Equally impossible to forget.
She stared straight ahead, toward the front of the cathedral, but he sensed she hovered on the edge of some very choice words. Her cheeks were already awash in color, though they’d exchanged nothing more potent than a glance across the vestibule. God knew he deserved whatever bit of anger she had brought with her, given that he’d been too busy to see her.
No, that wasn’t quite right. He’d been too cowardly to see her.
He was brave enough to admit that, if nothing else.
From the start she had always swayed his resolve to be sensible, and the only solution at his disposal these four days past had been distance.
God, he’d made so many mistakes. He’d been desperate to believe her. That the stark differences in their stations didn’t matter if love bound them together. She’d seemed to believe it herself, that night in his flat. After all, she’d come to him, knowing the risks. There was no duress, no reason for her to have been here other than her own want.
But she’d not spoken of love the following morning, or even of marriage.
All during that long omnibus ride to Mayfair, after the disaster of the morning and the terrible letter bearing news of Lady Austerley’s death, she’d sat beside him, pinched and silent. It had startled him to realize that perhaps he did not care if she was not able to return the sentiment, if only she would consent to tolerate him.
But then he’d seen her hesitate, there on her family’s front steps, and he’d known she was dreading speaking with her family. About him. He had imagined, in the slowing of her feet, that she must finally see it all clearly. He was a burden she had shouldered, a mistake she would now be forced to live with.
And he’d known only that he didn’t want to be the man who ruined her life.
He was too weak to resist watching her now, though, and his head turned toward her of its own volition. She smoothed black gloves down the front of her skirts but did not look at him. Like the rest of the crowd, she was dressed in somber clothing, but unlike the others, she seemed to shine like a beacon, blinding him to his resolve to keep a firm distance.
“It seems congratulations are in order,” she said crisply.
Out of all the things he might have expected her to say, this fell somewhat short. “Congratulations?” he echoed, staring at her profile. “For what, precisely?” Was she congratulating him on his pressing grief over Lady Austerley’s passing?
Or, perhaps his idiocy in all things related to her?
“Your manuscript was published yesterday in the Lancet.”
He exhaled. “I was not aware you regularly read the Lancet.”
“I do not.” She shot him a sideways glance, and in the sudden purse of her lips he was reminded of how she had looked that evening in the wallflower line, so many weeks ago. “But the Times ran a feature on it this morning. They are calling your anesthetic regulator a miraculous invention. There is even talk of a potential knighthood. You must have been so pleased with your success you forgot to come and call.” Her gaze more fully met his, and he thought he saw a challenge in those hazel depths. “As you promised.”
Daniel felt mired in the absurdity of this conversation.
Pleased with his success? How could he be, when he could think of nothing but her?
Once upon a time he had dreamed of the very sort of success that had been delivered into his hands these past few days—the acknowledgment from the editors who had once given him naught but scathing rejections, the admiration and respect of his peers at St. Bartholomew’s. But now that his grand idea had been published, it was painfully clear that without someone to share it with, those accolades—those triumphs—were hollow, at best.
He settled on a response that held echoes of the truth, but avoided the more pertinent part of her question. “I am pleased it will benefit those who need it, yes.”
He could see the clench of her jaw. “Why didn’t you come?” Her voice dropped to a whisper, and this, finally, snapped him out of his daze. Whispers implied secrets.
And secrets implied shame.
In the end, this was why he’d stayed away, despite the almost overwhelming need he’d felt to see her. “Why?” He laughed, and it was a harsh, regrettable sound. “Because you deserve better, Clare. Better than me, and better than the life I can give you.” And if she refused to see it herself, he would make this sacrifice to protect her.
She stiffened. “Are you telling me you regret that night?”
“No. But you should.” He tugged a hand through his hair. “I’ve not a spare farthing to my name, nor a home to offer you. I’ve spent every shred of my savings, designing and testing the regulator. Now, with Lady Austerley’s passing, I’ve lost one of my primary sources of income.”
He closed his eyes, as if that could somehow extinguish the fact that Lady Austerley’s coffin waited at the front of the cathedral. Knowing the old dragon as he did, she had probably arranged to be buried in a corset and ball gown. He felt numbed by the loss of her, and the fact that he had not been able to save her, even from herself. Worse, he felt embarrassed by his grief. Lady Austerley would have laughed at such histrionics.
He opened his eyes to find Clare watching him, her eyes wide with something that might have been sympathy. “You miss her.” She did not phrase it as a question.
He nodded. “Not that financial matters lay at the core of my friendship with the countess,” he added, more gently now, “but I am in no position to support you now that she is gone. That is why I did not come to Cardwell House.” He breathed in the resulting silence, trying to quell the hemorrhaging of his heart. Because it was a half-truth, at best.
He would live in a hovel with Clare, if only he could believe that she loved him.
Her hand settled on his arm, and he could see her throat working above the black lace of her collar. “Daniel . . . you spent your savings for the betterment of the world, and you haven’t a spare farthing because you’ve spent them all on marzipan and reformed prostitutes. And you’ve been turned out of your flat because of me. Now you are mourning the loss of a good friend, and there is honor in that—in you—whether you see it or not.”
Christ. He was so tempted to believe her, to sink into the acceptance she offered. But he feared his instincts were the opposite of trustworthy, mired as they were in selfish hope. Why in the devil was she saying these things, and making these arguments, when he had seen her warring with the enormity of the decision she faced?
“If you believe those things,” he said miserably, “then why did you hesitate?”
She blinked in confusion. “Hesitate?”
“You hesitated, the day I took you back to Cardwell House. I saw you, there on the steps.” He exhaled, the truth at last laid at her feet. “It was clear you were thinking of all you might lose. Your family, your dowry. And you were right to think of those things. That is why I didn’t come.”
A look of surprise, then horror, crossed her face. “You don’t understand.” She shook her head. “I admit, I did hesitate that day, but not for the reasons you think. I was worried about Lucy, and what my illegitimacy might mean for her future. I swear, my dowry—you—never impacted my decision. You are worth more than five thousand pounds to me.” Her fingers tightened over his arm. “Or is it that you will not have me without it?”
“No.” Daniel nearly choked on the word. “I would marry you if you hadn’t a penny to your name. But I will not trap you in a marriage with a man you cannot love, simply out of my own selfish needs.”
“That is what this is about?” she demanded in an astonished whisper. “You think I don’t love you?” She slid closer, until her skirts brushed against his trousers and he had to brace himself against the feel of her. “For all your ability to see my crooked teeth, the furrow between my eyes . . . how can you not see this, too?”
Daniel stared down at her, at the tears swimming in her eyes. For the first time in days hope shifted in his chest. Was it possible he had so misread
the situation?
And then hard, feminine laughter jerked Daniel’s focus clean over Clare’s shoulder.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here? The ton’s newest disgrace and her doctor.”
Oh, bloody hell. Lady Sophie Barnes was standing at the edge of their row. And she looked far too delighted to see them.
Chapter 33
Clare stood up, her heart pounding. She was grateful to feel Daniel rise with her. The hum of the busy cathedral seemed to recede to a whisper. Or perhaps it was that every sense she possessed was trained on the man standing beside her. The man who loved her so much he had been willing to let her go, simply because he thought her unsure of her own feelings.
And the man she prayed had been convinced she loved him in return.
“What do you want, Sophie?” Clare was proud to hear her voice did not tremble.
Sophie tapped the edge of her black silk fan against one hand and leaned toward Rose, who stood eagerly at her elbow. “What do you think, Rose? Has our dear friend been keeping secrets from us? Were all those threats the night of the musicale just a ruse to throw us off her own trail?”
“Indeed.” Rose giggled. “It appears she suffers a sordid curiosity in the doctor herself. Perhaps we should tell someone.”
Sophie smiled unkindly. “Perhaps we should tell everyone.” Her smile shifted into more of a sneer. “Then again, given her origins, perhaps such low standards make perfect sense.”
Clare breathed in deeply, anchoring herself in the dry, dusty air of the cathedral and the faint scent of chloroform that still clung to Daniel’s coat. She met the gaze of her former friend head-on. “I am as legitimate as you, Sophie. My mother and my real father were married. And if you don’t believe me, you can ask Mr. Alban. My uncle.”
There was a moment of dumbstruck silence before a mean, ugly smile claimed Sophie’s face. “You can’t be Alban’s niece,” she sneered. “Surely I would have heard such a thing.”
“Can’t I?” Clare lifted her chin. “You don’t know everything, Sophie. For example, I would wager you have no idea I am something of an heiress as well.”
Sophie’s sneer faltered, ever so slightly. A less caring soul would take pride in such an impossible feat, tuck it away to savor later, or else plot how to twist it to her advantage. That was, in fact, what Sophie herself would have done. But Clare was a changed person.
And besting Sophie and Rose was not her primary goal.
“It cannot be true.” Sophie’s cheeks washed with unbecoming color. Pink. The most hideous shade possible, given her olive complexion. But rather than taking pleasure in the unbecoming transformation, Clare discovered she only felt sorry for her. Because she had the love of a brilliant man, and a future worth holding in her hands.
Sophie had her mean-spirited gossip and little else to sustain her.
“I imagine learning the news in this manner must come as a bit of a shock,” Clare went on, as if her heart weren’t twisting in her chest. “But I am not surprised you haven’t heard any of it, given that Mr. Alban no longer trusts your judgment. So do your best, Sophie. Gossip to your heart’s content. Tell whoever you want, whatever you want. I am not ashamed of my past or who I am. And I refuse to let your vain and empty threats hurt me anymore.”
Sophie’s green-eyed gaze raised to Daniel. “Oh really?” Her lips curved upward once more. “And how does Dr. Merial fit into this charming little picture? I’ve asked my father about him, you know. It seems he is known to be something of a Chartist sympathizer.” Her eyes narrowed back toward Clare. “And if you are the future duke’s niece, surely you realize an association with someone of that reputation is ruinous.”
Clare tensed. She didn’t mind so much when Sophie was spewing her venom toward her, but now she was shifting her sights to Daniel. It was difficult to believe she had once lived and breathed for this girl’s approval. What a fool she had been, to believe her life rested so precariously on the opinions of Lady Sophie Barnes and the upper ten thousand.
“According to whose definition of ruin?” Clare demanded. “Unlike you, my future is no longer dependent on marriage to a proper peer. My life is my own, to do as I please, and I’ll have you know I sympathize with the Chartists as well. If either of you ever took the time to read a newspaper, you might discover there’s a revolution occurring that is far bigger than Mayfair, and certainly bigger than the likes of you.”
Clare took a determined step backward. Not in retreat.
Toward the man she loved.
“So I will gladly tell you how Daniel fits into my life,” she went on, her voice raised so high it turned heads several pews over, “because I am not ashamed for you to know.” Her hand fumbled behind her and she breathed a sigh of relief as she felt his fingers curve over hers.
Sophie’s lip curled. “‘Daniel,’ is it?”
“Yes.” Clare drew a deep breath. “Daniel Merial. The son of a Gypsy horse trader, and the most brilliant man I know.” She turned and looked up at his darkly handsome face, knowing she would never hesitate again where this man was concerned. “The man I love.”
IT OCCURRED TO Daniel that in this moment, with her hand squeezed tight in his and her heart so publicly bared, she was neither a lady nor a wallflower.
She was simply Clare.
A woman who had just told half of London she loved him.
“You . . . love me?” he asked hoarsely.
“Yes.” Her eyes met his, so achingly beautiful he had to think to breathe. “I love you,” she said again, her fingers curling into his. “And I would marry you tomorrow, if you would but ask me properly.”
Daniel studied the features he knew as well as his own, cataloging the signs. Her color was excellent, her respirations even. Even more telling, her brow was smooth, no furrow to speak of. She had not had to think overly hard on this decision, and with that knowledge, his past four days of uncertainty and the eyes of the crowd fell away.
“Miss Clare Westmore,” he said, lifting her gloved hand to his lips. “It would be my greatest pleasure if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
“That isn’t exactly framed as a question,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.
He chuckled. “That is because I no longer harbor any doubts as to your intentions, my love.” He whispered the endearment, and as a tear spilled down her cheek, he brushed it away with the pad of his thumb. “Will you marry me, Clare?”
“Yes,” she whispered, and then she was in his arms. He caught her cry of gladness against his lips, and as his arms closed around her, he knew a moment’s astonishment that she had done such a thing, in such a place.
It was nothing like that day in Chelsea.
For one thing, he could tell she kissed him out of love, not out of curiosity. He could tell this kiss was different, too, by the way she trembled against him, and by the way his own heart shifted in his chest, leaning toward her.
And for another, everyone was watching. From the frankly disapproving faces five pews over to the red-faced Lady Sophie, still glaring at them from the end of the pew. He had no doubt that even Lady Austerley was watching, and smiling from somewhere beyond the grave.
They broke off, gasping for air, and that was when Lady Sophie’s outraged hiss reached them. “Have you no shame? Kissing someone in public?”
“And worse, marrying someone like him?” Rose echoed, though she looked green with envy.
Daniel was sure he had never wanted to strangle two people so much. It occurred to him that Lady Sophie and Miss Evans would make two striking additions to St. Bartholomew’s morgue, and not only because female cadavers were few and far between.
It was because he had a sneaking suspicion the pair lacked beating hearts.
But Clare only smiled up at him, and he felt his future unfurl beneath his feet. “On the contrary. I will be proud to be Mrs. Daniel Merial,” she said.
And then she kissed him again.
Chapter 34
As tran
scribed by Bros. William and Thompson of London, this 19th Day of May, 1848
I, Lady Eugenia Austerley, being of sound mind and enduring memory, make this my last will and testament. First, I revoke and make void all former Wills and Testaments. Lord Harold, the 8th Earl of Austerley, may have inherited my husband’s title, but as he could not be bestirred to come and visit a lonely old woman in her final weeks, he deserves little more than my contempt.
Enjoy the poorhouse, Harry. You have earned it.
To each of my loyal household staff, I leave a sum of one thousand pounds, in the hopes they might find themselves well settled. They have always done their best to ensure my comfort and there is no doubt their efforts extended my final days.
While I have considered bequeathing the remainder of my estate—encompassing some three hundred thousand pounds, a town house at 36 Berkeley Square, and various and sundry household artifacts—to Dr. Daniel Merial, who, in my final months, showed me not only the compassion of an knowledgeable doctor but the tolerance of faithful friend, I know Dr. Merial would not appreciate the gesture. Truly, I’ve never seen a man so averse to accepting a bit of well-meant charity.
And so, I hereby bequeath these items to St. Bartholomew’s Teaching Hospital, to be sold or managed for the purposes of establishing a new surgery wing. Said wing shall be named in Dr. Merial’s honor and dedicated to the betterment of all who pass through its walls. I further declare that from this sum, an annual salary of five hundred pounds be provided to the hospital’s newly established Chair of the Board of Surgery and Anesthesiology—and further, that this entire bequest be honored only under the stipulation that Dr. Merial be named to—and accept—the position in permanence.
Diary of an Accidental Wallflower Page 32
