‘What would you suggest?’
Letty paused. Truthfully, she knew that birth was the only ‘cure’ and Elsie was only in her seventh month. She also knew her condition to be serious, but feared that increased anxiety would aggravate her symptoms.
‘No leeches. Plenty of water. Rest with gentle walks when you feel able. Bland food. Meat and eggs. I will also prescribe a draught from the willow tree. We will start with the water now.’
‘I can have water?’ Elsie asked.
‘Yes.’
Elsie smiled. ‘Then I do not care if you call this whole house a morgue. It is a morgue. In fact, it is a mausoleum to George, Edgar and Tony.’
‘Lord Anthony? But your brother is alive?’
Elsie looked down. In the candlelight, Letty saw the shimmer of tears just visible under the lashes. ‘Perhaps. But he is so changed. Sometimes I hardly recognise him.’
Again Letty had to curb that quick sharp pulse of curiosity.
‘Perhaps he is still adjusting to his injuries.’ She turned to the maid. ‘Do you have a jug for water?’
The girl bobbed a curtsy and hurried from the room. The opening of the door brought a welcome draught of cooler air.
‘Also, this chamber is too hot. At least during this warm weather. Is there a cooler room you could spend time in?’ Letty asked.
Elsie shrugged. ‘I suppose. The house is gargantuan.’
The maid re-entered, handing over a glass of water. Letty gave it to Elsie, watching her relief as she took a sip.
Then she turned back to the maid. ‘Make sure her ladyship spends time in a cooler area.’
‘Yes, sir. The other side of the house is usually in shadow.’
‘Good, make certain that she goes there and keeps her feet up. And she can drink. But not too much all at once.’
‘What will happen if I drink that whole jug?’ Elsie asked, with greater energy, eyeing the jug which the maid had put upon a dressing table.
‘I am uncertain, but I believe in moderation.’
Elsie giggled. ‘You are an unusual man.’
Letty stiffened. ‘How so?’
‘You said the word “uncertain”. So unusual for a man and a doctor,’ Elsie added with another tiny giggle.
But it should not be unusual, Letty thought. There was so much doctors did not know—the mysteries of physiology and disease. The exact method involved in the spread of disease and how one could help the human body to withstand illness.
‘Doctor?’ Elsie queried.
‘My apologies I was thinking we have so much we need to learn and to research.’
‘Tomorrow—will I also be able to drink tomorrow?’ Elsie asked, focused on this more important issue.
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you,’ Elsie said.
Letty nodded, preparing to leave.
‘Dr Hatfield?’ Elsie asked.
‘Yes?’
‘Are you the best?’
‘That is a subjective question. However, I keep accurate records and, to date, more children and women have survived childbirth when I have been retained than other physicians within a twenty-mile radius.’
‘This baby—I need this baby to be born healthy. My husband—he died. And his parents are already dead.’ For a moment, her gaze swam with tears.
Letty bent to buckle up her doctor’s bag, then straightened. ‘I never make promises I cannot keep and I cannot promise you that everything will be fine. I can promise that I will do everything I can.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And I am the best.’
* * *
Letty exited Lady Beauchamp’s bedchamber and followed the footman towards the front hall. She felt quite certain Elsie had not suspected anything. The place had been too dimly lit for one thing and Elsie’s headache likely too bad for critical thought. Moreover, while intelligent, she didn’t seem to be an individual with a suspicious nature.
Moreover, Letty’s natural height helped and she always bound her breasts so that the jacket showed no unnatural curves. This, combined with the wig, spectacles and a certain squareness to her jaw, made her appear quite masculine.
But what of Lord Anthony? He seemed of an entirely different and more suspicious nature. Indeed, she felt a tension, an uncharacteristic shivery feeling that was half-anticipation and half-apprehension.
In reality, she should seek some excuse to leave immediately. Perhaps she might mention another patient or some other commitment and then write her notes and recommendations.
‘Dr Hatfield?’
Lord Anthony strode into the front hall.
‘Yes.’ She deepened her voice, hoping it did not tremble.
‘Come into the library. Bring more brandy.’ He slurred his words together, directing the last statement to the servant.
‘Yes, sir,’ Dobson said.
Letty followed, again noting his uneven gait, although whether this was from his injuries, or the alcohol he had apparently imbibed, she did not know.
He poured himself a drink from the decanter. ‘Brandy?’
‘No, thank you.’
He threw himself into an armchair, stretching his legs towards the hearth with a lack of grace that she would never have seen as a woman. To her relief, the lamps had not been lit and, due to the heat, the fire was neatly laid but not burning.
Still, to be safe, she chose a seat some distance from him.
‘A doctor who does not drink? You are an anomaly, sir. I did not know there was such a creature.’ Lord Anthony lifted the glass, swirling the amber liquid and watching as it moved within the glass with apparent fascination.
‘I must still travel home.’
‘Never seemed to bother your predecessor. So, what of my sister?’ He tossed back the drink.
She watched him. ‘Do you drink heavily because of your injuries?’
His brows pulled together. His jaw tightened. She saw a muscle twitch along his cheek as anger suffused his face. ‘I drink because I enjoy drinking. I hope you are not under any misapprehension that you are here as my physic?’
‘Not if you don’t wish it. I ask because I could prescribe an ointment made of yarrow and a tincture of chamomile which might be more helpful than alcohol if you are seeking to numb the pain.’
‘I find alcohol does well enough.’ He paused, frowning as though his next statement required considerable concentration. ‘Dr Hatfield, I have no wish to be uncivil to a man I invited to my home, so let me state here and now that I have had enough doctors poking and prodding me to last a lifetime. Your capacity here is only to consult on my sister’s condition, do we understand each other?’
‘Absolutely, you have answered my question with great clarity.’
His brows pulled together further, although the effect was more of confusion than anger as though trying to properly understand her words or suspecting some hidden meaning. Likely the brandy was inhibiting the clarity of his thoughts.
‘Anyway,’ he said, after a moment, ‘may I ask your conclusions?’
‘Lady Beauchamp shows signs of a condition of pregnancy where the body swells considerably with fluid. It can result in fits.’
She saw his body flinch as though her words had been a physical onslaught. His hand again tightened about the tumbler. She had spoken bluntly because that was what men did. Now she wished she’d softened her words.
‘This...swelling is serious?’
‘It can be.’
‘Could she die?’ he asked. His jaw tightened.
‘Yes.’
‘You do not mince words.’
‘Would you want me to?’
‘No.’ He stood, pouring another shot of the amber liquid. The glass decanter clinked into the sudden silence. She saw that his hand shook.
‘I have not been so forthright with Lady
Beauchamp as I fear worry may worsen her condition.’
He walked to the window and stood facing away from her so that his large bulk was silhouetted against the glass. ‘I am thankful for that. So what treatment do you prescribe?’
‘Rest. Water. A bland diet with plenty of milk. A cool environment and an occasional walk when it is not so hot.’
‘Milk? And rest?’ he ground out. ‘That is all you have? Milk and rest?’
She nodded, aware of a nervous tightening within her stomach.
He turned, stepping closer, so that she was able to see his clenched fists, his face and the steely, piercing brightness of his gaze. ‘Good Lord, man. I do not pay you to come here and suggest the ingredients for a nursery tea.’
‘At present you do not pay me at all. You may well want to retain Dr Jeffers, which is quite within your rights.’ She stood abruptly.
‘Sit down, man. Feisty as a woman. But milk? She is not a child.’
Apprehension slithered down her spine at his words. She felt her palms dampen, but she forced herself to relax, to assume that innate confidence of a male. He was angry at the world, but he would not guess her identity. Besides, at the rate of his current alcoholic consumption, he would not even remember the interview by morning.
‘It is nutritious and will certainly do no harm.’
‘Hardly a stirring endorsement,’ he muttered. ‘And if this nursery tea doesn’t help?’
‘I have prescribed a draught from the willow tree. I can attempt to bring about a speedier delivery within a few weeks. The only cure is for the child to be born. Treatment options are limited—’
The last words again seemed to ignite something in him. He tossed back the drink, slamming the empty glass against the table with such force she feared it would break.
‘Bloody doctors—is that all you can say? “Treatment is limited”. And “You should be glad to be alive”. Do they give you a book of phrases when you train? Trite words you can proffer at any opportunity?’ He paced, crossing in front of the window and back.
The last words were slurred so much that it took her a moment to comprehend. As though suddenly devoid of energy, he paused, sitting down again. The movement was heavy and ungainly. His body slumped. The anger seemed to dissipate, turning from molten heat and becoming but a sad smouldering thing. Letty studied him. The one side of his face was still so perfect while the other showed the harsh scars of his wounds. She noted also the slight tightening of his mouth with his movement as though still in pain. His gloved hand hung limp.
The impression of pain and anger and loss was so powerful that she felt a need to cross the space and provide some measure of comfort. Indeed, she had taken a step before she stopped, forcing herself with an almost painful energy to remain still.
She was a doctor and supposedly a male. This peculiar surge of emotion was not professional or in character.
‘I presume we are talking about yourself and not your sister?’ she said, making her tone calm.
‘What?’ He twisted towards her.
‘I imagine you are quoting the words spoken to you by various medics following your injury.’
‘You are now a mind reader, sir?’ The muscle flickered across his cheek, the scarring fiercely red.
‘No, but your recovery must have been difficult given the extent of your injuries.’
‘Another one to add to that list of trite phrases—“the extent of your injuries”. Let me tell you something, Doctor. Recovery is impossible, given the extent of my injuries.’
* * *
Impudent upstart—Tony glared at the odd man with thick lenses and ludicrous powdered wig. The style had gone out in the last century. He should send the fellow packing. Indeed, he would if he could summon either the energy or coherent words.
Except Elsie had already penned a quick note in favour of the peculiar gentleman.
He could, at least, send the fellow off now so that the evening was not spoiled by his nonsense. Yes, he’d do that. He’d ring for Dobson. He’d ring for Dobson and get the man to light the lamps and clear out the doctor.
And bring more brandy.
The doctor was talking again. He was nodding, the powdered wig bobbing. ‘You will never be exactly the same in mind or body. There will always be scars, but I think recovery is about enduring and persisting.’
‘A sound philosophy,’ he muttered. ‘Probably came from the same damned book.’
Although truthfully, Tony did not dislike the fellow as much as he should. Likely the soothing effects of alcohol. Or perhaps the man’s blunt acknowledgement of the injury was almost a relief.
His scars were omnipresent in any relationship. He saw it in his valet’s movements, in Mason’s eagerness to put on his shirt to hide the damaged skin. He saw it in his infrequent conversations with his mother and the way her gaze skittered from him, addressing her comments to his hair or a lamp above his head. He saw it in Elsie’s worry, the pity clouding her expression and her manner of positioning herself in any room so that she saw only the one side of his face. He saw it in the friends who had never visited.
Yes, one could almost say that the fellow’s open interest was unique. Everyone else tiptoed around, mealy-mouthed and obsequious or else entirely absent.
Except for that odd woman at the garden party—Florence Barton’s sister-in-law. He smiled, remembering that glint of beguiling emerald eyes.
Beguiling—good grief, he really had drunk too much. And Miss Barton was more annoying than beguiling.
The doctor cleared his throat, dragging Tony’s attention back to the present.
‘Right,’ he said abstractedly. ‘I suppose you can leave now. I will get Dobson to see you out. Bring in the lights and light the brandy.’
‘I will write my conclusions and you can let me know if you wish to retain my services for Lady Beauchamp.’
‘You are retained. I doubt you know much more than Jeffers, but you please Lady Beauchamp.’
‘I like that you take her wishes into consideration.’
‘Glad you approve. I will rest easy.’ There was a pause, a momentary silence.
‘Then we are agreed. I will write down my recommendations and monitor Lady Beauchamp’s health.’
Tony shrugged. ‘At least my store of brandy will remain intact.’
‘A good thing, given your need for it.’
Tony gave a bark of laughter. ‘In a previous lifetime I might have enjoyed your wit, Doctor.’
He paused. Even here in the shadows there seemed to be something familiar about this Dr Hatfield. He frowned, rubbing his forehead as though to help his sluggish thoughts. If he could only focus, if he could stop the dizzying swing of the room. ‘You look familiar,’ he said.
‘I doubt it. I seldom socialise.’ Dr Hatfield spoke jerkily, his voice oddly high before stepping so quickly to the door that he knocked over a chair. It clattered against the wall.
‘Good Lord,’ Tony drawled, lolling further back in his chair. ‘You are a nervous fellow.’
‘I must go.’
‘See yourself out. When will you be back?’
‘In a week, unless you call for me earlier.’
‘Fine. Tell Dobson to send in more brandy.’
‘I’m not certain that more alcohol is a good idea.’
‘It is a damned necessity. And, Doctor?’
The man turned.
Tony’s eyelids felt heavy and he felt his chin rest heavily on his chest. ‘Do your best for her. She’s all I have.’
Chapter Four
Elsie’s note arrived two days later. The week had been uneventful with no births, deaths or accidents. When Letty first saw the carriage with its crest and uniformed footman rattling down the village street, she feared instantly that Elsie required medical attention. Indeed, she had already rung the bell to send Sarah t
o the doctor’s house and was pulling out the straps to bind her chest when she heard the rapping at her own front door.
Moments later, Sarah handed her the note. The epistle was brief and in a female hand. Elsie wrote that she had been ordered to rest by her physician and was dreadfully bored. Therefore, given that Letty was one of her few acquaintances in the country, she would love her to visit and hoped that Miss Barton did not think her too forward to invite her to tea, given their short acquaintance. Her carriage and footman was at her convenience that very afternoon.
Letty wrinkled her face. Truthfully, she wanted very much to see Elsie. She attributed this to her natural concern about her patient’s health, although she felt this was not the sole reason.
Indeed, she knew that quick, almost physiological excitement, a quickening of her pulse as though she had been running. For a moment, Lord Anthony’s face flickered in front of her, that odd mix of perfection and scarring.
She drummed her fingers against the table which she tended to do when thinking. Then she paused, carefully smoothing out the folds of the note, and studying it as though analysis of its form would make her decision easier.
In general, she saw little point in over-thinking one’s emotion. Feelings were based on thoughts and circumstance. Therefore, it made more sense to deliberate on the logic of an action and its consequence than to perseverate on an abdominal wobble most likely due to Sarah’s eggs.
She must encourage Sarah to cook the breakfast eggs more thoroughly.
Logically, she should decline Elsie’s invitation. It was only sensible to keep as far removed as possible from both Lady Beauchamp and her brother. They had seen her as a man and would continue to do so, given that she was providing Lady Beauchamp with medical care. To return as a female was undoubtedly asking for trouble.
She had risked everything for this career.
Even now she felt something akin to disbelief that this façade, the masquerade, had worked—was working.
Indeed, when Letty had written to Guy’s Hospital under her brother’s name, it was more a last desperate act before surrender. Ramsey had opened the hospital’s reply. He’d frowned and then handed it to her with a wry lift of his brow. ‘I did not know I aspired to be a doctor,’ he’d said. ‘Life is so full of surprises.’
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