After the Rain

by Elizabeth Johns

  The receiving line broke up and the music began. Yardley danced the opening quadrille with her, and Lord Craig danced it with Maili. It had been planned with military precision. The high-ranking gentlemen of the family—the uncles and grandfather—were to dance the first four dances with them. It would ensure their place in society and allow them time to grow comfortable with the situation. Once her promised dances were finished, Christelle looked for Seamus after every dance before she accepted any other partner.

  After her four safe dances with her family, the Duke of Cavenray was waiting near Beaujolais to claim Christelle’s hand. She was indescribably nervous around him, and knew this quintessential English aristocrat would expect poise, wit and other such nonsense. Unless she misjudged the matter, he was used to, and expected, flattery.

  Fortunately, the cotillion was a dance she could perform with little thought. The Duke surprised her by speaking first, though he drawled in lazy tones.

  “Did I hear you are recently arrived from Paris?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” she replied meekly, unwilling to answer with more than was asked for, for fear every word was being measured.

  “I hope you find London meets your standards,” he said less haughtily, as if he had a script for dances.

  “Ah, but my standards mean very little, sir, when one considers from where I have come. I have no other standard to measure it by than Paris. And even then, very little of Paris.”

  “Very well. I shall rephrase,” he said, looking mildly amused. It was the first show of character she had seen from him. “Do you enjoy London? Or England, for that matter?”

  She had time to consider her answer as the movement of the dance separated them and she was partnered with someone else for a few bars.

  “I enjoyed my time in the country very much, sir. And I have enjoyed some things about London.”

  “A diplomatic answer, though unflattering. I do hope my place of birth will gain favour in your estimation before long. You must allow me to show some of it to you. Perhaps a ride in the park?”

  “I shall look forward to it, Your Grace,” she answered demurely.

  Maili passed by with her partner, behaving a bit too exuberantly. She looked flushed and was laughing, causing the Duke to look sideways at her beneath his lids. Christelle thought she sensed disapproval, but the look was gone before she could decide.

  “Your cousin?” he enquired.

  “Maili? Yes. She has a certain zest for life.”

  “Yes, zest. An apt description.” He had returned to the bored, cultured tone.

  The set drew to a close and he led her back to Beaujolais.

  “Your servant,” he said with a punctilious bow. He then walked away, leaving her feeling as if he were some type of enigma. She had to stop herself from shivering. There was likely more to the man than the veneer he wore.

  Christelle escaped briefly to the retiring room and overheard a commotion at the front entrance as she descended the stairs. She stopped at the doorway to see what was the matter.

  “I assure you, I am welcome here,” a voice declared in calm but annoyed tones.

  “Yet you do not have an invitation, sir. I have strict orders,” Childers said in stiff, military accents.

  The voice was oddly familiar... Christelle walked closer. “Mr. Cole!”

  “My lady.” He bowed, his relief evident.

  “It is all right, Childers.” The butler bowed and stepped aside, although his reluctance was clear.

  She knew very little about unwritten social codes, but was certain she would be schooled on them later, to judge by the look of mortification on Childers' face. But this was her ball, and Mr. Cole had shown her exceeding kindness, as had Dr. Craig. If they had not, she might not have been in the ballroom tonight.

  “How did you find me?” she asked. She gazed at him with surprise.

  “I could not imagine there was more than one Christelle newly arrived to London. All the buzz in the clubs is about you, you know.”

  No, she had not known.

  “Are all of your dances spoken for? Dare I ask?”

  She looked around the ballroom hopefully, but there was still no sign of Dr. Craig. “My partner for this dance has not arrived. I would be pleased to dance it with you instead,” she answered graciously.

  They joined the nearest set and she observed Mr. Cole more closely than she had during their first encounter, when she had been too overwhelmed to notice details. He was certainly at home amongst this crowd. He was dressed elegantly; in fact, he would be at home in a Parisian ballroom. He wore golden breeches with a gold coat and a cream-coloured, embroidered waistcoat, the latter also embellished with fobs and chains. His intricate neck-cloth was foaming with lace. He wore dancing pumps to match. Even so, he was only a few inches above her height.

  “I did not expect to find you in such a grand place. Imagine my surprise when I arrived to hear the news.”

  “Nor did I know such privilege would be mine when I met you in Dover.” She smiled sheepishly.

  “There was no need to work as a seamstress, after all.”

  “I did not realize who my father was when I arrived. I did spend some time as a seamstress before I found him.”

  “A true fairytale, then.” His eyes had a strange gleam, though he was smiling as he took her hand.

  “And you have been fortunate enough to find you belong to two of the most illustrious houses in all of England.”

  “Yes, they have been very kind and welcoming.”

  “A blessed turn of events.”

  “And what of yourself? May I enquire what brings you back to London so soon?” She found she was genuinely curious.

  He looked solemn, and for a moment she did not think he would answer. “I have returned to seek another posting. My uncle was unfortunate in his choice of acquaintances and it is still difficult to overcome the effects of sharing his name at times... but I say too much.”

  “I did ask. I apologize—and I am sorry you are suffering.”

  “Working for the Foreign Office has provided respite, for the most part. But I darken your evening. Let us speak of something joyous.”

  “I have gained more family than I ever could have hoped. My cousin also makes her come out tonight,” Christelle said, indicating Maili with a tilt of her head.

  “May I have an introduction to her after our dance?”

  “Yes, of course. She is my cousin from Scotland, Miss Craig.”

  “That explains why I was unaware of her. She is enchanting,” Mr. Cole said as he glanced at Maili.

  The dance ended and Mr.Cole led Christelle towards her family, where Maili's partner was returning her to Lady Craig. Christelle performed the introductions and Maili was immediately swept back onto the floor by Mr. Cole.

  Chapter 18

  This could not be happening. Seamus looked with frustration at the clock. Today of all days, he could not be late. He had not even arrived home at a decent hour, to enable him to pack his belongings and move into Yardley Court. Now, it appeared he was going to miss dinner before the ball which would introduce Christelle and Maili to Society.

  At least he'd had the forethought to send over his trunks this morning, along with flowers for Christelle and his sister.

  Yet this inconvenience was part of his life as a physician—unless he stopped caring for patients and devoted himself to teaching and research. It was simply impossible in London, for there were more patients than decent, safe doctors to help. He was caught in a difficult situation. With such a desperate need for more physicians, teaching was the best thing he could do for the profession.

  As he was packing up his belongings to leave early for the day, his secretary handed him a note Mrs. Baker had sent, asking him to come post-haste. There was something wrong with Mr. Baker. It must be bad indeed for her to request a house call, which were difficult in a large city. By the time a doctor made it through all the traffic to a patient's house, it could be too late. There had to
be a better way. With a sinking feeling, Seamus alighted from the conveyance outside the bakery and paid off the driver. He opened the door to the shop and proceeded up the stairs without waiting to be shown in.

  Mrs. Baker came out from the bedroom as soon as she heard him, and the frightened look on her face did not give comfort.

  “What has happened?”

  “Oh, Dr. Craig, he sounds like a drowning rat. He hasn't been able to catch his breath and he keeps balling up his fist over his chest and groaning in pain.”

  “Show me to him,” Seamus ordered.

  He could hear what Mrs. Baker had described of her husband's suffering before he saw him. He placed his bag on the bed beside Mr. Baker and pulled back the old man's coverings to look more closely.

  “How long has he been this way?”

  “He woke up feeling very poorly. I sent him back to bed, and when I came to check how he did this afternoon, he was like this.”

  “So, several hours.”

  “Yes,” she looked down guiltily. “I did not know today was different. He has had trouble for years.”

  “You could not know.” Seamus examined him and feared the worst. It looked as if the man had had a severe heart spasm and would not live through the night. His hands and feet were already mottled and he was gasping for air.

  He searched through his bag for some tincture of dandelion to try to alleviate the fluid on his lungs, but he knew it was fruitless. However, it was important for Mrs. Baker to feel as though everything had been done. He added some laudanum to make her husband more comfortable.

  “He is not going to get better, is he?” she asked, her lower lip trembling.

  “I do not believe so,” Seamus said softly as his eyes met hers.

  She nodded bravely, and pulling up a chair next to Mr. Baker took his hand.

  Seamus did the same. He could not very well run off and join in the gaiety of a ball when Mr. Baker lay there dying.

  “Is he in pain?”

  “I do not believe so.” Seamus used to hesitate when people would ask him that question. There was no way he could truly know what the man felt, but the more he learned, the more he suspected that there was no blood flow to the mind.

  He did not know how long he sat there waiting for Mr. Baker to die. He tried not to think about what he was missing with Christelle, and wondering if she would even notice his absence. He would try to arrive in time for a dance if he could.

  It was half past eleven when the man breathed his last. He did not know what to do with Mrs. Baker, although she looked exhausted. He confirmed that Mr. Baker was dead with a last check for a pulse and a breath, then gave a slight nod of his head to the widow.

  He embraced Mrs. Baker and allowed her to weep on his shoulder.

  “I am sorry I did not help him more,” he said quietly in her ear.

  “You did. I think we found you too late. I thank you for everything you did.”

  He gave her a sleeping draught and saw her to bed before letting himself out. He climbed into a hack on a night when he would rather walk alone and weep a little himself. He would never grow accustomed to this. To death. To failure.

  He allowed himself a few moments of grief before putting on the mask of indifference so many in this profession had to don in order to endure it.

  The hackney could not even get close to Yardley Court for all of the carriages lining the streets in wait. He was deposited two streets away and passed multiple servants lingering about. Some were entertaining themselves by dancing while they waited for their masters to call for them at the end of the night. Seamus sneaked in through the servants’ entrance and was directed to his room.

  Lord Craig’s man was there, waiting for him. His father must have known. Medicine had been his life, too. As the valet helped him to dress quickly, he wondered if he could give it all up as Gavin had done. He was still able to practice Medicine on occasion. It was Seamus' life, but tonight had been a perfect example of his profession being opposed to his heart’s desire.

  Leaving his room, he heard the sounds of the orchestra growing stronger as he made his way to the ballroom. He paused at the top of the stairs to get oriented. It only took him seconds to find her. There was no one else in the room for him when she was there. She was dancing with someone he did not recognize, and his chest clenched with unfounded, uncharacteristic jealousy. He wanted to be that man, yet he had not even been here for her début.

  He forced his eyes away so he would not be caught staring. He found his parents standing with the Duke and Duchess, and joined them.

  “Forgive my tardiness,” he said with a bow, trying to steel himself to do so, but he could not find the words to explain.

  Gavin reached out and placed his hand on Seamus’s sleeve and looked him in the eye. He was forced to look away to control himself. This was not the place.

  “Mr. Baker?” he whispered. Seamus gave a slight inclination of his head.

  “I am sorry, my son. It never gets easier.”

  Seamus took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Am I too late for a dance?”

  “You will have to ask her yourself,” Yardley answered, and Seamus realized she must be standing behind him.

  She looked more beautiful when close, if it was possible. About to stare at her like a green youth, he remembered his manners in time and bowed.

  “Lady Christelle, is it too late to request a dance?”

  She smiled at him and it made everything else seem inconsequential.

  “I have been saving several dances for you,” she said as she put her arm on his sleeve.

  They began to walk to the floor.

  “Saving them for me? I imagine you are turning partners away. Besides, it would not do to dance more than once on your come out,” he said in a slightly mocking tone.

  She laughed. “Perhaps. All evening I think to myself, 'If I see Dr. Craig, I will dance the next set with him.' Then, if I do not see you, I accept the person who asks. Of course, my father, uncles and grandpère have all had turns.”

  “That would not leave many open sets,” Seamus remarked, calculating in his head.

  “I think that was the point,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

  “Who was the last fortunate gentleman? I have not seen him before; and now he dances with Maili, I see.”

  “A Mr. Cole. He helped me to find the stage in Dover and purchased a ticket for me. Was that not extremely handsome of him?”

  Seamus had to stop himself from missing a step. “I beg your pardon?”

  She frowned. “Have I done something wrong?”

  He shook his head but did not say anything, grateful for the changing of partners in the dance. A man of Mr. Cole's age would not do such a thing unless he intended repayment or mistook her for someone or something. He could not have known who she was, could he? Seamus was too exhausted to think clearly and eventually ascribed it to Mr. Cole doing a good deed. Surely, he thought vaguely, nothing problematic could come of it now.

  Seamus took Christelle’s hand again.

  “Is it unpardonably rude to ask why you were late?” she asked timidly.

  Seamus looked at her with tenderness. “Of course not. It is I who should be begging your pardon and asking for forgiveness. May we wait until the ball is over and I will tell you everything? I assure you I wanted to be here.” He did not want to ruin her night.

  She cocked her head to the side. “Very well, if you insist. I am simply glad you did come after all.”

  The morning papers were full of the news, as expected. It was the juicy tidbit for all the gossiping tongues, in every corner of London. The drawing room was overflowing with callers, especially those bold enough to dare a visit on the merest acquaintance with Yardley or the family—all anxious for a glimpse of Lady Christelle Stanton. It was a real-life fairytale.

  Too bad Yardley had no inclination to accept callers that day. Childers sent away dozens of disappointed suitors who had been too smug to attend yet another in
sipid ball, for no one had guessed what an on-dit awaited. None of the newspapers, announcing the glittering festivity at Yardley Place, had even intimated at the relationship of the young lady being brought out to its ducal owner. Never fear, the ink on the betting books was scarcely dry on the page before a new one was started by those unhappy gentlemen to bet on the lovely Lady Christelle. Several of the bets were speculation on the size of her dowry, or which confirmed bachelor would sink this Season.

  Yes, the Season was in full swing, if the animated chatter in the clubs and calls was anything to go by.

  Christelle was blissfully unaware of all of it.

  The ball had been better than she had expected once Dr. Craig had arrived. It had been difficult to hide her disappointment before he had finally appeared, in time for the last dance. Looking exhausted and despondent, he had apologized but not explained, and she had presumed he did not wish to burden her with whatever was on his mind.

  The dance had been very special to her, though he had seemed distant and sad. He had not been at all as charming and talkative as Mr. Cole, which must stem from the latter's work in diplomacy, she decided.

  Dr. Craig was an elegant dancer for one so tall, and Christelle soon forgot she was in a ballroom full of people curious to have a glimpse of her, this long-lost, legitimate child of Yardley’s. She had felt herself relax and enjoy his company as she had not been able to with any other partner that night.

  The country dance brought them together occasionally, though not as often as a waltz would have done. She had only minded that she had to be separated from him at all. She had felt herself smiling and perhaps dancing the steps in a livelier manner than was English and proper. She had decided she would worry about it later, for, with him, she was simply Christelle again.

  There had been a few other dances with gentlemen she could scarcely recall. None of it mattered much to her. She wanted to do this for her new family. After the ball, she had formed the intention of not making herself known about Town any more than necessary.

  Today was the day she was to ride out with the Duke of Cavenray. Fortunately, he had extended the invitation to include Maili too.