They sat in silence a few moments, Eleanor feeling more and more miserable as the minutes ticked by on the clock sitting on her mantel. She sat with her chin in her hand. Her eyes filled with tears, until finally able to stand it no longer, she brought her hand to her eyes and wiped them away.
“I’m sorry,” she gulped. “I just feel so awful…and I can’t believe you’re telling me I’m going to feel this awful for the next six weeks…and why now? Of all the possible times for this calamity, why did it have to be now?” The tears were flowing freely, but she didn’t care.
Where was Betsy when she needed her? She needed someone’s sympathy, not censure. She felt a handkerchief pressed against her face, and blindly she took it with her other hand, recognizing the familiar scent of soap.
“I am truly sorry. I wish I could tell you this will go away tomorrow. It may prove just a light sprain and in a fortnight, you’ll only feel a twinge of pain.”
She wiped her nose, refusing to look at him. Her face must look a downright mess. “Even a fortnight is too long,” she sniffed. “By then my replacement will have the part down to perfection and the audience will have forgotten me.”
“I’m sure that’s not so. You were brilliant in the piece.”
She looked at him. His eyes were no longer looking so aloof. “You’re just saying that to be kind.”
“Indeed I am not. I saw you last night for the first time in your new role. You were truly magnificent, albeit in a man’s costume.”
She heard the last words in astonishment, remembering his disapproval at her men’s breeches. “Even the critics who’ve hated these burlettas in the past praised me in this role.”
“Rightly so. There will be other shows, you’ll see.”
She toyed with the damp handkerchief in her hand. “It won’t be the same. I’m not exaggerating. I’ve waited a long time for a role like this, and my time is running out.”
“They’re fools if they don’t offer you another good role.”
She had to smile at that. How little he knew of the theater! “Do you know how many younger, more beautiful women there are knocking on the manager’s door each day?”
He was looking at her so kindly, she expected him to disagree. Instead, he cleared his throat and motioned to her rib cage. “Let me see how you’re doing since yesterday.”
Swallowing her disappointment, she replied, “If you can get through all the swathing you’ve wrapped me in.”
She loosened her dressing gown and let it lie open. As on the night before, he gently lifted her camisole only as far as necessary and asked her to hold it up.
His look and tone again took on that impersonal professional quality. Deftly, his fingers loosened the knot of the binding. She wondered if he would ask her to remove her dressing gown to make it easier to remove the tape, but he didn’t. Although it was an awkward maneuver, he unrolled the tape from her body, his arms loosely spanning her torso.
Then his cool fingers were touching her skin and she felt it down to her toes. She remembered he’d done the same the night before. Then the pain had clouded her to all else, but this morning, she was supremely conscious of the feel of his fingers on her bare skin.
“Does this hurt?”
“A little.”
“This?”
“Yes.”
“Here?”
She shied away. “Yes.”
His head was bent so she could lift her hand and touch his hair. The reddish hue was more apparent this close up. The light bounced off the thick waves of deep burnished copper.
He ought to have freckles, she thought, but she couldn’t detect any from her angle. But then he pushed back from her and she could see his face.
There was a faint shadow of freckles, as if they were under his pale skin. “The area is still swollen,” he said, seemingly unaware of her close scrutiny. He rose and went to his bag. He came back with a white cloth roll in his hand.
“This will work like the binding we used last night, but it will be easier to get on and off.” As he spoke, he put it around her. It had a couple of tapes on one side, which he tied up tightly.
“It feels snug, but not as if it will cut off my breathing,” she said when he had stepped back.
“You may close up your dressing gown.”
“Oh, yes.” She’d forgotten she still held her camisole up.
He turned away and went back to his bag. “I’ve brought you some laudanum if you have trouble sleeping at night. Also, some more willow bark tea, to take during the day if you are in discomfort. For the rest, you must try to move as little as possible, at least for several days.”
“When can I begin to walk about?”
“You’ll see. As the pain diminishes, you’ll be able to do more. Just don’t overdo things at the first sign, or you’ll injure the muscles and ligaments once again and be in more pain than before.”
“Yes, Doctor,” she answered meekly. We’ll see about that, she added silently. She could not accept the fact that she’d be out of commission for six to eight weeks.
“Would you like some tea or coffee?” she asked him.
“No, I really must be going. I have patients to check on.”
“Of course,” she replied immediately, wondering at the sense of loss she felt. “Thank you for stopping in to see me.”
“There’s no need to thank me.” He seemed to hesitate. “You might want to call your regular physician.”
“Dr. Elliot?” She hadn’t given him a thought. “Is that necessary?”
“Strictly speaking, no. A sprained rib falls in my domain. Still, he might want to know what’s happened to you and what treatment you are following.”
“Very well. But won’t you…” She hesitated in turn, not wanting to appear that she needed him. “Be stopping in anymore yourself?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind, I’d like to measure your progress.”
She smiled in relief. “Of course not. You were the one there last night. You saw exactly what happened.”
“Have you heard anything more about how that trapdoor came to be opened? Is that usual?”
“No! I’ve never heard of such an accident. Occasionally an actor will fall from a swinging position from above, but never through the stage floor. Betsy has gone round to the theater to see what they’ve discovered.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He took up his bag. “Well, I must be on my way. Other rounds.” He came up to her and held out his hand. “Good day, Mrs. Neville. I’m sorry about the interruption in your work, but things could have been much worse.”
She took his hand in hers and smiled wanly. “Good day, Mr. Russell. I look forward to your next visit.”
When he’d left, she pondered the visit. She didn’t know what to make of Mr. Russell. He seemed so professional in his capacity of doctor, his manner aloof and impersonal, his hands so gentle, his voice soothing and calm. And yet, when she’d broken down in front of him, he’d truly seemed to care.
But he’d never crossed the bounds of modesty. She’d never experienced that degree of respect in a man. Usually they were undressing her with their eyes, even if their words were decorous. This man had been the soul of propriety.
What had he been thinking as he’d looked at her?
She remembered his story from last night. He’d disobeyed his father and paid the consequences with a broken bone. She tried to imagine him as a disobedient little boy—a boy even at a young age conscientious enough to feel bad at a wrongdoing.
She lived in a world where a person was always scheming to get the advantage over another. Could Mr. Russell be a “good” man? She’d never met such a person. In her experience every man could be bought. Since she’d been a small girl, all she’d known was that survival drove people.
Whatever drove the good surgeon, the man was an enigma to her, and she looked forward to his next visit more than she cared to admit.
“Oh, Eleanor, are you feeling any better today?” Betsy asked as she hur
ried into the room, untying her bonnet as she approached the settee.
“Only slightly better since drinking that vile willow bark tea the doctor left,” she replied, eager to hear Betsy’s news from the theater.
“Everyone sends their well-wishes,” Betsy began, sitting in the chair Mr. Russell had vacated earlier. “They were so shaken by seeing you toppling down that awful hole last night. Half the audience thought it was part of the show.”
“It would have been comical if it didn’t have such tragic results for me. The doctor says I must rest for several weeks.”
“Oh, you poor dear. But you must do as he says.”
“Did you find out how that trapdoor gave way?”
“No.” Betsy’s blue eyes looked troubled. “No one can figure it out. For some reason, the hooks weren’t fixed tight. When you stepped on it, as near as they can figure out, it must have given way. The stagehands have been instructed to check each trapdoor before the show tonight.
“The stage manager has questioned everyone. But no one knows anything. He can only think it was an oversight on someone’s part.”
Eleanor frowned. Someone’s oversight was going to cost her career dearly. “Did Mr. Dibdin say anything?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, he offers his heartfelt wishes for your speedy recovery. He told me he’d be by to visit you later in the week when you’re feeling better.”
Eleanor sat back, mollified. At least he hadn’t forgotten her. She wondered when he’d be by. She needed to assure herself that he still recognized her importance to the company.
Later that day Eleanor began to receive cards and flowers from many well-wishers. The vast majority were from gentlemen who were used to seeing her perform. She read the notes with pleasure, glad at least that some people already missed her. She read the accounts of her accident in the various newspapers.
A large box of bonbons from one of the finest chocolate confectioneries in the city was delivered. Eleanor opened the accompanying note.
I am desolate at your terrible misfortune and beg leave to come and see for myself that you are truly all right.
Your servant,
Gustave Marivaux, Duc d’Alvergny
What a distinguished name. Eleanor considered the note, bringing the folded paper to her chin. She repeated the name to herself. The son of émigrés, d’Alvergny had amassed a fortune in the decades of the war. There must be a way to make use of his friendship, especially during her misfortune.
The next afternoon Mr. Russell came by for his visit. Eleanor knew she looked much better than the day before. Her hair was down, artfully arranged around her shoulders.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Neville,” he said, bowing briefly over the hand she held up to him.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Russell,” she answered coyly, enjoying the way color stained his cheeks, blotting out the faint freckles.
“I trust you’re feeling the slightest bit better?”
“The slightest,” she replied with a smile. “I slept tolerably last night with the help of the laudanum. And despite its vile taste, the willow bark tea seems to alleviate the hurt. I can actually breathe without stabbing pain.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” He held out a parcel to her. “I brought you something to help pass the time while you mend.”
“Oh, what’s this? More presents?” she asked eagerly, taking the package from him.
“More presents?”
She waved a hand around the room. “Dozens of notes and bouquets.”
“I see. I should have realized you’d have a surfeit of gifts.” His tone was light as he surveyed every tabletop adorned with a vase filled with a colorful array of flowers.
“Oh, but I’m sure yours is much more original than those,” she hastened to assure him.
“Don’t be too sure.”
She unwrapped the package eagerly and looked with interest at the stack of books, all new and obviously just purchased.
“I thought you might enjoy Rob Roy,” he began. He cleared his throat. “You might have already read it.”
She looked up at him with a smile. “No, I haven’t. I look forward to reading it,” she answered softly, wanting to let him know his gift had touched her.
“I’ve also brought you an edition of Emma. This latest work is dedicated to the Regent.”
“There’s all sorts of speculation about ‘the lady’ who has written these delightful novels,” she said, opening the edition of Emma and reading the dedication. “I shall certainly have plenty of time for reading.”
“That’s what I thought.”
She looked at the next book. “What’s this?” She read from the front cover. “Romances and Gothic Tales, Containing ‘The Ruins of the Abbey of Fitz-Martin,’ ‘The Castle on the Beach,’ ‘The Mysterious Monk.’” She raised an eyebrow. “A gothic horror from the good Methodist?”
He looked embarrassed. “I didn’t know your reading tastes, so I brought along a wide selection.”
She flipped to the next book. “Practical Piety, The Influence of the Religion of the Heart on the Conduct of the Life by Hannah More.” Her mouth turned downward as she read the title. “That’s more what I would expect from you, but I fear to disappoint you if you think I shall be able to get through something written by someone who writes religious tracts…” Eleanor wrinkled her nose and laid the book aside.
“Well, I thought it might make for edifying reading while you are housebound.”
She was no longer listening as she sat looking at the last book. “The Holy Bible?”
He cleared his throat as his fingers curved around the arm of his chair. “It’s the source of all comfort when one is enduring a trial…”
“Are you trying to turn me into an evangelical?” she asked in amusement.
“Have you never read it?”
The question took her aback. “No,” she answered, glancing back down at the leather-bound volume as she searched her memory. “Churchgoing never formed part of my upbringing.”
“There are some good things in that book.”
She looked back down at the Bible in her lap. “Are there?”
“Permit me.” He reached across and took it from her.
He opened it up to a marker and began to read, “‘Delight thyself also in the Lord; and He shall give thee the desires of thine heart.’”
“‘The desires of my heart’? I can’t imagine God caring about what I want. I thought the Bible was all hellfire and brimstone.”
He smiled. “No, there’s much more to the Bible than that. It takes a lifetime to plumb its depths.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to understand anything in it. Would you mark the place you read?”
“Of course. That was Psalm Thirty-seven. The psalms are a good place to start. I think you’ll find some pleasing things in them.” He replaced the ribbon between the pages he’d been reading and shut the book.
“I shall attempt it,” she said, wanting to please him for his thoughtfulness. “But I can’t promise you I’ll understand anything I read. I do thank you for the lovely books, though.”
She turned away with a sigh, thinking again of the reason she would have so much time to read.
“What is it?”
“I just remembered. Tomorrow is the day I usually go to visit Sarah, the girl who was ill with the fever.”
“She doesn’t yet know about your accident?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t have the heart to tell her I couldn’t come. She looks forward to my weekly visits. As I do.” She bit her lip. “I must send word, that’s all there is to it.”
“I can inform her.”
“Oh, but that’s quite out of your way.”
“I’ve meant to pay her a visit, to see how she has recovered.”
“She was doing extraordinarily well when I visited her last week. You did wonders for her with that cinchona bark. You are the man of ‘bark,’” she teased.
“I did nothing unusual. I’m just g
lad I could come when you called me.”
She could feel her cheeks grow warm under his steady regard. She looked down, clutching the dressing gown to her neck. “Aren’t you going to…examine me today?” she asked, her mind going to the reason for his visit.
He cleared his throat. “No, not today. There’s no need, unless you feel something differently today from yesterday.”
“No,” she whispered, wondering whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
“Well, I’d better be off, then.” He rose.
“Thank you for stopping by,” she told him, wishing he weren’t leaving so soon. “Thank you for the lovely books.”
He returned the Bible to her. “Think nothing of it. It was my pleasure.”
“You’ll see Sarah, then? You’ll tell her why I can’t come tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t say anything to worry her, will you?” she asked.
“No, of course not. Trust me,” he reassured her.
“Yes, all right.” As a doctor, he would know the right thing to say. “Well, I’m very grateful.” She held out her hand.
His own reached out and enveloped hers and she was overwhelmed by the sense of security it gave her.
The next day Eleanor felt worse than ever. Usually she spent the day with Sarah. The effects of the willow bark tea had worn off, and she felt a throbbing pain in her side with each breath.
The owner of the theater had stopped by, but his commiserations hadn’t totally reassured her. She’d have to ask someone like Betsy to see how the show was being received with her replacement.
Clara popped her head around the doorway. She was beaming. “You have visitors.”
“Yes, who?” She strained to look beyond her and was rewarded with a sharp pain.
“Mr. Russell with a couple and a young girl.”
She opened her eyes wide. A young girl? Could it be? “Show them up, please.”
A few minutes later Sarah came bounding in the room. “Aunt Eleanor, are you surprised to see me?”
“I am indeed,” she replied, trying her best to sit up.
The Healing Season Page 16
