by Julia Bennet
The moment Fletch had gone, Helen knelt next to the Dane so that he towered over her. Though she couldn’t quite bring herself to kiss him, she stroked his dark fur. “Good boy, Hector.”
He whined and flopped down onto her lap.
Chapter Seven
Will had barely seated himself behind his scratched and slightly wobbly desk when Mrs. Fletcher crashed through his office door.
“I won’t stand for it, Dr. Carter. I just won’t stand for it,” she said in lieu of a proper greeting.
Will picked up the first piece of paper that came to hand—an inventory of the contents of his rooms—and studied it as though it held the key to salvation.
“Won’t stand for what, Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked, without looking up. A childish trick but sometimes the most effective antidote to rudeness was more rudeness.
“That beast of yours. It’s not safe to have around decent people. It went for me.”
Setting the paper aside, he fixed her with a look. “Indeed? I’m terribly sorry to hear that. Perhaps you’ll be so good as to show me the wound so that I might check for infection.”
The pause that followed was almost imperceptible, but Will noticed and felt a surge of satisfaction.
“I never said I had a wound,” she muttered.
“Extraordinary. Attacked by so large and vicious a dog, yet you have no mark to show for it. How is it you came to have so miraculous an escape?”
A longer pause this time. “Helen grabbed him by the collar,” she said with obvious reluctance.
“Did she?” He raised his brows in mock astonishment, though in truth he was mildly surprised Helen had shown such restraint. “How generous of her in the circumstances.”
“Now, see here—”
“Come now, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, injecting his voice with false heartiness. “Whatever the rights and wrongs of it, you and Miss Grey had a falling out. You were very angry with her, and, again rightly or wrongly, she seemed equally angry with you. In those circumstances, won’t you concede that she behaved generously?”
The narrowing of her eyes told him she sensed a trap but couldn’t quite discern her peril.
“Happen I might,” she said.
“I must confess myself perturbed by this account you bring me of Hector’s behavior. He’s always been such a placid dog. You did nothing to provoke him, I hope?”
“Why, certainly not,” she said without hesitation. “What could I have done?” But her small-eyed gaze flicked furtively to the left and back.
You bloody liar, Mrs. Fletcher. “And if I speak to Miss Grey, will she also tell me you did nothing to set Hector off?”
“I…” Another telling hesitation before she rallied to the attack. “Are you saying you’d take a lunatic’s word over mine?”
“Mrs. Fletcher, I’d take the word of almost anybody over yours.” He paused to savor the sight of her mouth popping open. When she gaped like that, she looked as gormless as she was mean. “If you aren’t injured, I have other work to do. Good day to you.”
“This isn’t finished.”
Shrugging, he picked up the inventory again.
“I’ll talk to me employer,” she said, strident with frustration.
“Do,” he snapped. “I should be most interested in his response. Until we receive it, Miss Grey will continue to look after Hector. Since you dislike the animal so much, perhaps we might assign you temporary duties elsewhere in the interim.”
“I’ll not be shunted aside like—”
“As you please. If you don’t mind Hector’s company, by all means continue to attend Miss Grey.”
She was back to gaping like a landed fish, and just as out of her element.
How does it feel, you loathsome harpy? Will struggled to keep his face blank and stony when he wanted to throw back his head and laugh with triumph.
“That will be all, Mrs. Fletcher.”
After several seconds of deadlock during which he tried to review case notes while listening to Fletcher’s angry breathing, she shuffled out. As the last of her muttered oaths and threats faded into silence, he leaned back in his chair.
Though they might not ultimately win the battle with regard to Hector, at least they’d bought Helen a short reprieve from Fletcher’s malevolent presence. With that shadow lifted, he felt certain he’d see a dramatic improvement in Helen’s state of mind. He didn’t believe her case anywhere near as dire as Sterling’s notes suggested. Perhaps if he demonstrated the negative effect Fletcher had, he might succeed in freeing Helen from her altogether.
Of course, that presupposed everyone was acting in good faith, something he now doubted. If Sterling refused to pass Will’s communications to Helen’s benefactor, things would get complicated. They might need to turn to a higher authority. Still, Helen must have loved turning the tables on Fletch. The thought put a smile on his face for the rest of the day.
…
After her skirmish with Fletch, Helen braced herself for serious repercussions. The reprieve came as a happy surprise. No doubt she’d pay when the old nurse inevitably resumed her duties, but for now she’d enjoy the respite.
Each afternoon after luncheon, Dr. Carter walked with her and Hector on the grounds. Other patients took up much of his time, but Elsie kept her company when he wasn’t around. Though quiet, the girl proved infinitely superior to Fletch as both attendant and companion. Helen’s expectations weren’t high. No slaps, no pinches, and the occasional kind word—who could ask for more?
On the second day, Dr. Carter had sent a volume of Shakespeare’s comedies, the first book she’d held in her hand in over a year. Long ago, her mother had taught her to read using Shakespeare’s plays as a primer. When Mama had needed to practice her lines, Helen had played all the other parts.
Now, with Hector as her only audience, she turned to “Ariel’s Song” and read aloud:
“Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made,
Those are pearls that were his eyes.”
Full fathom five had been the last thought in her head as Fletch almost drowned her. Mama had performed the part of Miranda many times. Again and again, she fell in love with Ferdinand and escaped to a better life. Helen had always loved The Tempest, and of all the play’s many memorable stanzas, “Ariel’s Song” resonated most—so strange and morbid. Drowning had always struck her as a terrifying way to die.
Tears gathered in her eyes for the first time since the water treatment. Fletch had come so close to killing her. She would never forget that final moment before she’d lost consciousness—the bone-deep misery of Fletch’s face being the last thing she’d see on this earth.
Hector whined from his place at her feet, recalling her from the darkness.
“Listen, Dog, this bit’s about you,” she said, dashing her tears away.
“Hark, hark!
Bow-wow,
The watch-dogs bark,
Bow-wow.”
In answer, he rolled onto his back.
Helen shook her head. “You’re right, Shakespeare must have been a very peculiar man.”
Between the new book and looking after Hector, time flew. A novel experience at Blackwell. Then, late in the afternoon of the seventh day, Dr. Carter sent for her.
Instead of taking her to his office, Elsie led her to part of the second floor she’d never seen before. The corridor in which they stopped seemed much like the rest of the manor: cold, gloomy, and starved of light.
“I’m to wait here,” Elsie said, lowering herself into a rickety chair positioned to the left of a closed door. “You’re to go in alone.”
Ominous words, but the summons had come from Dr. Carter, she reminded herself, not Sterling or Fletch. The thought comforted her, but experience had taught her never to relinquish her sense of caution. Tentatively, she opened the door and stepped into a room she couldn’t immediately identify. The furniture, which might have given her some clue as to its purpose, stood shrouded i
n dust sheets.
Dr. Carter had been leaning against the window ledge when she came in, but he quickly straightened. “There you are. How are you, Helen?”
“At the moment, I’d characterize myself as curious. What room is this?”
He didn’t seem to mind that she’d avoided giving a true answer to his question. “I’m glad you ask. The room we’re standing in now is Sir Clifford’s old dressing room. And this…” He walked to an inner door and flung it open. “This is his private bathroom. We doctors are permitted to use it once a week, but it is never to be used by patients.”
“I see,” she said and stepped past him into the room. “Sir Clifford must have had a great tolerance for cold.”
And for stone. Both floor and walls had been left bare. True, a fire flickered in the grate, but in so large a space, its impact on the temperature was negligible. Then she saw the window. Set high in the wall and made of stained glass, its pattern of rambling roses threw pools of red, yellow, blue, and green across the floor and the claw-footed tub itself.
“It must be like bathing in a church,” she said.
“Would you like to try it?”
“Bathing in a church? I don’t think that would do my reputation any good. In fact—” But something else caught her attention. “Is that…?” Surely not. Blackwell was a relic, yet those tantalizing rumors of Sterling’s secret water supply might actually be true; the bath appeared to have taps at one end. “Surely, those taps don’t produce hot water?”
“One of them does. I know we discussed this, and you may refuse if you’d rather, but I thought you might like a warm bath this time.”
Emotion hit her like a fist in the stomach. Too many feelings to name—good and bad but none indifferent. A tiny bit of fear. A wave of excitement. And something she didn’t recognize. Absurdly, she felt tears building in her chest.
Ruthlessly, she swallowed all of it—the emotions, the tears—and forced unconcern into her voice. “But you said patients never use this room.”
He’d been watching, of course, and she knew his eyes were keen. Thankfully, he didn’t embarrass her by commenting on her reaction.
“Dr. Sterling gave me permission to start you on a course of hydropathy,” he said. “This is the only source of immediate hot water to be had.”
“So, you have Dr. Sterling’s permission?”
“I didn’t request it.”
“Oh.” Interesting. Did she detect disharmony in the ranks? Had Dr. Carter realized what a sham the great Dr. Sterling’s reputation truly was? “So, he might not approve?”
A smile quirked his lips—small, barely there, but strangely endearing. “Possibly not.”
“Well, in that case…” She reached for the top button of her gown.
Dr. Carter’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. “I’m afraid there isn’t a screen for you to undress behind,” he said, as if perfectly unaware of what a wanton thing she was.
“No one here cares about patient dignity,” she said, already on her fourth button.
He turned on the taps. They made a fearful racket, but after some initial stuttering, the water poured out clear and hot.
“I’ll be over there.” He gestured to a chair positioned in the farthest corner of the room. “I have case notes to read. Rest assured, I won’t look.” His words ran together as he backed away, as flustered as a virgin on her wedding night. “Oh, and keep your shift on if you please.”
He tried so hard to maintain a professional distance, but she’d wager he didn’t stammer and blush when the other patients disrobed. Smiling to herself, she began undressing. She considered turning the process into a performance—but her efforts would have been wasted; Dr. Carter kept his eyes on his notes the entire time.
“Since you are determined not to look at me,” she said once the bath was full and she could be heard again, “why remain here at all? Why not ask Elsie to sit with me?”
“Delegate the responsibility of your treatment, do you mean? That’s what I did last time. No, if you’re to have a water treatment, I’ll supervise it personally.”
“Nothing to do with catching a glimpse of me in my chemise then?”
He didn’t react, but if she’d been a little closer, she wagered she’d have seen the tips of his ears turn red.
“Anyway,” she went on, stepping into the water. “I wouldn’t have thought a simple bath qualified as hydropathy.”
“Yet, I find them helpful for relieving anxiety.”
“Yours? Or your patients’?”
The rustling of his notes was his only response.
As she lowered herself fully into the water, glorious melting warmth took her in its embrace. Even she was taken aback by the ecstatic sigh of pleasure that escaped her.
“Oh!” she cried. “Oh my God.” Her first real bath in too many years to count. Maybe her first ever bath in water that hadn’t been used by someone else first. “This is wonderful. I’ve never felt so—”
“Good.” The single word sounded stiff, even a little cold; he shifted in his seat but kept his head down.
How she wished he’d look at her, and not so she could tease him. She wanted to share the splendor of this moment with him. No one had ever done anything that made her feel this good before, and the man responsible wouldn’t even bear witness.
As if he realized he’d been too terse, he cleared his throat and added, “Another time we’ll try warm water combined with massage.”
Oh, she liked the sound of that. Now, that held distinct possibilities. Dr. Carter’s big hands, slick with soap, all over her semi-nude body. To feel him so near, so warm and real, so tender. All that size and strength, all that goodness and decency, concentrated on her.
She closed her eyes and let the heat sink deep into her bones. Bliss.
…
Will was in hell.
He’d known he would be from the moment the ill-conceived notion of commandeering the doctors’ bathroom had occurred to him. That’s why he’d instructed the girl Elsie to sit outside and play watchdog. Her presence bolstered his waning resolve. Perhaps he should call her in so that she could keep an even closer eye on him, but she’d witness his desperate struggle to keep his attention off Miss Grey. Then everyone would soon know about Dr. Carter blushing and stammering like a lovelorn village lad. That’s all he was when you got right down to it.
Each time Helen moved, with every sigh, every gasp, Will ached with the desire to go to her. At such moments, he found it difficult to remember why such a thing would be dishonorable. She was a grown woman and clearly willing. If there were consequences, he’d never abandon her to face them alone.
Except that he was her doctor. He’d spent as much time with her as he could over the last few days. She was many things—strange, mercurial, perhaps even a little neurotic, but she wasn’t mad, despite what had happened on the day they’d met. Now that he had a thorough knowledge of the life she led here, he understood what had driven her out into the snow. Since then, she’d shown a resilience of which he was in awe.
No, Helen wasn’t mad, but she was still his patient.
He took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on his notes. Mrs. Cox exhibits symptoms including low appetite, lethargy—
Helen moaned with pleasure. He was fairly certain she knew the effect her noises were having on him, but realizing didn’t make him less susceptible. His intentions might be honorable, but his body had other, more lecherous ideas. And that made the third time he’d tried to read the same sentence.
Mrs. Cox exhibits symptoms including low appetite, lethargy—
“Dr. Carter,” Helen called. Splash, splash.
“Yes?” he said through gritted teeth.
“How long were you married?”
Damn and blast this woman. “Ten years.”
Water sloshed as she moved. “And how long have you been a widower?”
“Eight years.” Eight long years of endless celibacy. Of losing himself in work. Esthe
r was the only woman he’d ever taken to bed. For a long time after she died, he hadn’t wanted anyone else. Her loss had left him numb. Then, slowly feeling had crept back, his desires muted, easy to ignore. Until now.
“Do you think you’ll ever marry again?”
No, he didn’t. His need for affection had been too much for Esther. As much as he’d loved her, he didn’t believe he’d made her happy. In a rare moment of tactlessness, Mam had called her cold, but Will disagreed. Esther had been self-contained, aloof, and ladylike to a fault, even when the two of them were alone. The intimacy he’d wanted for them had been beyond her. But he didn’t want to discuss any of that with Helen. Esther deserved more consideration from him than that.
Sighing, he set the notes down on his lap and glared at the floor. “I think it’s my turn to ask the questions.”
If he couldn’t read, he could find out more about his current patient. He should never have permitted himself to fall into this ridiculous quid pro quo, but if it worked, who was he to cavil?
“What do you miss most about your old life?” he asked.
“Oh, the theatre,” she said without hesitation. “The attention, the flowers at the stage door.” The words rang with insincerity, yet the thought of her surrounded by admirers had him scowling. “Or perhaps my mother,” she said quietly.
“Ah.” He’d heard the truth in her voice that time.
“She died when I was fifteen.”
Not long before Helen had arrived at Blackwell. Consumption, her notes had said. “Did she look like you?” he asked.
“Why, Dr. Carter, what a question. I’m not sure I see its relevance.” She was teasing, of course, but had a point.
“I suppose she looked a little like me, but so very beautiful. Audiences loved her, particularly the gentlemen. I remember one particular man—Higgins, I think he was called. A fellow actor. He wasn’t rich enough to keep her, but he dogged her every step for years.”
Slowly, the tiny glimpses of her life were beginning to form a picture. Her mother had loved her deeply, but their mode of life had been chaotic—very different from Will’s working-class childhood and worlds apart from the genteel upbringing of men like Sterling.
