He gave her instructions for herbal tea to ease her headache and relax her muscles, advised she rest and not wear the turban for a few days at least, and then took his leave of her. Lady Huntington always saw to it that his visits were well compensated, though he never asked a thing from her. That was the way with the wealthy. They would never stoop to paying a doctor but would give him gifts instead.
The poor insisted on paying, however meager the amount, and Nathaniel had long since decided it all evened out. He earned a respectable living, for an independent man, and he enjoyed the work.
He put his beaver atop his head, covering his dark blond hair. He would need to visit a barber soon to keep it from covering his eyes. He inhaled deeply of the afternoon air and strode down the walk, taking in the clear blue sky, half smiling. Winter usually meant gray skies and dreadful weather, but today the world remained bright.
Nathaniel liked Bath. The city, ancient and modern at the same time, appealed to him. He could visit Roman ruins or listen to the old gossips discuss the latest London scandals in the Pump Room. With the season well under way in London, Bath emptied of many of its usual citizens, to fill again with families taking leases. These families were generally not high enough in society to thrive in London, but they could command great respect in Bath.
Deciding to walk to his next appointment, Nathaniel enjoyed the brisk winter breezes. Cities were always more pleasant in the winter, the air scented by coal and wood smoke instead of animals. He missed the green trees and gardens, but the bare branches in the parks made him more restful. People stayed indoors, softening the sounds in the streets.
In spring, life returned to the parks and the noise of all the citizenry bursting out of doors bringing vibrancy back to the town. But for now, he enjoyed the peacefulness of the season.
Nathaniel turned his mind to his next patient, hoping the cold dry air would make the man’s day a little easier. The Baron of Heatherton, Charles Macon, was next on his list. It would not be a light-hearted visit, as his lordship was failing with consumption. The disease had taken the man’s lungs. All Nathaniel could do was alleviate the man’s pain and treat the symptoms to make what time he had left meaningful.
He had tried every remedy he could find, but Lord Heatherton’s case had already advanced to a point there was nothing more a doctor could do.
He arrived at the house at half past two, and Lady Heatherton greeted him. She met him at the top of the stairs, her fair hair piled upon her head in a regal manner, her dress impeccable, her countenance stoic. She bore herself like a duchess, and he nearly forgot she was younger than his own twenty-seven years.
“Doctor Hastings, welcome.” She offered him her hand which he bowed over. “Your visits are most appreciated.”
He smiled, having found that this family preferred a pleasant disposition over a somber one. “Thank you, my lady. I hope, with the weather drier than normal, that your husband is faring well today?”
A flicker of worry appeared in her eyes and she glanced downward. “I am afraid not. I had hoped, with the lack of rain, his cough would ease. But…” When she looked up again there were tears in her eyes. “The solicitor came earlier to go over the details of the will. His lordship does not think he has much time left.”
Nathaniel frowned. “This disease is cruel in its kindness.”
“Indeed. It gives us plenty of time to prepare, yet we must watch the slow progression of it take away our loved ones.” She blinked away her tears and lifted her eyes, the bravery reappearing. “Thank you for coming. Please, let us see to my husband.”
Lord Heatherton reclined on the fainting couch in his bedroom, sitting before a large fire. The pallor of his skin testified of his illness, and his coat hung loosely about his shoulders. The gentleman had lost a great deal of weight. He turned to the door when Nathaniel entered, the motion jarring a coughing fit. His wife hurried to his side, handing him a handkerchief and putting her hand to his shoulder in support. She offered him water when the coughing had passed but he waved it away.
The baroness gave care rivaling professional nurses and Nathaniel admired her for it.
“Perhaps he ought to have tea instead,” Nathaniel suggested as he came further into the room. He always instructed soap and a basin of water be available to him, to wash his hands, before and after encountering all of his patients.
While some scoffed at what they deemed fastidious behavior, Nathaniel had seen its benefits. Having studied medicine in Scotland, Nathaniel was well read in Doctor Alexander Gordon’s treatment of puerperal fever. Doctor Gordon’s treatise on his findings that washing one’s hands, and instruments, and airing out clothing when visiting women with child-bed fever, remained one of the most controversial topics among doctors.
Nathaniel decided to experiment with the idea in other cases of illness, to determine its veracity for himself. He came to his conclusion quickly.
A family who washed well, with sickness in their midst, did not pass the illness between themselves as often. Nathaniel and his patients enjoyed better health than his colleagues who did not take the time to wash.
“Something soothing. I imagine you have a headache, my lord?” Nathaniel asked. The baron nodded, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced by the paleness of his face. “Willow-bark, then, with copious amounts of honey.”
Lady Heatherton nodded and left the room, after washing her hands at the same basin the doctor had used. Her dedication to her husband was such that she would fetch the tea herself, rather than send for a maid. This meant Nathaniel could have a few private minutes with the baron.
“Doctor Hastings,” the man said at last, his voice hoarse. “I fear you will soon lose me as a patient.”
Nathaniel came forward and took a chair placed near the sick man’s couch. “It is possible. But the Lord might call me home in the next instant. One never knows for certain.” He reached out to check the man’s pulse, finding the artery in the neck. He observed the dilated pupils of Lord Heatherton, took note of the thinning hair and bags under the man’s eyes. “You are not sleeping well?”
“Not with this cough.” The baron sat back and closed his eyes. “I have made Virginia move across the house instead of in the adjoining chamber, so I do not disturb her at night. If she insists on tending to me all day, she must have her rest. She is exhausted, spending time with the children. She moves between the nursery and my sickroom so often it is a wonder she has not worn her tracks into the floors.”
Nathaniel’s shoulders tensed. “She is continuing to wash, as I advised?”
“Always. I make certain she never forgets, though I do not think it necessary. She would do anything to ensure the children remain healthy.” Another fit of coughing seized him and Nathaniel reached for the water glass again, insisting the man drink a few sips.
“Have you experienced any fever?” he asked, his heart heavy. Losing a patient always felt like losing a piece of himself. When a man as honorable and good as the baron succumbed, it was worse. For weeks, Nathaniel had sent letters to colleagues all across the country to try and find any new treatments for consumption, but nothing came that he had not already tried.
“It comes and goes,” the baron answered. “But it is all as you told us to expect. I think the worst of it is that Virginia is angry with me.”
“Angry with you?” Nathaniel shook his head, disbelieving the remark. “I have rarely seen a wife as devoted to caring for her husband.”
The baron winced. “I convinced her to come to Bath with a lie. I told her I would get better here, that it wasn’t consumption, but weak lungs. She wanted to stay in the country. But I knew if she was out there alone, far from people, she would not do well. My passing will already be difficult enough, but Virginia cannot be alone in that old pile of stone.”
“Has she friends?” Nathaniel asked. “Or will your family come to aid her?”
“My only family is my brother. He will be of little use.” The man shook his head dis
missively. “And my wife’s family are ridiculous people. I cannot fathom how she could’ve come from those lines. But I know she has a cousin, a friend from her youth, who will help with the children.”
The door opened and Lady Heatherton entered, balancing a tray with a small teapot and a single cup upon it.
“I have the tea,” she announced, her cheer forced, as she went directly to her husband. “And I asked Mrs. Fairchild to see that the washing water be changed.” A maid came in with a new basin of water and fresh towels, efficiently replacing the old and disappearing out the door again.
“You see, Doctor?” The baron attempted a more pleasant expression. “My lady remembers all your recommendations.”
“What on earth would we want a doctor for if not to heed his advice?” She poured her husband’s tea and shared a smile with the doctor in question.
Nathaniel passed a few more minutes in their company, prescribing small doses of laudanum to help the baron sleep. The man protested, not wanting to deal with the effects of the drink, but his wife insisted they listen to the doctor, to allow her husband the rest his body desperately needed.
When Nathaniel took his leave, he swallowed his frustration with the case. Perhaps if the family had sought medical care earlier, something may have been done. There were cases, after all, of consumptive patients living for many years. But too often his patients, especially the wealthy, put off seeing a doctor. They would ignore symptoms as an ordinary ailment until they could no longer do so, denying for as long as possible what their bodies would succumb to. That had been the case with the baron.
He attended the remainder of his appointments with little trouble and fewer concerns for treatments. Winter brought chills and sore throats to many of Bath’s residents. Nathaniel left his patients with recommendations for better care in light of the weather.
As he walked home later that evening, Nathaniel’s mind returned to the baron’s case. The man would leave behind a wife and two children, materially cared for, but without someone who meant the world to them. Shaking his head, Nathaniel reminded himself there was nothing he could do.
Nathaniel entered his office, a set of rooms which served as his home and place of business, thinking on the disease. At times, being a doctor felt akin to being a fraud. How could he, a man of medicine, stand to watch a patient die? Why did he not know how to cure Lord Heatherton?
He recorded his observations in his journal, as always, and tried to tuck away the guilt that came with knowing he had done all in his power, and it was not enough.
He stood and went to the window, surveying the street below, and his body stilled. A carriage sat across the way, a young woman with dark hair sitting inside, peering out at Bath with wide eyes and a hopeful smile.
Nathaniel’s heart lurched inside his chest, beating an unsteady rhythm, before the girl in the carriage looked up and broke the spell. It was not her. Of course, it could not be her. The equipage moved down the street and out of sight.
After nearly five years, Nathaniel’s memory continued to disconcert him. He knew the chances of seeing the woman he had loved here, in Bath, were slim. He knew even if he did see her it would not be like the first time.
The first time, he glimpsed her in a carriage in London, studying all and sundry along the street with wonder. She had captured his attention from across the crowded lane, her pleasure genuine and her face absolutely breathtaking in its fresh beauty. He’d moved without thinking to lessen the distance between them, realizing at the last moment he intended to speak to her.
When he gave her the flower he’d tucked in his pocket, having found the lovely little bud on the ground minutes before, he was also giving Julia Devon his heart.
If she had kept it, how different his life might’ve been.
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About the Author
Sally Britton received her BA in English from Brigham Young University, but her writing career began long before the days of researching essays. She wrote her first book at the tender age of fourteen on an electric typewriter, using more than her fair share of correction tape, and she’s been writing ever since.
Her favorite book depends on the day, but her favorite authors are Jane Austen, Louisa May Alcott, Lucy Maud Montgomery, Louis L’Amour, Sarah M. Eden, Brandon Mull, and J.R.R. Tolkien.
Sally lives in Arizona, though she hails from Texas, along with her husband, four children, and their dog. She loves researching, hiking, and eating too much chocolate.
Acknowledgements
In the self-publishing world, you wouldn’t expect to need to thank a lot of people. I have a whole list of wonderful friends and family members who encouraged me and helped me work out all the kinks in this book. I would love to thank them all, and mention a few special people by name.
The biggest thanks must go to my husband, Skye, who encouraged and believed in me, who pushed me to complete my book, and provided me all the time I needed to get it done. I also have to thank my children, who were patient when Mommy told them to “wait just a sec” while she finished up her writing. They are the unsung heroes of all that I do.
Thank you to my mother, the woman who taught me to read, write, and do my research correctly. I owe everything I am to her.
I promised my cousin Brittany, who read all my first attempts at writing when we were very young, a sincere and public thank you for her friendship over the years. Brittany, this is it: Thank you!
My siblings, Autumn, Laura, Carri, Patrick, Molly, and Asa, thank you for accepting how much I loved to read and write and telling me I was a pretty good big sister, too.
A really huge thank you to my critique partners, Joanna Barker and Johanna Evelyn, who helped me polish this story until it shone. They are incredible.
I’m pretty sure my grandmothers deserve to know I love them and I’m grateful for all they’ve taught me over the years. Nanita and Wanda, thank you for being strong women with beautiful love stories.
Thanks to my friend Shaela Kay for her encouragement, the beautiful cover, and all the chats about writing.
And a special thank you to my dear friends, Crystal, Lauren, Michayle, and Sunny, who were only a text away when I needed them.
The Social Tutor: A Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 1) Page 22
