by Syrie James
“How do you feel, Mrs. Morris?” asked he kindly, bending down before her.
“Better, thank you, sir,” replied Sarah.
“Are you still light-headed?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you have any pain, or feel ill in any other way?”
“No, I am only hot and a little fatigued. I do not know what happened. One moment I was fine; the next—”
“This heat is quite oppressive. It is not uncommon for a lady to faint in weather such as this. May I?” He gestured towards Sarah’s hand. She nodded; immediately, he took her wrist between his fingers and paused thoughtfully.
Rebecca realised that he was taking her pulse; and from this action, and his preceding words, she presumed him to be a medical man.
“A few minutes’ rest is all you require, Mrs. Morris. You will be fine.” He straightened and smiled at Rebecca, then glanced back expectantly at Sarah, who took his silent meaning and, fanning herself with her bonnet, said weakly,
“Dr. Watkins, may I have the honour of presenting my sister, Miss Rebecca Stanhope. Rebecca: pray allow me to introduce Dr. Jack Watkins.”
Rebecca was surprised. She had heard from Sarah of a Dr. Watkins, who used to attend Mrs. Harcourt whenever she went to town. Mrs. Harcourt liked him so well that, five years previously, she had asked if he might be amenable to caring for her exclusively in the country. Her offer was apparently so generous, as to convince him to close down his practice in London and remove permanently to Medford, where he and his wife had resided ever since. Based on this information, Rebecca had always imagined Dr. Watkins to be a much older man. This gentleman, however, looked to be no older than twenty-five or twenty-six.
Bowing, he said, “Miss Stanhope, I am very glad to make your acquaintance.”
“And I yours, sir,” answered Rebecca, curtseying. “My sister has mentioned you, Dr. Watkins, in previous conversations and in her letters—always with the greatest respect. You are, I believe, Mrs. Harcourt’s private physician?”
“No,” replied he, “that honour belongs to my father, Dr. Samuel Watkins.”
“Your father?”
“I was only recently licensed by the Royal College of Physicians. I was preparing to open a practice in town, when my grandmother fell ill. My father and mother were obliged to go to her at once. He asked me to fill in here while he was gone, and to provide such care as Mrs. Harcourt required, until he could return.”
“Oh! I am very sorry to hear about your grandmother,” replied Rebecca. “I hope she will be well soon.”
“As do I, Miss Stanhope.”
He looked at her with a directness and a smile that were captivating. She felt her cheeks grow warm under his gaze. “Your presence here was fortuitous to-day, sir. Thank you for helping my sister.”
“I was very glad to render the service.”
Rebecca had never met a physician in her life. There had, of course, been no man of that distinction within miles of Elm Grove;—although she recalled that her father had thought highly of the physician with whom he had consulted about her mother’s illness years ago. She was disposed to think well of men in the medical profession in general, as her grandfather had reportedly been a country surgeon; and she thought Dr. Watkins an interesting man. He had a good figure, and a fine countenance which was both lively and intelligent. His air and address were unexceptionable, and his ease of manner reflected his education and good breeding. She had not been in his presence but a few minutes when she knew that she would like him; and the expression in his eyes conveyed that he might share a similar interest in her.
Sarah, feeling herself again, thanked Dr. Jack Watkins once more and took leave of her chair. In a few minutes’ time, she and the doctor had both completed their purchases, and he accompanied the ladies as they issued outside together.
“You are only recently arrived in Medford, I believe, Miss Stanhope?” enquired Dr. Watkins.
“Yes. My father and I came only last night.”
“I have heard about your—circumstances,” added he in a low voice, his tone and expression conveying his sympathy. “May I say how sorry I am. It must have been difficult to give up your home of so many years.”
“It was; yet, we are fortunate to be welcomed at my sister and brother’s house.”
“Indeed, and you will find that Medford has many charms. If the neighbourhood could support the practice of another physician, I would happily settle here myself; but with only one client, and she retained by my father, that is quite impossible.” Motioning to a curricle nearby, he added with a smile, “May I offer you ladies a ride home? I believe we can squeeze in three; and you ought not to walk in this heat, Mrs. Morris.”
“Thank you kindly, Dr. Watkins,” replied Sarah, “but I am perfectly recovered, and it is but a short walk to the vicarage.”
“If you insist. Pray forgive me. I must be on my way. It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Stanhope. Good day, ladies.”
Sarah and Rebecca replied in kind; and with a tip of his hat, Dr. Jack Watkins climbed into his vehicle, put the horses to, and drove off.
“Such an amiable and clever gentleman,” observed Sarah, as they began towards home.
“What a shame that a man of his education and profession cannot find occupation here, if he desires it.”
“I agree. But Charles calls in Mr. Pearson whenever we are ill; and our apothecary is also very good with medicines and advice. Who but the wealthiest could afford the services of a physician?” With a sharp intake of breath, Sarah touched her sister’s arm, and said, “Oh, look! There is Miss Davenport!”
A low phaeton was progressing up the street, and seated within was a pretty young woman, with light eyes and a fair complexion, expensively dressed in a gown of deep violet. Catching sight of Sarah and Rebecca, she broke into a smile, and said something to the driver, who stopped the vehicle.
“Mrs. Morris!” cried the young lady, as she descended the equipage and crossed the street to them, beaming. “You are looking very well. And Miss Stanhope! I am in such raptures! Mrs. Morris has frequently spoken of you with great affection these many years. How often have I thought of you, since that one, happy time we met, so long ago. We were children, of course; I must look very different now—but tell me that you remember me!”
Rebecca did remember her. Amelia Davenport was Mrs. Penelope Harcourt’s niece—the daughter of her departed husband’s brother. Miss Davenport’s parents died when she was five years old, and ever since, she had lived under her aunt’s protection, growing up at Grafton Hall with every advantage. Mrs. Harcourt had lost two children at birth, and an adored son had not lived to see his third year; and so she poured all her energy and affection into her niece. As her estate was not entailed away from the female line, she had named Amelia as her heir.
“Of course I remember you,” replied Rebecca, so affected by the young woman’s sincere enthusiasm that she could not help but smile. “How nice to see you, Miss Davenport.”
“What fond memories I have of that Christmas when I visited Aunt and Uncle Mountague at Claremont Park—the chief delight of which was my association with you! I had no friends at home—no girls with whom I was allowed to associate.—My cousins are all much older than I; they are more your age, Mrs. Morris; and although the age difference means nothing now, when you are young, you feel it quite distinctly, do not you think? Brook and Philip were terrors at the time, teasing us girls, as I recall, at every turn. If not for you, Miss Stanhope, I should have been quite miserable and had no one with whom to play. Do you remember the tea party we held in honour of my new doll?”
“I recall it perfectly,” responded Rebecca. “Your aunt Mountague was so kind as to allow us to use her daughters’ play tea set, despite their objections that we would injure it.”
“Yes! And nothing happened, except that we had a lovely afternoon! My only regret was that we had to come away so soon, after only a fortnight. I feared I should never see you again—and so it se
emed to prove, for we never did return to Elm Grove. Only think how vastly happy I was, Mrs. Morris, when you came to live in the neighbourhood, and brought regular reports of your sister; and now to have you join us, Miss Stanhope! I am quite beside myself! I am still terribly cut off, you know, living in that great house. You will stay a long while, I hope?”
“My father and I have no firm plans at present.”
“Our home is open to my sister and my father for as long as they like,” said Sarah, glancing at Rebecca with affection.
“What felicity is this!” cried Miss Davenport, linking her arm through Rebecca’s as she walked back to her carriage. “I cannot tell you what it means to me, Miss Stanhope, to have you at last in Medford. You and I are going to be great friends, I am certain of it. I can hardly wait to introduce you to Aunt Harcourt.”
The next morning, while all were at breakfast, the maid entered with a note for Miss Stanhope.
“It come from Grafton Hall, ma’am,” explained Mary. “The servant says he must wait for an answer.”
Rebecca took the missive and read it aloud.
Grafton Hall
My dearest Miss Stanhope,
It is all arranged! I have spoken with my aunt, and our hearts are set on it; you and your sister must call on us this very day! Pray forgive us for not coming to you first; but my aunt has a horror of small rooms, and insists that it will be quieter and more comfortable here than at the vicarage, with all your children running about. I am sure you cannot disagree. The weather is so fine, we will receive you in the garden. Aunt Harcourt is most particularly interested in seeing you again, and please tell Mrs. Morris how much we always delight in her company. Shall we send the carriage for you at one o’clock? Do let me know at once. We have so much to talk about. I am counting the hours!
Yours most truly,
Amelia Davenport
“That is odd,” said Sarah, frowning. “She invites—or rather, commands—us to call this morning, and just the two of us. I thought we should all be asked to dinner.”
Charles said, “I am in no hurry to dine again at Grafton Hall. We have been there twice this month already.”
Rebecca turned to her father, conflicted. “I have no wish to leave you, papa. If we were to go, what should you do to-day?”
“Do not worry about me,” replied Mr. Stanhope. “I have had my eye on several books in Charles’s study, and I mean to sit in a corner and read all day, if there is no objection.”
“None whatsoever,” replied Charles.
“In that case, I should love to accept,” said Rebecca, “but must we go by carriage? How far is it, to Grafton Hall?”
“On foot, taking my usual shortcut, it is not a mile and a half,” answered Charles.
“That is nothing. On such a fine day, I should much rather walk.”
Sarah agreed, and a note was sent to that effect. But at noon, as the sisters were putting on their bonnets, Sarah began to feel ill again and was obliged to lie down. Making her apologies to Rebecca, she said she could not go after all.
“Shall I call the surgeon?” asked Rebecca.
“No, it is only a recurrence of the mild complaint I felt yesterday. This heat does not agree with me. A little rest is all I require, and I have Mary to attend me. You must go, however—you must not disappoint Miss Davenport and Mrs. Harcourt, they are expecting us.” Calling out to Charles, she added, “Will you accompany her, Charles dear, and show her the way?”
Charles agreed that he would, determining to make the walk do double duty by calling on several of the cottagers who were ailing or in want of company on his way back. Rebecca took her parasol, and the two set out. The walk was lovely. She enjoyed witnessing the activity in the village as they passed through, but was particularly entranced once they had left the main road and entered the country-side. Walking was one of Rebecca’s favourite pursuits; crossing field after field, climbing over stiles, and strolling past scattered dwellings and farms, were to her, one of life’s chief delights. All around her was fragrant beauty, brilliant and alive in the summer sunshine; and as she admired the col ourful, waving flowers in the foreground, and the high green hills in the distance, Rebecca recalled similar sights in Elm Grove with a little, heartfelt sigh. Although she missed home, for the first time in many weeks, she was not at all unhappy; and she determined that to-day she should be happy, if she possibly could.
“Charles,” said Rebecca, “I have only the vaguest of memories of Mrs. Harcourt, from the one time she came to visit the Mountagues at Claremont Park in my youth. Over the years, you and Sarah have painted very different pictures of her. Sarah finds her amiable and wise, while you seem to have no great affection for her. What shall I expect?”
“Well,” replied he with a smile, “from the first moment of your appearance, you shall surely be treated to her latest affliction and complaint. You shall be criticised and given the benefit of her lifetime of knowledge, as she puts it, about something or other. Over the course of your visit, she will no doubt say one or two things very offensive; but have courage, for in the next moment, she will be kindness and charity itself, and so sympathetic, that you cannot help but forgive her, aware that every thing was said with the very best of intentions.”
“An interesting description indeed,” said Rebecca; and she looked forward to the meeting.
CHAPTER VII
Rebecca and Charles parted at the main gate. A long, shaded lane brought her to the house, which was indeed the very estate they had passed on their journey to Medford. It was, Rebecca noticed with equanimity, equally as grand as Claremont Park, and nearly the same size, yet with even more windows.
She ascended the steps and was admitted to an ornate entrance hall of fine proportions. Immediately, the servants ushered her to the rear of the house, whence she was taken outside to a wide brick veranda overlooking a landscaped garden which bordered an immense green lawn. At a table in the shade of a large, canvas shelter, sat Miss Davenport and Mrs. Harcourt. They were both attired in dark-coloured silk gowns, which although expensive-looking and attractive, appeared too warm for the season.
Rebecca was presented. Mrs. Harcourt (whose strong features bore some resemblance to her brother, Sir Percival) stood and received her with dignity. Rebecca had remembered her as being tall; but clearly that had been a little girl’s impression, for the woman before her was but of moderate height, and now several inches shorter than Rebecca herself.
Miss Davenport more enthusiastically cried, “Miss Stanhope, how delighted I am to see you again!”
“Where is Mrs. Morris?” declared Mrs. Harcourt, resuming her seat, and indicating with a gesture that the young ladies should do the same.
“Please accept my sister’s apologies. Sarah was most appreciative of your invitation, but at the last moment she felt ill, and thought it best to remain at home.”
“What is her complaint?” enquired Mrs. Harcourt with interest. “Is she feverish? Does she suffer a sore throat? Only two weeks past, I was stricken with a fever and a very bad sore throat; several of my tenants have complained of it. I feared it should be of the putrid infectious sort, or worse yet, quinsy, and that if I lived, I should be laid low for the remainder of the summer. I was obliged to take several very expensive medicines. Thankfully, as you see, I have fully recovered.”
“I am very glad to hear it, madam.” Rebecca smiled to herself, thinking how accurately this speech met with Charles’s prediction. “Sarah’s throat is fine, however, and she has no fever. It is only a touch of fatigue and dyspepsia.”
“Fatigue and dyspepsia? Well.” In a lowered tone, Mrs. Harcourt added confidentially, “We know what that means in a woman of Mrs. Morris’s age and circumstance, do not we? I cannot say I am surprised. Her youngest is how old now—eighteen months?”
Rebecca, blushing, caught Mrs. Harcourt’s meaning—the idea of which had not occurred to her before. She was so astonished at Mrs. Harcourt’s mentioning such a delicate and private subject, pa
rticularly on so short an acquaintance, that she could not immediately reply; however, a response was apparently not required, for her hostess continued,
“Young women breed entirely too often. A few young ones can be a fine thing, but you so often find families of eleven or twelve to-day. It is not healthy to have so many children.”
Although Rebecca found these remarks equally astonishing, she could not help but admit that in private moments, she had often thought the same thing herself. “I am certain my sister and brother will welcome another child,” replied Rebecca earnestly. “A large family can be a source of much happiness and comfort.”
“Yes, but at what risk to the mother? Not to mention the financial burden imposed on the father. Had my darling children lived, I should have taken care to stop at three.” Glancing at her niece, she added, “Amelia, pour our guest some lemonade.”
“Yes, aunt.”
A few minutes were devoted to the serving and consuming of refreshments, and remarking upon their quality, of which Mrs. Harcourt was very proud. The ham had just been cured, the fruit, the last of the season, came from her own orchards, and as every one of taste knew, her cook, Mrs. Graham, made the best lemonade and lemon cake in the country. Rebecca found every thing to be delicious, and pronounced it so.
As she sipped her beverage, Mrs. Harcourt surveyed Rebecca critically. “You are very flushed, Miss Stanhope. Are you ill yourself?”
“I am quite well, Mrs. Harcourt. If I am flushed, it is only the result of my exertion, in my walk from the vicarage.”
“Do you mean to say that you walked all the way hither, in this hot weather?”
“I did.”
Mrs. Harcourt was astonished. “Amelia, I said very expressly that you were to send the carriage.”
“I made the offer, Aunt Harcourt,” replied Miss Davenport quickly, “but Miss Stanhope graciously declined. Do forgive me if I neglected to mention it.”
“Thank you for the offer,” said Rebecca, “but I prefer to walk when I can. Your country-side is very picturesque, and I enjoyed the exercise.”
