“Not at all. I’m just curious how you spent your afternoon with Miss Neville.”
“She introduced herself as Mrs. Neville, but she explained later that she wasn’t married, that it was merely a stage name.” His pounding slowed as he thought about it again.
“Unmarried, eh? It gets more and more interesting. You know, Ian, I’ve told you before, you need to find yourself some female companionship. It’s time you were married and settled in a real home and not just some rooms next door to your dispensary.”
Ian couldn’t help laughing. “When did we get from meeting an actress to settling down?”
His uncle didn’t return the smile. “Perhaps when it’s the only young woman I’ve heard you mention in I don’t know how long. I’m grasping at the proverbial straw.”
“Well, you can let it go. I met Mrs. Neville purely by chance and, I assure you, I’m unlikely to see her again, except in the course of my work, if our—er—mutual patient takes a turn for the worse.” Ian began explaining the events that had led up to their meeting, in an effort to divert his uncle’s attention from Mrs. Neville.
After Ian finished describing the night’s struggle to save Miss Simms, his uncle got up from the stool and rummaged in his various drawers and Albarello jars, mixing together a variety of dried herbs. He came back with a small sack for Ian.
“Mix an infusion of this and have her drink it as often as possible throughout the course of the day. It should help with the bleeding.”
Ian took it and put it with the other prescriptions. “Thank you.”
“Speaking of your life,” his uncle continued. “I’ve been thinking of talking with the board here at St. Thomas’s. They could use another instructor in pathology. Why don’t you curtail some of your patient load and take on additional teaching work? It would leave you more time for research.”
Ian rubbed his temples. It was a familiar suggestion. “I am satisfied with my work as it is, as you well know.”
“You would ultimately help more people if you could continue working in the laboratory and at the dissection table.”
Ian walked away from his uncle and stopped at the small dormer window overlooking the courtyard of the great hospital. He munched on a cardamom seed he took from the bag in his pocket as he watched a few students crisscrossing the courtyard’s length on their way to an evening lecture.
It didn’t help that his uncle knew Ian almost better than he knew himself. Uncle Oliver had become like a second father to Ian, when as a lad of thirteen Ian had begun his apprenticeship under him. Except for the war years and his time spent walking the wards at La Charité in Paris, Ian had been primarily under his uncle’s tutelage since he’d left home.
He turned back to Uncle Oliver. “I must be going. I still have to look in on the young woman before calling it a day.”
His uncle, as usual, knew when it was time to end a conversation. The two bid each other good night, and Ian descended the stairs. With a final wave to Jem, who was sweeping the floor before leaving for the evening, Ian exited the apothecary shop.
When he reached the main road, he saw the mist rising on the river in the distance.
He turned in the opposite direction and continued walking but soon his steps slowed. If he turned down any one of the narrow streets on his right, they’d take him to Maid Lane. It would be less than a mile to New Surrey Street. There Mrs. Eleanor Neville was probably preparing to step onto the stage. He pictured the lights and raucous crowds. He imagined her cultured voice raised above the audience.
Giving his head a swift shake to dispel the images, he picked up his pace and headed on his way.
Life was full enough as it was. He had no need to go looking for trouble.
When Eleanor finally left her dressing room that night, exhausted yet exhilarated after her performance, she walked toward the rear entrance of the theater where she knew her carriage awaited her. She gave her coachman instructions to stop at Betsy’s before going home.
She was afraid the landlady wouldn’t open, but after several minutes, someone finally heeded her coachman’s loud knocking.
“It’s late to be paying calls,” the woman snapped.
“I’m looking in on my friend.”
“That Betsy Simms? She ought to be thrown in the magdalen! This ain’t no house of ill repute.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” Eleanor replied acidly, walking past the slovenly woman, who barely made room for her. She quickly climbed the foul-smelling, narrow stairs and opened Betsy’s door without knocking. She found her friend awake.
“How are you feeling?” Eleanor asked softly, crouching by the bed.
“As if I’d been run over by a dray,” she answered weakly.
“You might as well have been. Thank goodness that surgeon was nearby and came as soon as he was called. I had no idea what to do.”
“He stopped by a little while ago.”
“Did he?” A warm flood of gratitude rose in her that he’d kept his word.
Betsy gave a faint nod. “He said I was doing all right but that I needed to rest for several days. He told me how foolish I’d been.” Tears started to well up in her eyes.
Eleanor pressed her lips together. Why couldn’t his lecture have waited a few more days, at least until Betsy was a bit stronger? “Don’t pay him any heed. He was just concerned about you.”
“I tried to explain, but he didn’t let me tire myself.” She took a few seconds to gather her flagging strength. “He…told me you had already explained everything to him.”
“That’s right.” Eleanor rose from her cramped position. “Now, don’t concern yourself with any of that right now. Just think about getting well again.” As she spoke she brought a glass of water she found by Betsy’s bed. “Here, take a sip of this and then get back to sleep.”
She cupped her hand under Betsy’s head to raise it. The girl obediently took a few sips and then sagged against the pillow.
Eleanor set the glass on the bedside table and straightened. “I shall be off, then. A nurse is coming tomorrow, did Mr. Russell tell you that?”
Betsy nodded. “He was very kind.”
Eleanor smoothed the bedcovers and adjusted the pillow beneath Betsy’s head.
“What else could I have done?” Betsy asked. “I couldn’t have the baby. The theater wouldn’t have kept me on if they’d known—”
“Shh. Don’t think about that now.” Eleanor patted the girl’s hand.
“But how do you manage it? Haven’t you ever found yourself in such a situation?”
Eleanor hesitated, not wanting to upset Betsy further. But when she saw that the girl would not be quieted, she finally said, “Once…when I was very young—even younger than you.”
“What did you do?”
“It doesn’t matter now. It was long ago. What I learned since then is to be very careful. You mustn’t let this happen to you again.”
“But what do you do? You saw what happened. None of those potions did any good.”
“You must prevent it from happening. You must be very careful with the kind of man you take up with. It’s up to him. You must insist he take the necessary precautions.”
“What kind of precautions?”
Eleanor looked at the pale young woman in pity. She had so much to learn. “You needn’t concern yourself about that now. You have a long recovery ahead of you. But once you’re well, we’ll talk again. Because if you don’t learn to be careful, you’d better stay away from men.”
“But you laugh and flirt with them as much as the rest of us girls at the theater.”
“It only looks that way. What those gentlemen offer must be very good before I’ll allow them to come any nearer than arm’s length.”
The two were silent a few moments, each lost in thought. Finally Betsy sighed. “Mr. Russell told me I wouldn’t survive a second time. He said it was only by God’s grace that I lived through this time.”
“I don’t know about God’s grace, but
I think you were lucky you had a competent surgeon. Now, don’t think about it anymore for the moment. Get some rest and get yourself well. We all miss you at the theater. I’ve told the manager you have the grippe.”
Again Betsy’s eyes widened in fear. “Did he believe you?”
“He was just scared that we’d all get it. He told me you’re to stay away until there is no danger of contagion. Now, get to sleep. I’ll be by again tomorrow. I hope your new nurse isn’t an ogre.” With a laugh and a wave, she left the room.
As she sat in her carriage and resumed her ride home, she told herself to forget about Betsy’s problems for the moment. She herself needed to get her beauty sleep. Tomorrow she would be having dinner with the Duke d’Alvergny. He had been very attentive at the theater for several weeks, and she had fobbed him off.
But she’d made some inquiries and discovered him to be extremely wealthy and influential.
She had spoken the truth to Betsy. Romantic attachments were dangerous, but a gentleman with the right connections and a generous pocket was always worth a second look. Perhaps it was time to see what the duke had to offer.
“Come watch Punch and Judy! Watch Punch knock out Judy! Tuppence a show.” The hawker’s voice carried above the crowd. A young boy tugged on Ian’s hand.
“Oh, may we watch?” The other children took up the chorus.
Ian turned to Jem as the children shouted their glee. “I guess Punch and Judy will be next.” The two men shepherded the children they’d brought from the dispensary neighborhood toward the puppet theater.
Ian fished out his change and gave the money collector the fee.
As the hunchbacked Punch whacked his wife, Ian’s attention wandered. His glance strayed to Jem. The youth seemed as entranced by the small puppet show as the children they’d brought to the street fair.
Leaving Jem laughing heartily at the high-pitched voice of Punch screaming at Baby, Ian looked over the crowd. The streets were packed with people for the annual Southwark Fair. It would be the last one until the winter carnivals.
His gaze was arrested by a small commotion about half a block down. As a few people shifted, providing an opening, he saw what held their attention.
Mrs. Eleanor Neville was holding court. There was no better way to describe the scene before him. Those around her fawned over her, as she graciously bestowed her favor to all and sundry. She smiled, offering her hand to men, women and children alike.
As if on cue, she moved on, ready to greet those farther on. The crowd parted, men doffing their high-crowned hats, women fluttering their handkerchiefs, children clamoring for a last-blown kiss.
She was with another young woman. As they came closer, her attention was drawn to the noise of the Punch and Judy show. Her face lit up and she turned to her companion. At that moment her glance crossed Ian’s.
He thought she wouldn’t recognize him in that crowd, but she raised an eyebrow and he inclined his head in acknowledgment. She said something to her companion and to his surprise, the two started walking toward him.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Russell. I’m surprised to see you at such an entertainment. Who is minding the dispensary?”
He smiled sheepishly, aware of the people around them eyeing him curiously. “My partner.”
She smiled. “I confess I find myself perplexed. You have no liking for the theater, yet here I find you at a fair.” Her lips formed a pretty pout. Ian struggled to shift his focus away from them.
He nodded at the young children around him. “I’ve brought some of the children who usually spend their time in the streets around the dispensary.” At that moment Jem turned around and his eyes grew wide at the sight of Mrs. Neville. He made his way to her side.
“Mrs. Neville! What a pl-pleasure,” he said, holding out his hand, then drawing it back again as if unsure that was the proper thing to do.
Mrs. Neville laughed charmingly and held out her own hand. “The pleasure is mutual. It is good to see you again, Mr. Beverly, under more cheerful circumstances.” She introduced them to her companion, a chorus member from the Royal Circus.
Ian, impatient with the curiosity of the crowd around them, said, “I think Punch is becoming angry with our drawing attention away from his show.”
Mrs. Neville turned to the puppet stage. “I love Punch and Judy. I started out playing at street fairs, you know.” She stood at his elbow, so close the sleeve of her dress brushed his arm, and it became even harder to keep his attention on the show than before.
When the show ended, somehow he found himself part of Mrs. Neville’s entourage. She charmed the children, and their group moved along slowly through the jammed streets, stopping at the various stands.
She ended up walking at his side as Jem and the other actress moved in front of them with the children.
“What do you have there?” Mrs. Neville gestured to the bag in his hand.
“Cardamom seeds,” he answered. He held out the bag to her, wondering if she would find the gesture unrefined.
Instead she removed her glove and took one. She chewed on it and smiled. “It’s spicy.”
He felt captivated by that smile, revealing such purity and sweetness. “I got in the habit of chewing on them when I was first apprenticed to my uncle. His apothecary was a treasure of spices and sweet-tasting lozenges for a kid. He told me to eat these instead of the sweets. Better for my teeth and breath, he advised.
“During the war, they helped alleviate the boredom on long marches across the plains of Spain and fooled the stomach into thinking it had been fed.”
“You were with the army?”
“As surgeon.”
Jem stopped in front of a booth with a dartboard. The hawker immediately challenged them to try for the prizes. The children clamored for Jem and Ian to win them one.
Jem was unsuccessful after three attempts. Ian paid the man in charge and took his three darts. Like Jem’s, his darts landed far from the bull’s-eye. He turned to the children with a shrug. “Sorry, no prizes today.”
Mrs. Neville gave him a coy smile. “I hope your stitches in surgery are better than your aim.”
Her silvery-gray eyes were looking up at him in teasing challenge, and it occurred to him she was flirting with him.
He was accustomed to receiving unwanted attention from the many street women he attended in his practice, but they were derelict and only incited his pity. The heartfelt gratitude he received from other female patients or mothers of children he’d treated humbled him and made him all the more aware of the sacred trust between physician and patient. The only other women he dealt with were at the mission or chapel, modest and respectful in their comportment toward him.
Mrs. Neville’s behavior was different. It was direct and demure at the same time, elegant and playful in one.
“Mr. Russell is the finest surgeon.” Jem defended him immediately. “You wouldn’t want anyone else if you were going under the knife.”
She chuckled, a sound rich and charming like warm caramel. “I’ll try to remember that when I need someone to cut me open and stitch me up. Now, I’ll show you how to win a prize.” She turned to the children. “Let’s see, how many are there of you?” she asked the children as if she hadn’t seen already. “Three only? That means one prize for each.”
They yelled in excitement. Calmly, she turned to the man at the booth. “I shall need three darts, if you please.” She gave him a coin and received her three darts.
The children began hopping up and down, pointing to the things they wanted to win.
“Now, you must hush.” She put her finger to her lips and bent toward them. “Be very, very still so I can concentrate and win your prizes for you.” Wide-eyed in wonder, they promptly fell silent. Ian couldn’t help smiling at the immediate obedience Mrs. Neville’s words invoked in the children. At the same time he wondered if it was wise getting their hopes up.
She turned to the dartboard and hefted the three darts in her hand, as if determining
their weight. She chose one and brought it up level to her face, pointing it toward the round board. The crowds behind were forgotten as the attention of their party was focused on the black center of the dartboard.
Breaths held, they watched as, after an interminable few seconds, she threw the dart.
It arced, then descended and, with a soft thud, landed firmly within the bull’s-eye. The children erupted in shouts of triumph.
She paid them no attention, as her hands once again toyed with the remaining darts.
“Beginner’s luck! Beginner’s luck!” the owner of the booth chanted. “Let’s try for two in a row. Can’t make two in a row.”
Other patrons, waiting for their turn, took up the chant. The noise brought more people to the booth.
Mrs. Neville ignored them as she took aim again. The crowd fell silent as if collectively holding its breath.
Another tense few seconds went by, before whoosh and bull’s-eye.
The cheers were louder this time. Some of the children couldn’t contain their excitement, but jumped higher, clutching at the railing of the booth. Ian glanced at the owner of the stand, who was the only one not looking pleased at the victory.
“Here, now, you watch it,” warned the owner sternly to the boisterous children. “I don’t want my stand comin’ to pieces.”
Ian gently held them back from the railing and told them to be still for the last turn.
Mrs. Neville moistened her lips briefly, the only sign that she was feeling anything other than perfectly calm. The last dart was held lightly in her fingertips. Slowly, it rose to eye level.
It flew through the empty space and landed at dead center, right between the other two darts.
The crowd shouted and applauded.
“I never seen such an aim. And a lady, too!”
“That’s the actress, Eleanor Neville.”
“She’s a wonder.”
“Amazing.”
As if oblivious of the compliments being thrown around her, she bent down to the three children and asked them to tell her which toys they wanted. They pointed to the desired objects. She turned to the stern-faced proprietor, who had taken out the darts and held them in his hand, and calmly told him her choice of prizes.
The Healing Season Page 4
