Diary of an Accidental Wallflower

by Jennifer McQuiston

  A cough of amusement shattered the silence behind them, reminding Daniel that no matter the manufactured intimacy of this corner, with the crackling fire and the promising shadows, they entertained an audience. “Lord Cardwell has his faults, to be sure, but even he would never wear anything so hideous,” the girl’s mother called out, her words slurring in places. “That is her sister’s shoe, the one who is always tripping over her feet. Clare, what were you thinking, wearing Lucy’s shoes to a ball?”

  Miss Westmore’s hands gripped the arms of her chair. “I suppose I had thought tonight was too important to miss,” she muttered, far too low for her mother to hear.

  Daniel put the shoe to one side and eyed an impressive length of stocking-clad leg. He could understand a need to suffer something distasteful in order to advance one’s cause. Wasn’t that, in a way, why he was here this evening? But what could be so important as to make a girl like this succumb to such a fashion atrocity?

  As he rolled up his sleeves and contemplated his next step in this examination from hell, it occurred to him that the bit of silk still blocking his view was no ordinary set of stockings. Though they were surely not meant to see daylight, Miss Westmore’s stockings were of the clocked variety, pale ivory and embroidered with an intricate pattern of black swirls and loops. The cost of such stockings, he knew, would keep his small bachelor’s flat in coal for a month. Such extravagance was enough to focus him back on the task at hand.

  “Do you feel comfortable removing your stocking?” he asked.

  She hesitated only a moment before pulling her skirts up higher. She untied her stocking from a garter that flashed a tempting green ribbon and began to roll it down. He averted his eyes, as any physician must in this situation, but could not quite keep his eyes safely anchored to the Abyssinian carpet as pale, gleaming skin began to emerge in the wake of her attentions.

  She eased the silk garment from her injured foot and then handed it to him with a flourish. The motion seemed uncalculated, but it held a dangerous edge of flirtation. “Shall I remove the other as well?”

  “No,” he choked out, his voice strangled. Christ above, no. As long as the skin emerging from beneath those stockings required a professional assessment, he might maintain a hold on his sanity. But toss in a perfectly uninjured leg and he would be done for.

  “May I?” He held out his hand, palm up. When she nodded, Daniel placed his fingers on her bare knee, then cursed his body’s reaction to the feel of her. Her skin was warm and soft, and the taut stretch of her limb trembled slightly against his palm. It was disconcerting to realize his interest in these proceedings was running toward something less seemly than a physician’s simple appreciation for human anatomy.

  He forced his hands lower, toward her ankle, feeling like a bloody bounder for leering after her with her mother sitting twenty feet away. He could easily tell the limb was swollen—hell, a half-blind butcher could have made that diagnosis. The distortion was visible from across the room, and he had noticed it even before she removed her stocking. But a shadow lay across the area he needed to examine, making it hard to see just what sort of damage he was dealing with. He heard her breath catch in her throat just as his fingers grazed the top of her foot. “I am sorry,” he murmured. “This may hurt a bit.”

  He placed a flattened palm against her instep and lifted the limb closer to the firelight, gauging the stopping point by her sudden gasp of pain. The dancing light of the fire played over a nightmarish beauty of a sprain. As he’d expected, this was no mild swelling or a bit of discolored skin. The inflammation was so pronounced it quite obliterated the delicate lines of bones that should have been visible.

  A hesitant vein of respect threatened to intrude. Miss Westmore had initially struck him as the sort of girl who would be quite happy to have others dance attendance on her, but this suggested a hidden core of steel.

  How was she even walking, much less contemplating dancing?

  He pressed experimentally against the top of her foot, bracing himself against her resulting hiss of pain. He observed the deep indentation left by his fingers and the accentuated refill time of her damaged vessels.

  “I do not believe you mentioned how you injured it,” he observed.

  “No.” She fidgeted above him, her voice as taut as the skin on her injured foot.

  “This looks a bit more serious than the usual turned ankle on the dance floor.” And judging by the degree of discoloration, it had happened far earlier in the day. “I’ll need the details if I am to ascertain the degree of damage.”

  She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “If you must know, I twisted it in Hyde Park, around three o’clock this afternoon.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I was . . . attacked.”

  “Attacked?” Daniel ill-expected the punch of anger that possessed him at her admission. It was none of his business. And yet, his fingers tightened against the damaged limb. “In broad daylight? By whom?”

  She hesitated. “Geese, if you must know.”

  Relief flooded in, all the more disturbing for how ill he still felt to think of her suffering a more dangerous sort of assault. His fingers ran upward, to a reddened, crescent-shaped mark on her right calf. “That would explain this spot, I presume. Impertinent beasts, were they?”

  “I would have been fine if it had only been the ducks,” she responded with a wrinkled nose. “But geese are another matter entirely.”

  Daniel stifled a laugh. “I think Hyde Park’s ducks might have had a decent shot at felling you as well. You could stand to put a few pounds on your frame, Miss Westmore. I would recommend a blood-building diet if you plan to venture out among their ranks again.”

  Her shapely lips firmed. “You, sir, are not being paid to consider anything beyond the state of my ankle.”

  “I wasn’t aware I was being paid at all.”

  At least not yet. He did not add that he hoped this bit of altruism might lead to more. In the near term, Miss Westmore was likely to need medical care for several weeks. And in the longer term, adding Lord Cardwell’s family to his meager list of patrons could help fill out his almost-empty pockets. He lowered her foot. “I don’t think anything is broken, but it is difficult to assess once this degree of swelling sets in. At a minimum, you’ve suffered a significant degree of tendon damage. But I would not rule out the possibility that the metatarsal or cuboid bones in your foot might be displaced internally.”

  Her eyes widened. “There’s more than one bone?”

  Daniel almost snorted. Had she never taken a good, close look at her body beyond the prettier parts that stared back from a mirror? Or even opened a basic textbook on science?

  “There are twenty-six in all.” He glanced over his shoulder, seized with what was probably a very bad idea. The girl’s mother was still sitting upright on the settee, but her eyes were half shut and her head was beginning to droop. Satisfied the moment was as private as it could be, he reached a hand toward Miss Westmore’s other foot, the one still ensconced in its glass-beaded slipper. “May I show you?” he asked.

  She nodded her assent, but otherwise stayed as still as a mouse in a trap.

  He removed the dainty silk slipper—a useless thing, with its sole as thin as paper—and ran his fingers feather-light across the surface of her stocking, careful to avoid the embroidered areas so he would not snag the delicate silk threads. Her uninjured foot felt small and alive in his hands, and he was struck by the notion that perhaps he’d been in the company of cadavers far too much of late. “The metatarsals run just here. There are five.” He touched each one in turn, the beauty of her noninjured foot’s shape evident even through the thin layer of silk. He ran his fingers appreciatively down the length of her toes, and heard her sharply indrawn breath. “Phalanges make up the tips, the part a layman calls the toes. There are fourteen of those.”

  “Not fifteen?” she asked, almost breathlessly.

  He looked up, surprised that she had so neatly understood. “No, though it is a
good guess there would be three for each digit. Nature favors symmetry, but the largest toe lacks its third.” He cupped her pert heel and recited the rest as though she were one of his students. “Here you’ve several cuneiform bones, the cuboid, navicular, talus, and calcaneous.”

  The moment ended on a drawn-out note of silence, the air thick with something he cared not to think about. He rocked back on his heels and looked up. She was peering down at him in frozen surprise, as if captured by some Gypsy spell. And perhaps she was. There was more than a drop of Roma in him, as anyone with eyes could fair see. She would not be the first female to succumb to strange behavior in his presence, only to later resent him for inciting it.

  He set her left foot down and cleared his throat. “With respect to your injury, it would have been far better to see a doctor before it reached this point. Why did you wait?”

  Her eyes darted over his shoulder toward her mother, who by now had started to snore softly. “I do not care to discuss it.”

  Daniel pushed himself to standing. Clearly no further explanation would be forthcoming on that point. He picked up his jacket as he considered what sort of prognosis to deliver. He’d seen worse, of course. Just this morning he’d seen a carter’s foot with gangrene, the toes blackened and dying. That inspection had ended in an amputation. Miss Westmore, thank goodness, appeared in little immediate danger beyond a looming disruption to her social calendar.

  “I’m afraid you’ve extended your convalescence by several weeks by walking on it so much this evening. I recommend a month’s rest—strict rest, mind you, sitting still with your foot elevated. No flitting about ballrooms or excursions to galleries.”

  “A month?” She gaped at him. No lowered voice now, and no ascetic show of courage. Behind him, he could hear the rustle of fabric that signaled her mother’s waking.

  Daniel raised his voice so Lady Cardwell would hear the worst of it. “No standing. No walking. And most certainly no dancing, for at least four weeks.”

  Her outrage simmered across the foot or so that separated them. “You are deranged, Doctor. It is the start of the Season. I cannot afford to—”

  “Qui totum vult totum perdit, Miss Westmore,” he interrupted. “That means he who wants everything loses everything.”

  “I know what it means, Dr. Merial.” Her eyes narrowed. “Sicut palmes non facit philosophus.”

  A quote does not make one a philosopher.

  He grinned at the sheer unexpectedness of hearing Latin fall from her lips. Half the medical students he taught lacked even a basic command of the ancient language, and here he’d just been insulted by a young woman who looked as though she studied little other than fashion plates. But despite being intrigued enough to chuckle, on this matter he would not bend. “You cannot afford to ignore solid medical advice.”

  Though, she was probably correct to call him out on the length of her convalescence—she might be up and about within a fortnight if she’d escaped a more serious break and if she took care to properly rest her ankle. But he was in the habit of erring on the side of caution, and he was hardly doing something unethical by stretching the possibility of a required period of rest.

  “If you exacerbate the injury,” he warned, “you will likely be facing a convalescence that could last well into autumn.”

  “Autumn?” Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Her earlier pallor had by now given way to flushed outrage. “I scarcely think more than two weeks’ rest is necessary for something so minor as a turned ankle.”

  Daniel grinned, despite himself. She was a spirited handful, and more intelligent than he’d first credited her. “I admit it can be difficult to know with any degree of certainty, as we need to wait for the swelling to go down to know if anything is broken. But don’t you think that is more a matter for your physician and parents to decide?”

  She lurched to her feet, already ignoring his advice. “I rather think it depends on the physician,” she snapped. “Dr. Bashings would never—”

  “Bashings?” Daniel interrupted, even as a rustle of nearby skirts signaled the girl’s mother had risen and was heading toward the fray. “Is he still engaged in practice?” To hear the rumors, the man still carried vials of leeches and cobwebs about in his pockets. At twenty-eight, Daniel might be young, but at least he had the benefit of a modern education.

  That, and a firm appreciation for hand-washing.

  “He’s our usual family physician.” She hesitated. “But that does not mean . . . that is . . . I imagine you could still . . .”

  At her clear discomfort, Daniel’s hopes for procuring Lord Cardwell’s patronage withered like fruit on a frost-ridden vine. “Miss Westmore. I believe clients should feel comfortable with their physicians, given the enormity of trust such relationships require.” He inclined his head in a gracious recusal, though his fingers clenched at the likely loss of this client. “If you wish to use Dr. Bashings, by all means that should be your choice.”

  Miss Westmore’s panicked eyes darted to her mother, who was emerging beside him in a waterfall of red skirts.

  Lady Cardwell blinked unfocused blue eyes that looked nothing like her daughter’s heated flash of hazel. “Dr. Bashings has been our family’s physician for over twenty years, but I see no harm in employing your services until my daughter’s ankle is properly healed.” She fumbled in her beaded reticule and clumsily produced a card, which he accepted with more caution than not. “Do stop by Cardwell House tomorrow, around noon, if you would.”

  Daniel fingered the edge of the card. It was made of fine linen, and was as much a testament to Lord Cardwell’s wealth and influence as the Grosvenor Square address printed upon it. “Regretfully, I’m to deliver a noon lecture to the first year students at St. Bartholomew’s tomorrow.”

  Why was he hesitating?

  This was what he had been hoping for, wasn’t it?

  “Ten will do as well. Clare rises with the pigeons.” Lady Cardwell fluttered her fingers, as if such a notion pained her. “And I insist on paying for the kind assistance you have provided us tonight.”

  Payment. God knew he could use it, when all was said and done.

  It was one thing to have Lady Cardwell’s drunken invitation, but her daughter’s willingness to play along seemed far less assured. He risked a glance at Miss Westmore, whose lips were pressed together in stubborn silence. The desire to extricate himself from this prickly situation warred indelicately with the need to further his acquaintance with someone as potentially influential as Lord Cardwell.

  Need won out, as it was always bound to do.

  May 5, 1848

  Dearest Diary,

  I have faced the worst evening of my life . . . and lived.

  Some would be grateful for the fact of their continued survival, but as I write this tonight, I am not sure it was the most favorable outcome. I still cannot believe the scope of Sophie’s betrayal. She encouraged me to sit in the wallflower line, and then danced with Mr. Alban as if he was a prize she was well on her way to winning. Well, she will find I do not relinquish my dreams so quickly. The minute I am able, I will be out on the dance floor again, and she will soon realize I’ve claws every bit as sharp as hers.

  But Mother . . . oh, that is a betrayal I cannot yet wrap my thoughts around. She didn’t even apologize during the coach ride home, just fell asleep on the seat. Perhaps she is embarrassed, but my feelings run a bit deeper than that. This is a secret that has the power to destroy my family, and I refuse to wreck the people I love with something so callous as the truth.

  Although I am grateful no one of importance followed me into the library, Dr. Merial’s knowledge of what transpired there is a problem I am now left to sort out. I am to rest my foot (all twenty-six bones, drat the man’s impudence) for at least a month. Well, I may be forced to tolerate his attentions to ensure his confidence, but I am determined to prove him wrong on the matter of my healing. There can be no other option.

  A month’s absence would give Sop
hie an advantage I cannot bring myself to contemplate.

  Chapter 6

  Daniel came awake to the sound of firm rapping on his door.

  His head ached like the very devil—a nasty little side effect of the chloroform, he was coming to understand—and his neck felt as though he’d spent the evening crammed into a two-by-two box. He opened his eyes, only to encounter a raucous beam of sunlight that punched its way through the room’s single window and took aim at his protesting pupils.

  Christ, but he’d fallen asleep at his work again.

  And was it any wonder? Up until all hours at Lady Austerley’s ball, his experiments delayed into the wee hours of the morning. He must have dozed off as he recorded his findings. God’s teeth, but what he wouldn’t give for a normal schedule.

  That, and the comfort of a normal bed, every now and again.

  He lifted a hand to rub his eyes, only to discover that a piece of paper had somehow become stuck to his cheek during the night. Had he drooled onto his notes? Given that an image of Miss Westmore’s lovely lips was still seared into his brain, there was no mistaking the direction his dreams had taken him.

  And in his dreams, she had removed far more than clocked silk stockings.

  Grimly, he extracted the scrap of paper from his cheek and shifted on the hard seat of the chair. He supposed, given the nature of his dreams and his body’s stiff morning salute, he ought to be glad that drooling was all he’d done.

  The knocking came again. “Dr. Merial!” a determined female voice called out. “Are you home?” It was impossible to mistake his landlady’s unspoken suspicion: And are you alone?

  Daniel pushed himself to his feet. Yes, he was alone. The rules of the boardinghouse aside, he was always alone. What self-respecting female would consent to spend the night in a place like this? The rooms were close to St. Bartholomew’s, and he had his own private entrance that opened to the street, but in terms of basic comforts, the flat was sorely lacking.