Having spent all her life in reasonably good health, there was so much that Millie didn’t know about anatomy. But the libraries of Baronsford and their estate in Hertfordshire held many volumes on science and medicine, and because she was an avid reader, she was not completely ignorant of the illnesses that cut lives short.
Nearly three weeks ago, she’d first become aware of a heaviness in her right breast. The lump was palpable.
Right away she’d known, and the days following were lost in a nightmarish existence. Finally, determined to know for sure, she’d gone up to Edinburgh. Her suspicions were correct. The physician’s diagnosis came at her like words spoken from some distance. Cancer of the breast . . . perhaps a surgeon . . . very little hope. She recalled only bits and pieces of what he said after that.
They passed by a long row of shelves displaying jawbones of various sizes. Two upright glass cases at the end held a dozen skulls in a variety of conditions.
Mr. Turner led them around a corner into another aisle. “And here in these bottles, we have twenty-three preserved examples of tumors of the breast.”
Tumors of the breast. Millie’s knees wobbled, and her steps faltered. She pressed a hand to her stomach. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the squat glass jars, filled with small pieces of flesh in clear, yellowish liquid.
These had once been a part of living, breathing people. Women with families and dreams of a future. Was this all that remained of them? Had they moldered away to dust while these tumors that killed them remained here, preserved forever? Would part of her be here one day . . . in a jar with just a numbered card to identify her?
Dermot’s arm wrapped around her waist. Millie needed him at that moment, and he was there. She leaned into him.
“Lady Millie has no need to see every specimen in the museum,” he said sharply to Mr. Turner. He ushered her to a nearby window and pushed it open.
Breathing in the fresh air, she felt the weakness pass as quickly as it had descended.
The museum keeper hovered nearby. “I do hope I haven’t overwhelmed her ladyship. I tend to get somewhat zealous in my enthusiasm, and I forget that lay folk—”
“I’m fine, Mr. Turner. Truly, I am.”
Dermot was slow to release her.
She glanced back at the bottled specimens. In spite of her initial reaction, she wanted to look at them more closely. The unknown terrified her, and simply seeing them removed some of the mystery of this disease.
“Perhaps,” Dermot suggested, “we should go outside. You can accompany me to the lecture halls, and I can return these notes to Dr. Liston.”
“I’m quite recovered.” Millie put a reassuring hand on his arm and looked into his eyes. He was still worried.
How serendipitous that he had come into her life at this moment. His kindness, his wit, his flair for the comic brought something into her world that she needed right now. It was as if heaven above had sent him to give her strength and clarity at a time when she needed both. Even bringing her here and showing her—without knowing it—that she was not alone in what she was facing. When had she ever met a man like him? Never.
“I’m at your disposal,” Mr. Turner broke in. “Whatever you decide to do.”
“Is there a library attached to the museum?”
“The museum does keep a collection of books for reference, of course. But I’m afraid we have no lending library.”
“I meant, do you keep a catalogue of all these items?” She gestured to the aisles. “A summary of their history, perhaps.”
Twenty-three breast tumor specimens seemed like so many. Did this indicate that the disease was common? Of all the women she’d known in her life, none had ever received the news she did. At least, none ever talked about it. She wanted to know more about these tumors and what had been the outcome for the patients.
“We do, m’lady.” Mr. Turner gestured toward an open office door at the end of the hall. “My duties include keeping accurate records of the items we house. I can’t affirm the earliest entries were recorded as faithfully as I attempt to do, but I’d be happy to show them to you.”
“Wonderful.” Millie turned to Dermot. “Dr. McKendry, if you have no objection, I’d like to stay here while you return the lecture notes to your friend.”
He did object. She could tell by his darkened expression. “To be honest, I would not feel entirely comfortable leaving you alone, having brought you here.”
“I’m certain if I faint dead away, I’ll be quite safe,” she teased, trying to ease his concern. “You don’t have any piglets in these bottles, do you, Mr. Turner?”
“None, m’lady,” the museum director replied, perplexed by the question.
“You see? I’ll be fine, Doctor.” She touched his hand. “You won’t be gone too long, will you?”
“If you insist, I’ll go.” He bowed, acquiescing to her wishes. “And I’ll return immediately.”
She saw him glance back at her before he went out. If life were a fantasy and she had a tomorrow to dream of, Millie would choose to imagine that look as a next step in their relationship.
Mr. Turner escorted her to the office and seated her at his desk. Pulling the first of three oversized leather-bound ledgers from a bookshelf, he turned and then paused.
“Pardon me if I’m overstepping myself here, m’lady.” He stared down at the volume in his hands and then smiled at her. “But after all Dr. McKendry has been through, it’s quite gratifying to see his attentions fixed on a young lady again.”
Millie felt her face flush. She saw no reason to explain that they were merely friends. That was all. But his comment piqued her curiosity.
“What do you mean, Mr. Turner, about what he’s been through?”
Now he was the one to blush, and he went red from his collar to his scalp. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I beg your pardon. I never should have mentioned it.”
“But you have, and now you have me fretting. What did you mean about Dr. McKendry?” she asked again.
Her host was still hesitant, but Millie persisted until he explained. “My thoughtless words referred to his late fiancée. He lost her just as he was finishing his medical studies at the university.”
Millie remembered everything her sister had said about Dermot. He wasn’t looking for love. Jo heard him say he wished for no heir. He was committed to his hospital. His time was consumed by patients who needed his care and attention. Now Millie knew why.
“You say he lost her? How?”
“She killed herself just a few days before the wedding,” Mr. Turner said gravely. “She’d been battling melancholia for quite some time, I understand.”
To lose the person one loves at a time when the future appeared to be so bright. How heartbreaking for him.
Millie thought about her own future. She didn’t know how this illness would affect her as it progressed, but she had an idea the end would not be pleasant. That was the reason she was traveling to America, to spare her family from a long period of pain, watching her decline when they should be thinking of babies and the new generation of Penningtons.
Dermot’s fiancée had been fighting melancholia, that all-encompassing gloom that caused a person to waste away in darkness, unable to rouse herself from the depths of despair. At least, she had a man who loved her. That was something Millie had never known.
“How does one recover from such tragedy?” she murmured.
“Her death hit him quite hard, understandably. He closed down entirely. It was as if he too were dead. For his own safety, Dermot was committed to the asylum over in Livingston Yards.”
Chapter 6
“HER LADYSHIP IS NOT at home, sir.”
Dermot listened for some sign of Millie, but no sounds came from upstairs. The house was quiet as a church on Wednesday.
“Do you know when she’ll be at home and receiving callers?”
“I can’t say, sir.”
The butler’s stony face showed nothing, and Dermot knew he�
�d have better luck getting information from the flower arrangement at the center of the foyer. He could feel the eyes of the burly footman standing by the open door burning into his back.
Resigned, he turned down one corner of his card and dropped it on the silver tray in the butler’s hand. A moment later, the front door closed behind him and he strode to the carriage. He didn’t look back at the windows of the house.
He’d upset her, and he could kick himself. He’d done better getting her attention when he played the fool.
Taking her to the surgical museum was a mistake. His intention was for her to meet other doctors and know that here in Edinburgh, they were making huge strides in the advancement of medicine. But everything had gone terribly wrong.
The moment Turner pointed out the breast tumor specimens, her mood changed. The shock of seeing the bottles had affected her physically. He hadn’t wanted to leave her after that, and he’d been a dolt to do so. By the time he’d returned from getting rid of the deuced lecture notes, she was downright dejected. Worry clouded her features, she would barely look at him, and her silence on the ride across town had been impenetrable.
He paused before climbing into the carriage. She was watching him now. He was certain of it. But he couldn’t force his way in to talk to her. He wasn’t about to give up, however. She needed someone, and he was the only one she had right now. She’d shut out her own family; he couldn’t allow her to do the same to him.
His mind returned to the night of the ball at Baronsford. How she laughed. Truly laughed, as ridiculous as it all had been. In those few moments, she’d come alive, freed temporarily from any disquieting thoughts of the future. Clearly, she needed more gifts. Lively gifts.
The next day was Thursday. At dawn, Dermot sent the inn’s stable boy off with a brilliant yellow canary in a small rattan cage. He was to wait within sight of the Pennington town house to make sure the gift was taken in. The sealed note on top was addressed to her.
For Lady Millie,
This pitiful creature has not uttered a note since I purchased him. I know, however, that under your tender care, listening to your cheery voice, this wee songbird shall,
“Like to the lark at break of day arising, From sullen earth, sing hymns at heaven’s gate.”
Your Songless Friend
Receiving no response, he sent over another gift the following morning. This time, the lad delivered a cage containing a red squirrel with his note.
For Lady Millie,
Since purchasing this gift from a booth by St. Giles, I declare the creature has never once ceased showing me his teeth and glaring at me. And then I remembered thus,
“The squirrel with aspiring mind, Disdains to be to earth confined . . .As Nature’s wildest tenant free, A merry forester is he.”
In your possession, this ball of red fur will surely have no greater aspiration but to serve as your smiling companion (as do I!), brightening your day and adding to your delight in the topiary gardens of Baronsford.
Your Earthbound Admirer
He wasn’t sure if there was a topiary garden at Baronsford. But it didn’t matter. Still, silence was the only response coming from Heriot Row.
Saturday, he decided to test her patience. After sending the lad off, he waited.
For Lady Millie,
I am sending you three of the scrawniest, most ornery chickens one might find in the stockyard near the Grass Market. However, I convey them to you with no doubt whatsoever that under your watchful care, they will become prize-winning birds at Melrose Village’s next Michaelmas Fair (or perhaps the one after) and make you the envy of the Borders.
But my gift tomorrow will make you the toast of all Scotland.
Your Ardent Admirer
At midday, the burly footman who normally guarded the door at Heriot Row arrived with a letter. From the testy look on the man’s face, Dermot decided his gifts were having some impact. The note confirmed it. The page looked like it had been left out in a summer rainstorm of black ink.
Dear Dr. McKendry,
Considering the havoc you have wreaked in my home, I feel you deserve [indecipherable blot] a far, far longer letter than [spatters of ink] this. But I’m presently too [blotted and crossed out word] irritated. And, as you might have already surmised, I have broken my pen.
As I am now using my only remaining crow quill—and as I fear for its continuing safety in my hand—my response to you must be succinct.
Stop. I beg you. Stop.
P.S. The squirrel has already bitten the butler twice.
Your Annoyed Former Friend
DERMOT HELD UP THE ink-stained paper and eyed it with satisfaction. He knew where Millie’s writing desk sat. To the left, a large window opened out onto the garden in the rear of the house. To the right, the bookshelves that he’d “arranged” stood like a line of infantrymen along the wall. He liked to imagine her sealing this note to him with the hint of a smile on her lips.
Dermot knew these letters were stretching the rules of proper etiquette, but his conduct with Millie had been inappropriate from the first day they met. Social mores be damned. He sat to write out his reply.
Dearest Lady Millie,
I must profess I am at a loss as to whatever it is you accuse me. Please elaborate. Stop what, my lady?
In the meantime, I would be forever in your debt if I might call on you and renew our friendly acquaintance. This city, alas, is but a forlorn precipice of desolation . . . cold comfort without your fair company.
I remain, Humbly, Ever your friend, etc.
Dermot McKendry
P.S. How is my porcine namesake faring in the Borders? Send word quickly. I await your reply.
IT WAS TOO MUCH TO hope she’d grace him with a second letter the same day. Not to be deterred, Dermot sent over another gift on Sunday morning. The stable boy returned and said he had to run for his life, for a “footman from hell” had nearly collared him as he put the cage on the front step.
Dermot’s note read:
For Lady Millie,
Oh, bounteous day! I found this monkey for sale at a quayside shop in Leith and knew she MUST be yours. The previous owner has sworn on the beard of his great-grandfather’s grandfather that she (the monkey, that is) will happily ride on your shoulder, whether in the park or on a stroll along Heriot Row.
Until you’re able to train her to stop his incessant chattering (which I’m certain you’ll be able to do in no time!), I do not recommend taking her to church services. Too much competition for the homilist, I should think.
Your Silent Friend
Millie didn’t wait until noon to send a letter.
Sir,
I expect you here at Heriot Row Monday morning at the stroke of ten. If you do not come, and come promptly, then by all the righteous angels in heaven, I shall have a herd of elephants delivered to your inn door.
Millie
DERMOT READ THE LETTER twice and caught his own smile reflected in the small mirror on the wall. “Finally, my invitation.”
Stepping to the window, he pushed it open and leaned out. The stable boy was brushing down his next gift.
“Ahoy, laddie,” he called down. “Return the llamas to Ducrow’s Circus with my compliments. I’ll not be needing them.”
Chapter 7
“IF I MAY BE SO BOLD as to ask once more, m’lady, are you certain you wish to do this?”
There was one thing Millie was quite sure of. This was the first time in all her twenty-six years that their butler in the Edinburgh town house had ever questioned her wishes. Or was it her sanity he was wondering about? She’d never done anything this outlandish, not even as a wee tot.
“I’m certain.” She looked around the drawing room. The Persian carpets had been rolled up, and cloths had been draped over every chair, sofa, and table. Even the pictures hanging on the walls had been covered. She had no worries about any repercussions from her family. One of the benefits of spending her life conforming to every rule and regulati
on was that she’d earned the right to a little wildness.
If her rooms at Baronsford could be cleaned of the damage done by a greased pig, so could this drawing room.
“Bring them in here. All of them. Now.”
“As you wish, m’lady.” With a defeated look, the butler nodded to the footmen standing uncertainly by the doorway.
“And there will be an extra day’s wages for everyone who helps put the room to rights later,” Millie said. She immediately heard murmurs of approval behind her as she closed the last window.
The cages were carried in and placed on the floor. After sending the servants out, she started to free her new companions. The canary immediately took flight, circling the room and fluttering up against every window before landing on top of a covered painting on the wall. The bird was truly the most silent songbird in creation, and she looked at Millie now with the same doubtful expression the butler had been wearing.
Upon her release, the squirrel became a russet-colored blur, racing about the room, leaping on and off the furniture. Espying the tray of refreshments, in the blink of an eye the creature was on the table, sitting back on her haunches and stuffing walnuts into her cheeks as fast as she possibly could.
Millie proceeded to release the three chickens next. They were truly the most pitiful birds in creation. Looking at them now, scraggly and thin, with patches of feathers missing entirely, she had no doubt about why they’d gone unsold at the market. They strutted about, soiling the dark wood floor and clucking and pecking at furniture cloths and each other.
Dearest Millie (The Pennington Family) Page 4
