Alex noticed a split-second later that the side of Arabella’s face was bruised and that she’d attempted to cover it with cosmetics. All inappropriate thoughts instantly vanished, and she strode to meet Arabella at the far end of the room as a friend coming to the aid of another friend instead of a doctor examining a patient.
“He did this to you?” she asked, cradling Arabella’s face carefully so that she could examine the wound.
Arabella had been wearing a brave smile, but it crumbled under Alex’s scrutiny and she burst into tears. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” she wept. “I’ve tried everything, but nothing I do pleases him.”
Alex steered her to sit on the bed, then moved to the window to pour water from the pitcher waiting there into a bowl. She wet a rag, then sat on the bed beside Arabella and proceeded to clean the cosmetics from her face so that she could get a better look at the bruise. It was worse than Alex could have imagined.
“I am absolutely certain that you’re not doing anything wrong at all,” she said, the fury in her voice barely contained.
“But I must be,” Arabella continued to weep, wilting like a flower in the heat as Alex took another look at the bruise. “There are so many more where this one came from. And in spite of everything, I still can’t manage to become pregnant.”
The two things seemed so incongruously wrong to Alex that it was all she could do to maintain her professionalism and not tell Arabella that if George beat her, the last thing she should let him do was bed her.
“Do you feel comfortable removing your clothes so that I can see?” she asked as softly as she could.
“Of course,” Arabella said, pulling off her gloves and reaching for the buttons of her bodice. “In fact—I can’t believe I’m even asking this—but I was hoping you could examine my intimate places to determine if there is some sort of malformation that is preventing me from conceiving.”
Alex swallowed hard. The nausea she hadn’t felt since Marshall’s return—and the fact that she’d felt fine since he’d returned was not lost on her—roiled through her stomach at the thought of discovering any sort of intimate damage George might have inflicted on poor Arabella. But she pulled herself together enough to say, “Certainly. Whatever makes you feel better. We’ll do everything that can be done.”
The truth of the matter was as bad as Alex had suspected. As Arabella peeled off her clothes, with Alex’s help, bruise after bruise was revealed. Alex knew enough about medicine and intimacy to deduce without the embarrassment of asking Arabella outright that much of the bruising around her arms, thighs, and even her neck was from being violently restrained. The tender and inflamed tissue between Arabella’s legs suggested George had been unnecessarily rough. Even at his most ardent, Marshall had never left Alex so irritated and battered.
And yet, as a doctor, Alex couldn’t let her horror and fury show on her face when she finished her assessment. She used the excuse of thoroughly washing her hands while Arabella dressed to put her emotions in check.
“There are no outward physical deformities that I can see which would explain your infertility,” she said, her voice tight. “There may be internal issues that would require a deeper examination, but I do not recommend them at this time.” In Arabella’s condition, they would be far too painful, and Alex would never be able to bring herself to traumatize Arabella more.
“But is there anything to be done?” Arabella asked, her voice not much more than a squeak.
Alex clenched her jaw as she dried her hands. “You’re not going to like what I have to say,” she admitted, facing Arabella at last.
“You think I should leave him,” Arabella said, a tear dropping from her eye.
“I do,” Alex confessed. She switched back from being a doctor to being a friend. Lord knew she was loath to be a friend to the woman who had married George, but at the moment, Arabella was more important than the tangle of her relationship gone bad. And her previous attachment to George put Alex in a unique position to empathize with Arabella as well as pity her.
“I can’t,” Arabella said before Alex could say more. “You of all people should know it’s not that simple. You escaped the specter of being married off as a prize, but for most women of our station, our dowry and our womb are all that matter. And I’ve failed George on both accounts.”
Alex’s brow went up in surprise. “Surely not.”
Arabella shook her head. “He’s spent every penny paying off bad debts. We’re living at Huntingdon Hall because we’ve nowhere else to go. My parents won’t take me back. They were against the match to begin with. They say I’ve made my bed and must lie in it.” She lowered her head at the literal implication of the phrase.
“It’s barbaric,” Alex growled. “You can’t stay in a situation where harm will come to you.” A rogue thought struck her, and before she could check herself she asked, “Do you think he would do something rash to…to be rid of you if you fail to conceive?”
Arabella snapped up to meet her eyes with a sudden burst of terror. “Oh, God.” She slapped a hand to her mouth. “I hadn’t even thought of that. But he would. I’m certain he would.” She burst into frightened tears. “What am I going to do?”
Alex cursed herself for speaking without thinking. “I know George,” she rushed to assure Arabella. “He’s a terrible man, but I honestly don’t think he’s capable of murder.” And he wasn’t. Cruelty and criminal neglect, on the other hand, was a possibility. She remembered a shocking and miserable story from a hundred years ago of a woman who had been tricked into marriage by a fortune hunter who had then forced the poor woman to do things like ride in the rain in winter in the hope that she’d catch her death. That woman hadn’t perished, and in the end her husband was brought to justice, but Arabella wasn’t made of tough stuff.
“It is possible to get out of that world,” Alex said, taking Arabella’s hand. “I know we have every reason to be adversaries instead of friends, but if you should ever find yourself wanting to flee, I can help you.”
“I couldn’t,” Arabella said, sniffling through her tears. “This is my life, wretched though it is. Not all of us can abandon that like you did.”
From any other woman, the words would have been an insult. But not from Arabella.
“As for conceiving,” Alex went on with a wince. “I see no reason why you couldn’t. But at the moment, your body needs to heal a bit before you engage in those sorts of activities.”
There was no other way to tell her to resist George with all her might. And as soon as she’d spoken, Alex could see by the look in Arabella’s eyes that barring George from her bed was an impossibility.
Alex swallowed a growing wave of nausea and said, “I could speak to George, if you’d like.”
“No,” Arabella gasped in alarm. “He…he doesn’t know I’ve come to see you. He doesn’t know I’ve gone out at all. He doesn’t like me to leave the Hall.” She stood abruptly at the thought. “In fact, I should return to Huntingdon Hall before he grows suspicious.”
Alex rose with her, feeling fretful and helpless. It was painful beyond imagining to see a woman suffering, to know precisely how to extract her from the situation, but having her resist any help.
“The least I can suggest is cool baths with chamomile and willow bark,” she said as she escorted Arabella into the hall.
“That will help?” Arabella asked, raising a hand to shield the bruise on her face.
“It won’t hurt,” Alex said.
“Oh.” Arabella stopped just outside the door, glancing around furtively. Alex expected her to ask for a veil or cosmetics, but instead she leaned close and said, “I was meaning to speak to you on another matter.”
“Another matter?” Alex asked.
Arabella searched the hall again and lowered her voice. “Have a care for your husband, Alexandra.”
“Marshall?” Alex shrugged and shook her head, not understanding.
Arabella chewed her lip, her face going pink. “
The other day when I was here, I…I witnessed him in a somewhat compromising position with one of the young nurses here.”
Alex frowned, instinct taking over and turning her stomach. A second later, the pieces fell into place. “Did she have an eyepatch?” she asked.
“Yes,” Arabella said, seemingly surprised that Alex would guess.
Alex laughed humorlessly. “Yes, that’s a problem Marshall and I both know about.”
Arabella continued to look anxious. “It’s only that men are weak. I do so admire you, and I would hate to think your husband was being false with you.”
“Thank you for your concern. Fortunately, I believe I know the truth of this situation,” Alex said, starting down the hall with her.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Arabella asked. Her concern was beyond sweet. “You’ve already helped me so much, and I long to return the favor.”
“In this particular situation, no. But in future,” she paused and took Arabella’s hand, “I’ll let you know.”
Arabella looked so pleased that for a moment, Alex had the feeling she was no older than Mary at heart. It made everything that much worse somehow. She walked Arabella downstairs and to the door. As Arabella stepped out into the chilly afternoon, she turned her collar up and hunkered down. She looked as though she were bracing herself against the cold, but Alex knew better.
Once Arabella was gone, Alex spun sharply and marched back down the hall and into the office. As soon as she’d shut the door, she burst into a sob. It was so loud that she clapped a hand to her mouth, but that didn’t stop her tears from flowing. Arabella’s plight was so miserable, but it so easily could have been her plight. There had been a time over the summer when, if George had asked, she would have married him. Would he have treated her as horribly as he treated Arabella? Would she have been able to flee, or, like Arabella, would she have felt trapped forever?
The office door opened and Marshall slipped into the room, closing and locking the door behind him.
“Is it as bad as I feared?” he asked, utterly serious.
Alex half wished he’d act as saucy as he’d been earlier. She nodded and leaned into him when he closed his arms around her.
“She won’t leave the situation,” she said, sniffling against his collar. “He’ll be even crueler to her in the future, especially if she proves to be barren, but she won’t leave him.”
“The problem could lie with him,” Marshall said, stroking the side of her head. “Not that he’d see it that way.”
“No,” Alex agreed.
She had more to say, but the low-level nausea she’d been feeling since Arabella arrived reached a sudden, dangerous pitch.
“Oh dear,” she said, pushing away from Marshall and searching for a receptacle to be sick in. Several bedpans and buckets sat in strategic places, thanks to her difficulties over the past few months, so she was able to reach one before her stomach heaved.
“My poor darling,” Marshall said, taking the bedpan away from her and handing her a glass of water when she was done. “Has it been like this the whole time I’ve been gone?”
Alex nodded weakly, wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve after taking a drink. “I’m almost used to it now. Though I pray every day that the symptoms will stop.”
Marshall set the bedpan aside, studying her with a look of concern. “You seemed all right for the past few days.”
“Yes,” she said with a curious frown. “I’d hoped this phase was over.”
“Perhaps it is and this business with Lady Arabella has simply upset you.” He pulled her gently into his arms again and kissed her forehead. “Why don’t you go home and rest.”
Under any other circumstances, Alex would have fought him. She would have insisted her place was there, in the hospital, and gone back to work, sick or not. But something about the personal nature of Lady Arabella’s problem, not to mention her own over-heightened emotions, sapped the will from her.
“I think I will,” she said with a watery smile, stepping back. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not.”
Marshall followed her to the door, fetching her coat from its hook and holding it so that she could put it on. Then he held the door for her.
Two steps on the other side of the door was Winnie.
“Oh. Dr. Dyson. Are you leaving?” the young woman asked with a hopeful look.
“Mrs. Pycroft is feeling poorly,” Marshall said with particular emphasis on her married name. “She’s going home to rest.”
“Oh,” Winnie said, looking uncannily delighted about the prospect.
Arabella’s earlier warning popped back into Alex’s head, but there was no time to share her concerns with Marshall other than to send him a stern look. That seemed to be enough, though. Marshall let out a long-suffering breath and nodded to Alex with a look that said he intended to handle the situation. That was all Alex needed.
“I’ll see you in a few hours,” Marshall said, breaking their rule about affection at work and kissing her cheek. It was more for Winnie’s sake than for Alex’s.
Alex was too overwrought even to glare at Winnie before leaving. She tugged on her gloves as she walked through the waiting room, then out into the Brynthwaite cold. Even with a queasy stomach and aching heart, she managed to make good time on the walk home. All she wanted to do was to sink into the sofa and close her eyes.
But once she got there, the sofa was already occupied by Martha and Molly, who had just returned home from school, and a small army of dolls.
“Alex, you’re home,” Martha said, leaping up off the sofa and rushing to throw her arms around Alex just as she finished hanging her coat.
The impact was almost enough to cause Alex to vomit again. She managed to hold herself in check, though.
“Wasn’t the hospital busy today?” Molly said, holding two dolls and moving one as though it had spoken to the other instead of Molly addressing Alex directly.
“It was busy as usual,” Alex said, uncertain whether she should speak to the girls as adults or if there were certain words or a tone of voice that should be used with children. She was certain she sounded like a ninny no matter what she tried. “I was feeling a bit poorly, though.”
“Mary can make you some tea,” Martha said, grabbing Alex’s hand and leading her into the kitchen.
Alex didn’t know what she expected to find Mary doing in the kitchen, but cooking a massive feast wasn’t it. “What are you doing?” she asked in surprise.
Mary must have heard the question as a challenge. She whipped around from the counter, where she was mixing pastry in a large bowl, and glared at Alex. “Someone has to take care of Papa,” she snapped. “He hasn’t been eating properly. He said so.”
Alex blinked rapidly and would have backed up at the attack if Martha hadn’t still been holding her hand. Marshall had teased her in front of the girls about her lack of cooking skills the other day, but that was hardly the same as saying he wasn’t eating properly.
“I’m sure we’ll all benefit from your culinary skill,” she said, hoping Mary would be appeased.
She wasn’t. “Why bother marrying Papa at all if you had no intention to care for him the way a wife should?” she asked, returning to her work and mixing her pastry dough vigorously with her hands.
Alex opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Mary had started out as happy as the younger girls about the marriage, but in the last few days, her attitude had changed drastically. Alex couldn’t very well explain that there were other things besides cooking and cleaning that a wife did for her husband, let alone enumerate the practical reasons for her and Marshall’s marriage regarding the hospital and her ability to practice medicine. The sudden realization that she might very well need to explain certain delicate things to Mary sooner rather than later was enough to have Alex reaching for the nearest chair to sit down.
“Your father thinks very highly of your domestic skills,” she said, unable to think of anythi
ng better to say.
“That’s because he knows he can rely on me,” Mary said, taking the pastry to the windowsill and cracking open the window so it could chill. Without looking at Alex, she washed her hands and returned to the counter to cut up the small chicken that waited there.
Alex was nearly sick again as Mary sliced into the bird, cracking its ribs as she worked to remove the meat from the bones.
“Perhaps I should leave you to your work,” she said, standing and holding a hand to her mouth.
“Alex is feeling poorly,” Martha explained without prompting.
“Perhaps she should go lie down,” Mary said. “Since that seems to be what she’s best at.”
Alex was speechless. She’d never known Mary to be so rude or so curt. And while the reasons behind her behavior were fairly obvious—jealousy over her father and perhaps a touch of early adolescence thrown into the mix—Alex was at a loss to know what to do.
She was spared having to do anything at all when there was a knock at the front door.
“I’ll answer it,” Molly said, jumping up from the sofa as Alex crossed back into the parlor.
Molly opened the door, revealing Lawrence’s Matty, who had grown enormous since the last time Alex had seen her.
“You’re back,” Matty said, full of joy, stepping into the house.
“Matty,” Molly shouted, shutting the door behind her. “Mary, Mary, Matty is here!”
“Dr. Dyson,” Matty greeted her with a smile. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”
“And I didn’t expect to see you looking so…expectant,” Alex greeted her.
“Mother Grace says I’ve only got a month to go, maybe less,” Matty said with a smile.
Mary popped her head into the parlor, wiping her hands with a towel. “Matty! Look at you,” she exclaimed before rushing to hug her friend.
All at once, Alex felt completely left out. Mary seemed to be deliberately ignoring her as she chattered to Matty, sweeping her past Alex and on into the kitchen. Molly and Martha returned to their dolls on the sofa. There wasn’t anything for Alex to do but sink into the nearest chair to watch and listen. If only there weren’t so much to watch and listen to. She’d hoped for peace and quiet, but it was beginning to seem like a moment’s peace would be hard to come by in a small house filled with people.
The Brynthwaite Boys: Season Two - Part Two Page 15
