The Healing Season

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  Betsy came to kneel beside her. “Did the duke do this to you?”

  Eleanor pressed her lips together, fearful of saying too much. She was terrified of what d’Alvergny could do in retaliation. She had made the mistake of having Sarah visit her in her new home, and she didn’t know how much the duke could deduce from her friendship with the girl.

  “Don’t ask me that,” she finally said to Betsy, taking her hand. “Just help me, please.”

  “Of course, Eleanor. I’ll do anything for you.”

  “I need a place to stay…for a few days…” For how long? She had no idea where she could go. She’d have to find a place far from d’Alvergny’s reach.

  As they were sitting together, Eleanor heard the sound of a carriage down below. Panic gripped her. He couldn’t have arrived so early. She sprang up from her seat and rushed to the window.

  “What is it?” Betsy called after her.

  Not bothering to answer, Eleanor stared through a crack in the lace curtain. It was d’Alvergny’s coach. She felt the terror suffocate her, rendering her immobile.

  Betsy came to join her at the window. “It’s the duke.” Glancing at Eleanor, she exclaimed, “You look terrified.”

  “You’ve got to help me get out of here before he sees me,” Eleanor managed through stiff lips.

  Betsy glanced back into the room. “Is there any other way downstairs?” she asked finally.

  “The service stairs,” she managed.

  “Is your carriage in the mews?”

  “Yes.” She turned to leave the room and her glance fell on her valise. “I’ve packed a few things.” She could hardly think beyond the dread of seeing d’Alvergny.

  Betsy scooped it up by its handles. “Come, then,” she said, taking Eleanor’s hand as if she were a child.

  Eleanor didn’t dare wait for her carriage, so the two exited into the alley and made their way to Piccadilly from there.

  When they finally arrived at Betsy’s small room, Eleanor didn’t notice her mean surroundings. Her only concern was whether d’Alvergny knew of its existence. She would not rest easy, but sat in a hard-backed chair, staring out the window to the street below. No matter how much Betsy tried to coax her to lie down, she didn’t move from her place of vigil.

  Ian sat alone in his study, meditating on God’s words of healing. “I am the Lord that healeth thee…He sent His word and healed them…bless the Lord, oh my soul, and forget not all His benefits…who healeth all thy diseases.”

  He covered each eye in turn and focused on the words in the Bible. For a few days now he’d noticed an improvement in his vision. His headaches also seemed diminished in their intensity. Was it his imagination? He had told no one, doubting his own feelings.

  A soft knock on his door interrupted his examination. “Yes?” he called out.

  Mrs. Duff poked her head in the doorway. “There’s a young woman asking to see you.”

  The fact that she didn’t use the term “lady” led him to believe it was a woman from the neighborhood, perhaps someone seeking medical attention, although the hour—he glanced at the clock face, which read ten—was late.

  “Did she give any indication of what she wanted?”

  “No, sir. She seems nervous, though.”

  He pushed away from his desk with a sigh, wondering what it was about. “Very well, I’ll be right down.”

  “I’ve put her in the front room.”

  “Very good.” His housekeeper knew where to put unexpected callers.

  When he entered the dimly lit sitting room, he drew in his breath. Miss Simms hurried forward, her gloved hand outstretched, a look of relief on her face.

  “Mr. Russell, please excuse the lateness of the hour, but I had to see you. I didn’t know where else to go—”

  “That’s quite all right, don’t trouble yourself,” he replied, taking her hand in his. “What can I do for you?”

  “I would have come by earlier, but I had a show tonight, and I couldn’t get here any sooner. I was awfully worried, you see, and wasn’t sure if I should even come, but I think she needs medical attention, and…oh, I don’t know quite what to do!” she ended, almost in tears.

  “What is it?” he asked more urgently, leading her back to a seat. “Come, sit down. Let me get you something to drink to calm your nerves.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. I must be getting back, and I was so hoping.” She looked into his eyes earnestly. “Oh, please, can you come with me?”

  “Tell me clearly who needs help.”

  “Eleanor. Oh, sir, it’s awful…”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ian heard nothing more after the word Eleanor. His heart hammered in his chest and his hands unconsciously gripped Miss Simms’s more tightly. “What’s happened?”

  “She’s hurt, sir. Oh, she looks awful, like someone beat her.”

  He dropped her hands, stepping back, feeling as if his gut had been punched in. “Tell me everything,” he whispered sharply.

  “She sent for me, and when I went by this afternoon she was—oh, sir, her face was bruised, and her neck. I couldn’t see any more, but she seemed terrified, and when His Grace drove up—that’s the Duke d’Alvergny—”

  His jaw tightened. “I know who he is.”

  “Well, she panicked. She said we had to leave. She asked me if she could stay at my place. I said of course. But she wants no one to know. She is terrified he will find her.”

  “Is she there now?”

  She nodded.

  “Take me to her.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir. That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

  They walked quickly through the dark streets, Ian remembering the night he’d been summoned to her rooms. When they arrived, nothing had changed. The squalor and filth were the same. When Miss Simms opened her door after a soft knock and “It’s Betsy,” and heard the door open from within, Ian pushed it open farther, unable to wait any longer.

  He flinched when he saw Eleanor’s face. Her pale skin was mottled an ugly bluish-green along one cheek and around one eye. She stepped away from the door as soon as she saw him.

  “What is he doing here?” she whispered, her glance going from him to Betsy.

  “I thought he could help us. I thought you might be hurt.”

  Eleanor didn’t listen to anything more, but turned and retreated to the opposite side of the room.

  “I’m sorry, Eleanor. I didn’t know it would upset you.” Miss Simms sounded close to tears.

  “Forget it, Betsy.” This time Eleanor’s voice sounded indifferent.

  Ian closed the door softly behind him. “It’s all right, Miss Simms. You did the right thing to summon me.” With a soft squeeze to her shoulder, he left her and approached Eleanor.

  She stood in a corner of the room. In the dim light, he observed her more closely, shutting out his personal reaction and dealing with her as he would with any patient.

  “Who did this to you?” he asked in a neutral voice.

  She shrugged. “I was beaten and robbed on my way home from the theater.”

  “Was it d’Alvergny?”

  Her only reaction was to look farther away from him.

  “Will you let me examine you? For anything broken or injured internally?” he added.

  She hugged herself with her arms, shaking her head.

  “Were you hit anywhere else on your body?”

  She made no answer but looked down, her lips pressed together as if to prevent any words from betraying her. She began to rock slowly back and forth.

  “Are you afraid whoever did this to you might find you?” he asked softly.

  At that her eyes widened and she looked up at him in fear. She was terrified, he realized. In those few seconds he knew he would protect her in any way he could.

  “I have nowhere safe to go,” she whispered, and he could see her control was slipping.

  He thought quickly. “Let me take you to the mission. Althea will know how to look a
fter you. You’ll be safe there,” he promised, using the soothing tone he used with children.

  She said nothing, but finally after a moment, she gave a single nod of her head, which he would have missed if he hadn’t been observing her so closely.

  “Miss Simms,” he called out, “could you get me Mrs. Neville’s belongings? I’m going to take her with me.”

  “All right, sir. She only brought a small valise.” She hurried to bring Eleanor’s cloak and bag.

  “Thank you.” He wrapped the warm cloak around Eleanor’s shoulders, marveling at her docility. Was this the same woman he had seen scarcely a month ago? Something—someone, he amended, his jaw tightening at the thought of d’Alvergny—had frightened and abused her badly.

  He put his arm around her shoulder and led her out of Miss Simms’s room. “Can you manage to walk at all?” At her nod, he added, “I think we can find a hackney a few streets down.”

  He rode opposite her in the dark, musty-smelling coach for hire. She volunteered no more information, and he asked for no more. He watched her, asking himself what she had gotten into. He didn’t believe for a moment her explanation of being beaten and robbed. He’d seen too many women beaten by their own husbands or lovers to believe any differently in this case.

  But…d’Alvergny? The man was an aristo. Ian’s mind rebelled at the idea that the man would actually beat a woman the way Eleanor appeared. His gut twisted at the thought of the man’s hands on her. The man, for all Ian’s dislike of him, must behave with some gentlemanly conduct toward the fairer sex. Ian could scarcely accept the evidence before his eyes. The men who routinely hit their spouses were drunken louts, often unemployed, or unskilled laborers, brutish sailors…

  Ian felt his thoughts going round and round in frustrated circles, wanting only to find the man who had done this to Eleanor and beat him to a bloody pulp.

  When they arrived, he decided he must know the truth. Before they exited the coach, he put his hand on her arm, and noticed her flinch at the touch. He removed his hand immediately. “Do you want me to inform d’Alvergny of your whereabouts?”

  “No!” She started back in terror.

  He’d had his answer. “Very well. No one shall know. Come along. You’ll be safe here.”

  When he’d left her settled with Althea, briefly explaining the circumstances, Ian got back into the coach.

  He had a purpose, which he vowed would be accomplished before dawn. After receiving directions from Betsy, he headed to the West End, to Eleanor’s new town house. D’Alvergny was not there, but he got the address to d’Alvergny’s residence from a footman. It was a palatial house only a few blocks away on St. James’s Square.

  The duke seemed to be entertaining that evening. Every window was lit, several coaches lined the street in front of the house, and music floated out the door each time it opened.

  Ian approached the door and had no need to knock as a couple preceded him up the steps. After they were announced and the butler gave them admittance, the frosty man looked down his aquiline nose at Ian.

  Ian handed him his card and said, “Please inform His Grace that Mr. Russell is here to discuss Mrs. Neville’s case with him.”

  When the butler finally returned, he said to him, “The Duke d’Alvergny wishes me to inform you he does not discuss Mrs. Neville with an obscure surgeon.”

  “He doesn’t?” He imitated the butler’s supercilious tones, feeling the temper he’d barely held in check overflow. He marched up the remaining steps and attempted to walk past the butler.

  “Wha—see here! What are you about?” he sputtered, planting himself more firmly in front of Ian. Ian shoved him aside and continued on down the wide, carpeted foyer.

  “I’ll call a footman to throw you out!” the man threatened behind him. Ian ignored him and stepped through the first doorway he found. Several people looked at him. He spotted d’Alvergny sitting at a card table with three other men in evening dress.

  D’Alvergny glanced at the butler hurrying after Ian.

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace, this man burst past me.”

  Ian gave him no chance to explain further. “A word with you. If you prefer I not say it here in company, you’ll do well to give me a moment of your time.”

  Two footmen came up behind Ian and took his arms. Ian shook them off. With a flick of his fingers, d’Alvergny waved the servants away. “Leave him,” he said, before turning his attention to Ian. “Very well, you may have one moment of my time.” D’Alvergny unfurled his body from the chair and laid down his cards. “Excuse me, gentlemen, while I take care of a small matter having to do with an investment of mine.”

  He turned to Ian, looking down at him from his superior height. Without a word, he led him to another door and they entered a smaller room. At the click of the door behind him, Ian faced d’Alvergny.

  “To what do I owe this intrusion?” d’Alvergny asked, taking a pinch of snuff and inhaling deeply.

  “I could bring criminal charges against you.”

  D’Alvergny raised a dark eyebrow. “On what grounds?”

  Ian wanted to hurl himself at d’Alvergny and knock the arrogance out of him. But he took a deep breath, knowing he wouldn’t get very far. Instead, he made himself speak calmly. “I am here to inform you that your arrangement with Mrs. Eleanor Neville is over. She has removed herself from the premises at Jermyn Street and will send someone over to fetch her belongings on the morrow. I want your assurance that she will no longer receive any of your—attentions. Ever again.”

  D’Alvergny laughed, a deep baritone sound that was absorbed by the satin-clad walls. “So she has run away to the good doctor, is it?” he asked, as if not quite recalling who Ian was.

  “What you have done to her is unpardonable, despicable, unworthy of a gentleman—”

  D’Alvergny’s eyes hardened. “Have a care. What goes on between Mrs. Neville and myself is no one’s business but my own. If you need feminine companionship, there are plenty of other female patients, I’m sure, who are willing and eager for your services.”

  Ian lunged at the man, grabbing him by the lapels of his evening jacket. The duke flung him off as if he were a pesky gnat. Ian stumbled backward barely keeping his balance.

  “I’ve had enough of this nonsense,” d’Alvergny said, turning toward the cross-stitched bellpull hanging on the wall beside the door.

  “You will not come near Mrs. Neville again,” Ian continued in a low tone. “Leave her alone, or she will bring a suit against you, and I will testify in court of your brutal treatment of her.”

  “May I remind you there are no witnesses?”

  “There are the servants.”

  “Who are in my employ.”

  “Nevertheless, I will describe her bruises on the same night you visited her.”

  D’Alvergny gave him the insolent smile that had never quite left his face since the first mention of Mrs. Neville. “Have a care, surgeon, I can have a word with the Royal College and have your license revoked. I have friends in high places.”

  “And I have a Friend in a higher place. Proof or not, I don’t think it will take long for the sordid details of a trial to reach all the gossip columns and be the talk of the ton.”

  The other man laughed again. “Who will believe you, a surgeon of no repute? If you bring my name up in court, I’ll sue you for libel and make sure you never practice medicine again.”

  The two men stared at each other in a draw. At last, d’Alvergny shrugged. “If Mrs. Neville no longer desires my attentions, it’s her loss. She’s a fool. No one will hire her now that she has abandoned the Drury Lane Company.”

  Ian straightened his jacket, having to be satisfied that d’Alvergny would leave Eleanor alone. The man deserved a hiding, but the anger had drained from Ian, leaving only an abhorrence for the self-satisfied man who stood before him.

  Without another word, he turned on his heel.

  Before he had reached the door, d’Alvergny’s voice stopped
him. “You are welcome to the little baggage. She has been well worn. Let her tell you how much she enjoyed being manhandled. She’d beg me to overcome her. She called it her ‘punishment’ for misbehaving.”

  His laughter rang in Ian’s ears long after he’d quit d’Alvergny’s mansion.

  If Eleanor thought her despair had been severe following the fever, she had never known anything like the depths she found herself in after arriving at the mission.

  Althea Breton was nothing but kindness itself, but that did nothing to assuage the utter sense of hopelessness that engulfed Eleanor. She tried to feel gratitude and knew she must, but it could barely rise above the gloom pulling her down.

  Althea had put her in a room far above the mission, under the eaves of the roof, next to her own room. The first night, she’d slept with Althea, too scared to be on her own, but by the next night, she began to believe d’Alvergny wouldn’t find her here. She smiled bitterly—he’d never step foot in this forsaken end of London. Even Betsy didn’t know where she was, although Mr. Russell had promised to assure her that she was safe.

  Mr. Russell. She’d gone back to thinking of him as Mr. Russell. The formality served as a good barrier against seeing him as anything but a surgeon—not even hers anymore. She’d allowed Althea to examine her bruises, but no one else. She felt so dirty and vowed never to let herself be touched by a man.

  What a stupid dupe she’d been. How could she have let herself be so fooled by a man’s gentlemanly facade? Her despair was so deep not even tears would diminish it.

  Being out of the play because of the accident was one thing. And all those weeks convalescing hadn’t helped. But now? After just opening at the Drury Lane, to suddenly disappear from sight? She was now a joke. No one would ever hire her.

  She couldn’t have returned even if she’d been brave enough to face d’Alvergny. Her face was too battered. By the time the bruises faded, her reputation would be irreparably ruined. So her career was finished. She’d be lucky if she could find a bit part in Bath or York.