miss Hughes?” Trent looked genuinely concerned.

  She took a deep breath, caught herself with a wince, and took a shallow breath instead. “My lord,” she said, with a hand on her heart and slight nod, knowing he enjoyed the flattery, “I am grateful for your indulgence with this excursion, but I must go or I’ll be late for the clinic. I shall hire a hack.”

  “Yes, of course.” He nodded.

  She massaged the back of her neck with a dirt-smudged hand that shook. “I do hope Lucifer makes an appearance, soon.”

  As if she’d called him, the horse trotted up the path and came to an innocent stop at Landon’s shoulder.

  “Oh, good,” she said flatly. “You’ve returned.”

  By the time Hazel had gathered her gloves and reticule, and climbed into the rented carriage pulled by an aging mechanical horse, the sky was fully light. She looked out the smudged carriage window and managed a wave at the two worried young men who stood in the road, watching her departure.

  The carriage was cold, and now that the excitement of the accident had passed, she shivered. Small rocks were embedded in one palm, and her other hand bore a long abrasion that began at the side and traveled the length of her arm to her elbow. Her white blouse was a torn, dirtied mess. She was glad she kept a fresh ensemble of clothing at the clinic for changing into after messy surgeries.

  She winced as the carriage bumped and bounced over the cobblestones. The driver must have considered reins an optional feature; he seemed to give the horse its head and didn’t object when the conveyance swayed dangerously around corners.

  The hack pulled to a sudden stop, throwing her forward. She gasped and planted her foot on the seat opposite to keep from falling on the floor. The carriage tilted, the door opened, and the automaton driver smiled, motioning for her to exit.

  She managed to extricate herself from the vehicle without groaning aloud; a paltry success, but she would claim it. She paid the driver and straightened her coat and corset before entering the tidy building that housed Dr. Samuel MacInnes’s medical clinic.

  She closed the door with relief, glad to shut out the gusting autumn wind, and unwound her scarf. She made her way through the waiting area to her small office in the back, noting the light coming from Sam’s office, one room down.

  “Good morning!” He was irritatingly cheerful in the early hours of the day, and she grunted a response, which elicited a chuckle from him. “Your tea awaits.”

  “An entire pot, I hope.” She switched on the Tesla lamp attached to the wall near her desk. Her scarf and coat were dark, and the dirt she’d acquired on her mad dash with Lucifer wasn’t noticeable. Her hat, which was a new affair—green velvet, goggles, and ostrich plumes—had amazingly emerged from the fiasco unscathed.

  She smoothed her matching forest-green corset and black skirt, noting again the dirt and snags on her sleeve, then retrieved a fresh blouse from the small wardrobe in the corner of her office. She took great pride in her appearance, piecing her clothing and accessories together with care, and always dressed in the height of fashion through careful budgeting, smart shopping, and exceptional skills with a needle and thread.

  Sam appeared in her doorway with a cup and saucer, and his mouth dropped open. “What on earth? Hazel, what happened to you? Were you accosted? Are you hurt?”

  She grimaced and took the cup of tea from him. “I fell.”

  His features tightened, and she braced herself for a lecture. “What were you doing when you fell?”

  She sighed. “Riding a horse.”

  He paused for a long moment. “You fell from a horse.”

  She nodded. The movement made her neck hurt. Her head hurt. Everything hurt. “I am well and whole, as you can see.” She sipped the tea and closed her eyes in appreciation.

  “Hand over the tea, if you please.”

  She opened her eyes. “Never.”

  He held out his hand, and she reluctantly placed the cup and saucer in it. He set them aside and then turned her head gently with his fingertip, first left, then right
. She hoped he would mistake her swift intake of breath as discomfort from her fall. Would she never be able to control the thrill she felt at his nearness, at his touch?

  He carefully ran his fingers over her head, and when he found the bump where she’d made contact with the ground, she winced and involuntarily pulled back.

  He shook his head, his lips thinning, and looked into her eyes, one at a time. She knew he was checking her pupils.

  “It is not unusual to be riding a horse,” she told him. “Plenty of people begin their days enjoying a leisurely ride.”

  “Something tells me you were not enjoying a leisurely ride. Come.” He put his hand on her elbow and led her from the office, down one door to one of the clinic’s examination rooms. He motioned for her to sit on the padded table and proceeded to treat her as she’d seen him treat his patients hundreds of times. The same way he’d treated her more than once in recent months.

  “Tell me honestly,” he said as he cleaned the cut on her arm, “what were you doing?”

  She sighed. “My childhood friend, Landon, and his friend, Lord Trent, accompanied me on an early morning ride through Hyde Park. I wanted to race.” She held up her hand before he could interrupt with questions. “I do not know what prompted it, other than I’ve been wanting to add horse racing to my list of accomplishments.”

  He drew in a measured breath and slowly released it. He finished treating her cuts and scrapes, listened to her heart and lungs, probed for broken bones, and seemed satisfied she was well enough. He washed his hands and dried them with a clean towel as he continued to eye her with clear suspicion.

  He leaned a hip against the counter and frowned. “Hazel, are you mad? You’ve nothing to prove to yourself, to anyone. You are the smartest woman I know.”

  He was so handsome, and so incredibly talented. She resisted sighing dramatically. She was extraordinarily proud of the restraint she’d honed after nearly a year’s worth of practice. He was her social superior, her employer, and entirely out of her reach. She’d met him once in passing as a young teen when her mother had been a seamstress for his mother, and then again a year ago when he’d saved her life.

  Though her feelings had begun as hero worship, working with him daily had deepened her emotions. As colleagues, her natural gifts as a Healer dovetailed nicely with his brilliance as a surgeon, and the clinic had quickly gained an impressive reputation. On the non-surgical front, his talents, combined with her ability to read and retain every word as if she had taken a mental photograph, made for a good combination.

  She was always aware of him, knew the moment he entered a room. Their working relationship had become a warm friendship, but she did not fool herself into believing it would, indeed could, ever be more. He was charming with her, but he was charming with everyone. He often bestowed a breath-stealing smile on her, but he was generous and shared such smiles with all and sundry.

  He wore shirtsleeves, vest, and dark trousers, and while she relished the casual nature of their relationship, his informal dress in her presence was a reminder that they were mere colleagues. If she were a contender for the role of Mrs. Doctor MacInnes, his behavior and bearing would be properly formal.

  She quite adored him, and he was quite clearly not meant to be hers.

  “I do not know that I can explain it with any degree of sensibility,” she said. “I’ve a hard time understanding it, myself. If I ever make sense of the state of my brain, you shall be the first with whom I share the information.”

  He smiled, and throwing aside her natural reserve, she said, “I’ve had a recurring dream since childhood, and it grows increasingly more bizarre.”

  He lifted a brow. “Odd.”

  She nodded and explained the childhood elements of her dreams, and added, “But now, she’s—I call her Dream Hazel—she is most certainly mad.” She paused, thinking. “In last night’s dream, I was in the room with her. The only view to the outside world were large windows that overlooked a vast forest, and the ground, which was impossibly far away. I felt this overwhelming desire to just . . . run.”

  “Hmm. New psychological science suggests there may be meaning behind recurring dreams.”

  “The reason is likely that I am daft.”

  He chuckled. “I would never have hired you as my assistant if you were daft.”

  “There is that, I suppose. Now, I’ve wasted enough time, and we’ve a day to attack.”

  “You feel well enough to work? I understand if you would rather go home and rest.”

  “I am perfectly well, just sore. Please, I would much rather stay here and be busy.” She paused. “Where is Eugene?”

  Sam scowled. “Bane of my existence, that one. He is charging, nearly done. He’s taken it into his head—well, his processors—that since he now acts as my valet as well as my medical assistant, he requires a change of uniform to differentiate his duties.”

  Hazel laughed. Eugene was a high-functioning automaton, or “’ton,” with exceptional programming. He had been a gift from Sam’s friend, Daniel Pickett, who had a similarly designed ’ton he utilized as his first mate aboard his airship.

  Eugene was so humanlike that Hazel often had to remind herself he was an automaton. One of the personality traits Sam had requested was that Eugene possess a dry sense of humor, which manifested in Eugene more as dry sarcasm. Hazel found it hilarious. Sam found it tedious.

  “What would it hurt to allow him a change of uniform?”

  Sam rolled his eyes. “If I give him an inch, he’ll take a blasted mile. Next he will request a top hat and cane.”

  Hazel smiled as he helped her down from the table. She led him from the room and back to her office, where she again retrieved the fresh blouse and a long, starched white apron. “With a top hat and cane, people would see you as two chaps about town. Perhaps he might draw in the future Mrs. MacInnes.” She tossed the comment out casually, though once it left her lips she regretted it. She didn’t want to discuss anything even approaching his social life.

  Sam laughed. “Eugene would frighten away any prospects with his interminable chatter and litany of useless facts. I don’t know that I could be attracted to a woman who found him charming.”

  She had set the trap and then walked straight into it. She didn’t find Eugene charming, but she did find him highly amusing. Was that the same thing? She blew a curl out of her eyes and tucked it back into place with the rest of her hair, trying to muscle her tangled mane of braids and curls back into submission.

  She straightened, smiling. “So, our duties for the day?”

  “Nora filled the schedule. Mostly minor injuries, no surgeries until next week. The first appointment is in an hour. I’d like to review yesterday’s notes when you’re ready. The typewriting machine is still in my office; I’m adding some options to the Atkins boy’s file. I believe the new prosthetic foot design will serve him better than the old one. I’ll need to tweak a few bits, of course.” He gave her another smile before disappearing into his office.

  Hazel closed her door and leaned against it. “‘Tweak a few bits,’” she murmured fondly. For anyone else, medical invention was a daunting task. For Sam, it was inconsequential.

  She changed her clothes, doing her best to ignore the bruises and scrapes. Her head ached abominably. She would need copious amounts of tea over the next several hours in order to keep her wits about her.

  After all, the only thing madder than horse racing in Hyde Park would be to allow herself to fall in love with Dr. Samuel MacInnes.

  Sam had finished with the day’s final patient and listened to Hazel offer instructions to the woman for the medicines she’d prescribed. Hazel’s brain was like a steel trap—whatever went in did not come back out—and her knowledge of herbs and medicinal remedies was varied and thorough. She often expressed gratitude to Sam for hiring her as an assistant despite her lack of formal training, but
he knew full well he was the more fortunate. Someone else would have snapped her up eventually.

  Her friendship with Lucy Pickett Blake had introduced her to social and professional circles to which she might not otherwise have gained access, and the medical world—and his office, certainly—would have been lesser for it. She had a comforting yet practical approach to patients, and he had yet to find fault with any of her recommendations for post-visit care. She read the medical journals to which he subscribed, and she was medically conversant with him and improving daily. She was a natural Healer, and he had noticed that her presence when he operated was an extra boost. If she chose to pursue it, she would make a fine physician.

  He washed his hands at the newly plumbed sink in the examination room and dried them as he joined Hazel, who was tidying the waiting area. She was, quite possibly, the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, and if she knew it, she never acknowledged it. She was a complex combination of humility and confidence, wit and refinement, and as her employer, he spent entirely too much of his free time lately thinking of her.

  A small scratch on her cheek and a rather large one hidden under her sleeve were reminders of her early-morning escapade. The more he grew to know her, the more her sometimes unpredictable behavior baffled him. She was steady and intelligent with the wisdom of an old soul. Why she pursued activities that placed her in danger made no sense to him, which was made worse by the fact that she claimed they made no sense to her, either.

  Perhaps Hazel’s friendship with Lucy and Isla, both of whom were unconventional, bold women, had prompted an unconscious desire to prove herself their equal in some way. But she was already their equal. She had strengths they did not. She had strengths Sam, himself, did not.

  He looked at her now, at the knot—invisible beneath her hair—that had formed when she’d been thrown from a horse that morning. He’d watched her throughout the day, and other than a headache she nursed with tea and some herbs, she’d not seemed much worse for the wear.