The Healing Season

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  But she hadn’t gotten very far on her own. And that edifying work by Hannah More! Dry as powder. Eleanor shuddered. How could a woman who’d been born with no particular pretensions of family or wealth yet who’d managed to achieve a measure of success in playwriting and notoriety in the bluestocking set give that up to write tracts and sermonizing works?

  “Mr. Russell is below,” her maid informed her now.

  “Thank you, Clara. Tell him I shall be down.”

  Giving herself a final examination in the full-length mirror, with a slight adjustment to her bonnet and a tug to the lace at her collar, she prepared to see the good surgeon.

  Her convalescence was becoming long and tedious. Mr. Russell had invited her to a chapel service as soon as she was well enough to go out, and that day had finally arrived.

  A chapel service—the idea was daunting, but she was willing to go anywhere after three weeks at home.

  “Good morning, Mr. Russell.”

  Ian turned to see Mrs. Neville in the doorway of the sitting room. He drew in his breath at her elegant appearance. Just when he’d begun to grow used to her dressing gowns and, more recently, morning gowns, here she stood, silhouetted by the door frame, as if knowing how attractive she looked in her fashionable street clothes. She stepped slowly into the room, her soft gray gown rustling slightly.

  He breathed a sigh of relief at the subdued elegance of the gown and bonnet. He hadn’t dared hope. He’d already debated with himself so many times about his decision to invite her to chapel.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Neville. I trust you are feeling up to this outing today?”

  “I am feeling almost my old self except for an occasional twinge.”

  “Shall we be on our way?” he asked.

  “I’m all anticipation.” She gave him that saucy look which was impossible to decipher. Was she making fun of him, or just displaying high spirits?

  When they arrived at the chapel, he took her first to the Sabbath school for children.

  “How do you get so many children to a Sunday school like this?” she asked in amazement, looking at the children of all ages seated on the long benches, listening to their teacher.

  “It’s modeled on the Sabbath schools established by Robert Raikes in Gloucester about thirty years ago. Since then the concept has spread and you find them everywhere now.”

  She watched a little boy stand and recite one of the Ten Commandments, followed in turn by other children.

  “They are very well behaved, though they appear to be nothing more than street urchins,” she said.

  “For the most part they are. They know they’ll get something hot to eat early in the morning. It used to entice them in, but now, you see, they enjoy the lessons themselves.”

  She shook her head in amazement as they turned to enter the chapel. “I never knew of such things when I was girl.”

  “Would you have attended one?”

  “For a hot meal, very likely I would have.” She gave a bemused smile. “Whether it would have helped me otherwise, I cannot say. Very likely not.”

  She fell silent, and he thought of the horrors she must have endured in her childhood. The infamy of her stepfather sickened him every time he allowed himself to remember it.

  The chapel was already full, and they were obliged to squeeze into a pew at the very back. Ian located the hymn for her and handed her a hymnbook.

  During the singing, he glanced down at her, amazed at the beauty of her voice up close. He had heard it on the stage, but having her right beside him, singing the lyrics of a song glorifying God, sent a thrill through him. How could such an angelic voice and countenance belong to a woman who used the same gifts for the bawdy songs of the stage, and her charm to attract men? For a few moments he allowed himself to imagine the type of woman she would be if the circumstances of her life had been different…if she had had the benefit of the teachings he’d received growing up.

  He turned away from these thoughts with regret. They could only cause pain and unfulfilled longing in him.

  The preacher spoke on the second verse of the twelfth chapter of the Book of Romans, “be not conformed to the world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind…”

  As he exhorted the congregation to stay away from all worldliness, Ian felt strong conviction come upon him. Every lustful thought he’d had was anathema to his Lord and Savior. He dared not even look at Mrs. Neville standing beside him, for fear of flooding his mind again with impure thoughts.

  When he’d given his life over to the Lord, he’d turned his back on living for himself. There were eternal implications to every decision he took. He vowed anew that he wouldn’t let his flesh dictate his actions.

  After the service, Althea came over to greet Mrs. Neville. “How nice that you could come to one of our services.”

  “It’s my first time out since the accident.”

  “Oh, then we are doubly thankful to have you with us. I’m glad you are feeling better. May I introduce you around?”

  Ian felt relieved when Althea led Eleanor away, questioning his own motives in bringing her today. Had it been a mistake? Was his attraction to her overshadowing the more important matter of the redemption of her soul?

  He looked over the crowd. Mrs. Neville stood out in her fashionable outfit. But she seemed to charm the people at chapel just as she had the children at the mission.

  After the service, he took her to the mission for lunch, and Ian was surprised at how well Eleanor adapted herself. She modeled her conversation to theirs, and no mention was made of the theater. Ian could almost believe a transformation had taken place in her after one service.

  By the time he escorted her home, the conviction of the morning’s sermon had faded, and he was feeling optimistic that she had indeed been touched by her time among the church brethren. He turned to her as the hackney he had hired neared her town house. “How was your first outing?”

  “Most pleasurable. It was good to be outside the confines of my house if only for a few hours.”

  Her words stirred a wave of compassion in him. She had been shut up in her house for a long time, and her first outing had been to hear a strong sermon. Yet she’d made no complaint. Perhaps she deserved some amusement.

  “How about another outing tomorrow or whenever you feel up to it?” he suggested before he could talk himself out of it.

  “Where to?” she asked, her eyes alive with interest.

  “Have you heard of laughing gas?”

  “I’ve read about it. Will you take me to see a demonstration?”

  “That’s what I had in mind. We could go to Faraday’s Laboratory on Albemarle Street.”

  She clapped her hands, as happy as a child. “I’d love to go. It’s all the rage. So many of the ton have tried it. Is it safe?”

  “Yes, I believe so. It doesn’t last too long. I am interested in observing the effects from a scientific point of view.”

  “Let’s go tomorrow, then.”

  He agreed to come round the next afternoon. By the time he arrived home, he was once again debating the decision to himself. Why was it he forgot all his resolve when he was in Eleanor Neville’s presence?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Eleanor was finishing her morning coffee, leisurely perusing the theater reviews in the Morning Post and The Examiner, when her housekeeper brought up Mr. Dibdin’s card.

  Eleanor put aside the paper, tired of reading how well the show had continued to do without her. “Send him in. How do I look?” she asked.

  “Oh, very fetching, ma’am. That shade of blue suits you admirably.”

  Eleanor rearranged her skirts on the chair and smoothed her hair. Thomas would see how well she looked, ready to return to the stage.

  “Good morning, Eleanor, I hope this isn’t too early to pay a call,” Mr. Dibdin began as soon as he entered the room.

  Thomas Dibdin was a fashionably dressed, middle-aged man. His hair was cut in the latest style of a dandy, with
its high-swept graying curls falling over his forehead. His neck was encased to the jaw in a cravat, and he wore a tight-fitting, navy-blue, double-breasted coat.

  “Of course not, Thomas. How kind of you to come and see me. Please have a seat. Would you like some refreshment? Coffee? Cocoa?” she asked in a lighthearted tone, indicating the tray in front of her. “I can ring for a fresh pot of coffee.”

  He waved aside the offer. “Don’t trouble yourself, my dear, I mustn’t stay. You know how busy things can be this time of year.”

  After kissing her hand, he settled himself across the room, crossing his legs and sitting back with a sigh. When he made no effort to initiate the conversation, she held up the paper.

  “I was reading about Miss Byrnes’s first appearance on the London stage in The Haunted Tower at the Drury Lane. Have you seen it?”

  “Yes, when it first opened.”

  Seeing he made no other comment, she explained, “I’m reading the old papers, trying to catch up on theater news, since I haven’t been out until now. She seems to have made a hit at the Drury.”

  She read from The Examiner, “‘She is young; and is of a prepossessing appearance, with fine dark eyes and hair and a little ladylike figure. Indeed, we think we have not seen an actress for a long time so genteel in her air and natural deportment.’” She looked across at Dibdin. “What did you think when you saw her?”

  “Oh, a fine young actress indeed. Very nice voice, too,” he said in a distracted tone.

  “At least the paper didn’t pan our Spectre on Horseback. Leigh Hunt has not been known to deal kindly with your librettos.”

  “No, he’s merely ignored it,” he answered sourly.

  “Theatergoers haven’t seemed to notice the snub. I read the show is packed every night.”

  “Oh, yes. It is indeed.”

  He didn’t look as happy as he should be. Perhaps it was because he thought she’d be sensitive to the fact that she wasn’t in it. Well, she would reassure him.

  “I’m just about completely recuperated, you see?” she asked, stretching her arms wide. “No pain.”

  “That’s wonderful, my dear. Terrible thing that accident.” He was looking around him.

  “Thomas, I am well enough to come back in a week or so, not above a fortnight, my doctor assures me.”

  He cleared his throat again. “That’s what I came to talk to you about today.”

  “Oh, really! Why, the two of us must have been thinking along the same lines. I was ready to stop by the theater—”

  “I want you to take all the time you need,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “As you know, our season will end in another month. We may run a bit longer this year with the success of Spectre. Don Giovanni seems to be all the rage these days. I’ve heard of other productions at the other minors—”

  “But that’s all the better. It will give me a chance to get back into my part and do it justice.”

  He was rubbing his hand against his face. “Well, you see…Miss Smith…you know…she’s been doing so well as Leporello…wouldn’t like to change horses in midstream…confuse the audience and all that, you know.”

  She could hardly distinguish his words, which were coming out mumbled against his hand.

  “What are you saying, Tom?” she asked in clipped syllables.

  His eyes met hers and she read a plea in them. “I just…well…with its being almost the end of the season…well…” His voice trailed off.

  “You just said you were not going to close so soon.”

  “The truth is, Eleanor, the crowd loves Miss Smith. I’m afraid the audience, if they were to see you again so soon, well, you know, all they might think of is the trapdoor. And that might prove distracting.”

  It was as if he had screwed up all the courage he’d had to say it all at once, and now finished, he had nothing more to add. The silence rang in her ears like the thunderous applause at the end of the final act.

  Only this wasn’t applause. She hadn’t received any applause in almost six weeks. And if Thomas had his way, she wouldn’t be hearing any applause for another half a year.

  No, this was monstrous. Not to be borne.

  She rose and began to pace. “You can’t do this to me. You know the audience loved me.”

  “I’m sorry, Eleanor. Of course I don’t want to do any such thing to you. But come, my dear, the convalescence will do you good. There’ll be other shows in the spring—”

  She turned on him. “Spring! We won’t open until June. What am I supposed to do until then? Sit home and knit?”

  “You’ll travel with us when we tour. Come, Eleanor, it’s not as bad as all that. There’s Bath and Bristol, York…”

  “As what? Donna Anna’s maid?” she asked bitterly.

  “There are several other shows we’ll be performing on the road. There’s your old role in The Parson’s Peccadillo.”

  She turned away from Dibdin, no longer listening. “I’m feeling a bit fatigued. If you’ll excuse me, Thomas, I think I shall retire for a bit.”

  He was up in a flash. “Of course, my dear. So sorry, didn’t want to disturb you. You mustn’t overdo. I’ll just see myself out…I’ll let you know what we have lined up for the spring…”

  When he’d left, Eleanor fisted her hand and pounded it into her palm. With any luck at all, Thomas Dibdin wouldn’t find her in the spring. The next time he came calling, she simply wouldn’t be available.

  She had to find a way to get on the majors! She’d have to finagle an audition at the Drury or Covent Garden; even the Little Haymarket would do.

  Ian came by that afternoon. They had arranged to take Mrs. Neville’s carriage to Faraday’s Laboratory and it was waiting at the curb when he arrived.

  They drove down Shaftesbury Avenue through Soho. When they reached Piccadilly Circus, the coach slowed with the congested traffic heading toward Mayfair. The rumble of heavy drays and delivery wagons, angry shouts between their drivers and the gentry’s coachmen, came through the closed window of their chaise.

  “Are you feeling quite all right?” he asked in concern. Mrs. Neville sat unusually quiet opposite him.

  “What? Just a bit blue-deviled is all,” she replied. “Nothing the laughing gas won’t fix.”

  He studied her more closely. She looked well enough. More than well in her plum-colored outfit with its narrow fur ruff and pert bonnet. Her cheeks were tinged pink from the chilly air. But he sensed something was wrong.

  He didn’t press her, hoping that eventually he would be able to get at what was troubling her.

  Once again he questioned whether he was doing the right thing in inviting her today. He’d argued back and forth since the spontaneous invitation yesterday. The poor woman had hardly stirred from her house in six weeks. She deserved a treat. He didn’t know if this visit would be a “treat,” but it should amuse her for a few hours at any rate.

  When they arrived at the brick town house, Ian helped her descend and gave the coachman instructions to come for them in about an hour. That should give them sufficient time to observe all there was to observe. He offered Mrs. Neville his arm, and the two proceeded up the brick walk.

  Once inside, they could hear sounds of laughter in the room beyond. They were shown into a large, tastefully furnished drawing room, where several well-dressed people wandered or sat about. Mrs. Neville looked around her at the strange behavior of the individuals. Ian had already been once, so he knew what to expect.

  Some of the people were laughing for no apparent reason. Others were sprawled in armchairs, their expressions vacuous. One woman was dancing about the room with no partner.

  “I feel as if I’m floating,” she declared, her arms held wide. “Oh, this is delicious.”

  At one corner of the room, a man stood next to some barrels, a line of people standing in front of them.

  “Is that where we receive the laughing gas?” Mrs. Neville asked him.

  “Yes, that’s where the nitrous oxide
is dispensed,” he explained. “One inhales it and soon a most pleasurable sensation is experienced. Afterward, there is an insensitivity to pain.”

  They walked farther into the room and began promenading around it to observe the different people and their conditions. “A colleague of mine inhaled some when he was suffering from a toothache and it took away the pain.”

  “I wish I had been able to take some after my fall.”

  He nodded. “It is possible it would have alleviated the pain. But the effect wears off rather quickly, within an hour or so, and then the pain returns.”

  “They all look as if they’re having such fun, yet there is nothing indecorous,” she noted.

  “I can dance! I can dance!” a portly gentleman exclaimed, twirling about the room.

  Most of the people were merely laughing with abandon. They would fall silent and then all of a sudden start up again.

  “Is that the main effect—laughter?” she asked, smiling at the hilarity around her.

  “Yes, that’s why they call it ‘laughing gas’—another reason it wouldn’t have been wholly beneficial for you. Too much laughter would have strained the ligaments in your rib cage further.”

  “I see. Yes, the slightest movement was excruciating. I’m glad you stuck to your willow bark.”

  He noted the amusement in her silvery eyes, and was gratified he’d managed to bring her out of whatever had preoccupied her.

  “Oh, they do so look like they’re having such fun!” She clasped her hands together. “Mightn’t I try some?”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want you to strain yourself.”

  “I’m perfectly recuperated, I assure you. I feel no pain whatsoever! Truly!”

  It might do her good to laugh, he conceded. “Very well. I’ll make sure you come to no harm.”

  “Will you?” she asked softly, her eyes looking at him with such wonder and trust that it made him feel giddier than any dose of nitrous oxide.

  He cleared his throat and looked away, using the pretext of steering her toward the laughing gas dispenser to ignore her question. Why was it every time she looked at him like that, he felt incapable of refusing her anything? If he let himself go, he would resemble that portly man, dancing about the room, spinning out of control.