By a Lady

by Amanda Elyot

  “Mary.” C.J. raised a sudsy hand to the girl’s face and gently touched her cheek. “I am heartily sure that her ladyship—with her unusual opinions—would no doubt be the first to acknowledge that a woman should find a purpose in life . . . and a profession. Imagine! You will be able to earn your own way and be your own mistress!”

  The encouragement was bittersweet. “I suppose I want it so much . . . to be a midwife, I mean . . . for a selfish reason. It was you, Miss Welles, what—that—put the notion in my head, though I can’t say as you knew anything about it. Perhaps,” Mary added in a small, hopeful voice, “even after I become a midwife, you will consider engagin’ me as the babe’s nanny.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  An eventful chapter, in which a pleasant midday excursion becomes a dramatic ride, with disastrous consequences; while one young woman languishes, another flourishes; Lady Dalrymple bestows an extraordinarily magnanimous gift; and our heroine receives a mysterious note.

  DESPITE THE FACT that she had been arrested, imprisoned, tried, nearly committed to a lifetime of indentured servitude, publicly jilted by the man she loved, and, most recently, incarcerated in a madhouse, C.J. had come to feel, in a most inexplicable way, that she really belonged in 1801. All her life she had felt like a fish out of water. In fact, her late adoptive father used to call her Guppy. One day he and his wife had found a confused and frightened toddler wandering around the streets of Greenwich Village. Years later her adoptive mother told her that at first she wouldn’t speak, so they had thought she was a mute, or retarded. They had taken her to the local precinct, where the police looked through all the missing persons reports but found no match for her. Because Mr. Welles was so well respected in the community, the state granted his petition to allow him and his wife to keep C.J. until her birth parents came forward to claim her. But no one ever did, so after a few years they legally adopted her. C.J. herself had no memories of anything before she was found by the Welleses.

  To be sure, there had been enough mishaps and ugliness to make one question the sanity of her decision to remain in Bath. However, there was the occasional unalloyed delight that had eased her permanent transition into the infant nineteenth century.

  On the day after her release from the madhouse, C.J. returned from her morning constitutional to discover draped across her bedspread the most exquisite garment she had ever seen. She held it before her as she surveyed her reflection in the cheval mirror. The deep green velvet was of the finest quality. C.J. opened a large, round hatbox to discover a handsome black veiled riding hat. And at the foot of the bed there was another box that contained a pair of black boots with a sturdy heel.

  Trying on the new riding habit, C.J. frowned, lifting the skirt’s heavy, lopsided train over her right arm. This could not be right, she thought, as she studied her reflection. She donned the black hat, which sat solidly upon her head at just the proper angle, hoping that it would ameliorate the picture before her. How could a celebrated modiste like Madame Delacroix have made such a mistake?

  Oh, God! Her stomach lurched as she suddenly made sense of the strange configuration of her hem. Of course! She was expected to ride sidesaddle.

  Thus it was with no small degree of trepidation that she met the earl, who came to fetch her in his coach to take her to his stables in Bathampton. C.J. resolved to put a bold face on it and not let the earl sense her inexperience. After all, she was an actress—or had been. She would have to feign a familiarity with the sidesaddle, or risk giving herself away yet again. Her fears returned as to whether she was tempting the fates too much and putting her unborn babe at a ridiculous and unnecessary risk, but Mary had made a salient point: in this era, women in her condition often rode. Perhaps she was being overly cautious.

  One of the earl’s grooms led out a chestnut mare and adjusted the saddle girth.

  Darlington grinned. “She reminds me a bit of you, Miss Welles. Her name is Gypsy Lady.”

  “For her wild spirit or for her nomadic tendencies?” C.J. quipped.

  The dapper groom helped C.J. into the sidesaddle, offering his open palm to boost her up. She had seen enough movies to know that she needed to secure herself by hooking her leg over the pommel. It was an awkward position—to face forward while both of her legs draped over the left side of the mare. She hoped that neither the groom nor the earl saw her trembling. And that Gypsy Lady didn’t sense her trepidation.

  “You look quite elegant, Miss Welles,” Darlington called to her as he saddled a huge white mount. He patted the horse’s immense yet graceful neck.

  “What is his name?” C.J. called gaily.

  “Esperance.”

  “A good name for a Percy, your lordship!” C.J. trotted Gypsy Lady over to Darlington, whose groom was adjusting the length of his stirrups.

  He leaned toward her. “One of the most remarkable things about our friendship, Miss Welles, is that I can make a reference to Shakespeare, or mythology, or history without the need to explain, define, or clarify my meaning.”

  C.J. discovered that she had no trouble maneuvering the reins and her riding crop, although she had not had occasion to use the stick and always deplored doing so. As long as she was going slowly, she maintained her balance in the sidesaddle with ease and enjoyed moving her body in tandem with the mare’s loping rhythm.

  “I thought you might like to see the view from Charlcombe,” Darlington proposed as they rode side by side. The steady clip-clop of the hooves along the dirt road had an almost soporific effect. The air smelled clean and fresh from newly cut grass and hay. “It’s a delightful old village; in fact, Miss Austen quite prefers to walk in this area.”

  C.J. was entranced by the verdant surroundings, the gentle rolling hills, and the wooded valleys dotted with wildflowers.

  “We can dismount any time you like, Miss Welles, should you wish to explore any point of interest on foot.”

  C.J. nodded. In fact, she would very likely find many places of interest but was tentative about alighting from Gypsy Lady, now that she was beginning to gain a degree of ease in the sidesaddle position.

  Darlington was looking ahead, pointing to a small village church built of stone in the Norman style. “Cassandra, have you ever read Tom Jones?”

  “Yes, indeed. Why do you ask?”

  “Despite my inquiring, I should not be surprised at your answer. So many young ladies of fashion are actively encouraged not to read novels, as it is commonly believed that the morals they contain may destroy the mind.” Darlington stopped in front of the old Norman church. “The church of St. Mary the Virgin. Henry Fielding was married here,” the earl remarked, referring to the author of the ostensibly salacious novel in question. “St. Mary’s is traditionally considered the mother church of Bath. As a matter of fact, the Abbey used to pay its dues to St. Mary’s to the tune of a pound of peppercorns annually.”

  “That’s nothing to sneeze at!”

  “Touché, Miss Welles. Shall we ride down into the valley?”

  “Why not?” answered C.J., unaware of his intentions.

  “Race you!” he called as he spurred his horse into a canter.

  “No, I can’t, Percy! The baby!” C.J., who had been quite comfortable on Gypsy Lady as the horse walked beside Darlington’s mount and had rather liked trotting, now found herself in a situation that she had difficulty managing with any degree of grace or agility. Gypsy Lady was true to her appellation. As soon as Esperance went into his brisk canter, the mare wildly followed, temporarily throwing C.J. off balance.

  Her mind was a jumble of thoughts, cautions, warnings. She was neither a strong nor an experienced enough horsewoman to control Gypsy Lady. Darlington was way ahead of her, cantering apace down the hill, and had not the slightest notion that she was in trouble.

  An ordinarily harmless woodland creature darted across the road with another in hot pursuit, spooking the mare. She reared up, throwing her novice rider, whose leg, swathed in yards of fabric, got tangled in her stirru
p as she hurtled toward the road below.

  There was a thud as C.J. hit the uneven path dotted with twigs and stones. The thud was followed by a terrible silence that seemed to echo through the valley below.

  Darlington spurred his stallion back up the hill to find Gypsy Lady, a look of fear in her huge brown eyes, standing obediently by the prostrate body of her rider: a heap of grubby green velvet lying in the dust. A yard or so away, Cassandra’s new black riding hat bounced away, its sheer tulle veiling caught by a breeze.

  The sun gradually descended toward the horizon while Darlington sat by Cassandra’s immobile form along the infrequently traversed road. Finally he was able to hail a passing cabriolet to request assistance. The coach’s owner insisted on turning from his intended route; and, after helping Darlington lift Miss Welles into the carriage, they made the briefest stop at the stables, alerting the grooms to retrieve the earl’s horses, which had been temporarily tethered to a stile. This done, they raced posthaste for the Royal Crescent. The carriage’s owner, one Captain Keats, saw that Miss Welles arrived as safely as possible, given the alarming circumstances.

  DARLINGTON’S DEEP BLUE MORNING COAT rested on the back of his chair. An otherwise perfect cravat was crumpled and stuffed in the pocket.

  “Perhaps you should take a walk, Percy. Stretch your legs,” Lady Dalrymple whispered, as she entered her “niece’s” bedroom with a cup of tea for the earl. “It is daybreak and you have been sitting here for hours, without respite. You must allow Dr. Musgrove to administer his treatments.”

  “Bloody tractors.” Darlington was about to condemn Americans again, as it was a Yankee Doodle doctor, Elisha Perkins, who had invented the curative instruments that bore his name. Although the earl still found the application of Perkins Tractors to be outright quackery, he had no alternative now but to place his trust in the eminent Dr. Musgrove’s restorative methods. Still, four days had passed, and Cassandra had yet to stir. Darlington needed someone to blame for her condition. If Dr. Musgrove was an honest medic, then such blame must be assigned to himself for having insisted on such a foolhardy venture: encouraging a woman with child to indulge him in a horse race.

  As soon as Miss Welles had been transported back to the Royal Crescent, Dr. Musgrove was fetched upon the instant. He chastised both Darlington and the captain, explaining that the young woman should not have been lifted from the road and thence conveyed along rocky thoroughfares, lest she had suffered a broken neck in her fall.

  Captain Keats, a man of few words who had seen too many of his compatriots fall in battle, acknowledged that he had, on more than one occasion, tended to a wounded companion in similar straits to Miss Welles’s and informed the physician that at the time he believed there was no alternative.

  Lady Dalrymple admitted the young physician to Cassandra’s room.

  “The young lady’s condition remains unchanged,” Darlington volunteered before Musgrove could form the question on his lips. The pleasant-looking man, perhaps a half-dozen years younger than the earl, opened a large, black leather satchel and removed a pair of metal rods resembling the divining rods Darlington had seen in his youthful travels to the East. Dr. Musgrove stroked the rods over his patient’s skin.

  Mary, who had been quietly standing by her mistress’s bedside when the doctor paid his daily calls, had become intrigued by the practice, and finally grew bold enough to inquire as to the application of the rods.

  The young doctor affected his most assured and professional demeanor. “Perkins Tractors are commonly employed to cure epilepsy—the falling sickness, in common parlance—the gout, and inflammations. Miss Welles took a nasty fall, and as a result has broken her ankle joints, which twisted when she came into contact with the ground. Thus, it is for the inflammation that the tractors are applied.”

  “Might I, sir, if I may be so bold?” Mary asked him with sweet simplicity, and all were quite surprised when the doctor permitted her to step between him and his patient. With the gentlest of touches, she felt the tender area about C.J.’s ankles, her face intent as though she were listening to her palpations for some sort of sound. “There is no break here,” she finally said with grave solemnity. Her voice bore a tone of experience not a soul in the household had ever before heard from her.

  “Mary!” chorused the others.

  “I was born and reared on a farm in Hereford, sir,” Mary said, addressing the doctor with polite deference but without apology. “And although Miss Welles is neither calf nor foal, I am no stranger to broken limbs. You see, sir, if you place your hand just above and below the bone thusly . . .” She demonstrated, gently guiding Dr. Musgrove’s thumb and forefinger to C.J.’s right ankle, “you will feel that there is no space—that the bones are fused quite properly. I cannot speak for the usefulness of your metal rods, but I am quite sure that Miss Welles has suffered no broken bones in her ankles.”

  The assemblage watched the girl with stunned admiration. Lady Dalrymple beamed as proudly as if the little maid were her own daughter. What fools the gentry were, the countess thought, to assume superior knowledge in all things, claiming it as a birthright.

  “Did you ever think to check for broken bones before you began to apply this ridiculous contraption, Dr. Musgrove? Tractors!” scoffed Darlington. “I should not root about your fancy medical societies boasting of your latest cures when you have been shown up by your patient’s maidservant!”

  Dr. Musgrove, rather than resenting Mary’s intrusion and the earl’s outburst, stroked his bare chin and regarded the servant girl curiously. After some moments, he said, “I suppose the reason one refers to my profession as the practice of medicine is that one can always learn something new about it.” The company laughed at his attempt at levity and his ability to smooth away a potentially unpleasant situation. Such response emboldened the young medic to beg a favor of the countess. “If it pleases your ladyship, I should be grateful for the opportunity to consult with . . .” He cocked his head toward the lady’s maid.

  “Her name is Mary. Mary Sykes, Dr. Musgrove.”

  “Much obliged, your ladyship. I should very much appreciate the opportunity to converse with Miss Sykes regarding other medical matters of which she may have some degree of understanding.”

  Lady Dalrymple was much amused by the look in the young doctor’s eyes. Portly’s favorite spaniel, Troilus, had possessed just such a look. Sweet, slightly sad, expectant. “I suppose I can spare Mary for an hour or two, but only if the girl herself expresses a desire to comply with your request. Mary, would it please you to speak to Dr. Musgrove?”

  “Oh yes, your ladyship!” the maid answered eagerly.

  “Show the doctor to the drawing room then. I shall be in presently to chaperone you.”

  “Thank you, your ladyship.” Mary curtsied.

  Dr. Musgrove made a slight bow. “I am honored, your ladyship.”

  A grinning Darlington shook his head. “Not merely allowing, but arranging interviews between a lady’s maid and a man of medicine. Lady Euphoria Dalrymple, I daresay you are an original.”

  Mary led Dr. Musgrove from the chamber and was followed soon thereafter by the countess, who lingered to bestow a kiss upon her “niece’s” brow. She laid her own rosy cheek against the young woman’s pale one. It much concerned her that Cassandra had yet to regain consciousness after more than half a week.

  Miss Austen, upon hearing the terrible news, had made daily pilgrimages to Lady Dalrymple’s to inquire as to the health of her friend. Even the redoubtable Lady Oliver had seen occasion to pay a call, although her appearance consisted mostly of dire warnings to her nephew that he would soon lose his looks if he did not get some sleep. She rebuked him for ignoring Lord Digby’s repeated attempts to reinforce his daughter’s betrothal, despite the mortifying incident in the Assembly Rooms, and had not ceased to remind him that he would suffer the most vicious censure if he reneged on the arrangement.

  The earl blamed himself entirely for everything that had befa
llen Miss Welles. She had been an innocent, a pawn in a sophisticated game of financial chess played by the titled aristocracy. He despised his aunt for persuading him to violate his understanding with Cassandra, and worse, to so publicly commit to another. He despised himself for permitting it. Darlington had always prided himself on his integrity and his fierce resolve to make his own choices. True, Aunt Augusta had raised and cared for him and for Jack, his younger brother. But after all these years, he was finally asking himself when such an obligation was to be considered paid in full.

  Darlington had vigilantly watched over Cassandra, sung to her, stroked her brow, caressed her cheeks, held her hands, even read to her from Shakespeare’s sonnets, but nothing availed. Every so often her delicate eyelids would flutter, but they had yet to open. He wondered how he had let matters get so out of hand. The young, pale, trusting woman who lay before him deserved more. He had been determined to demonstrate this in every way still open to him; and even at that, he had exposed both his reputation and hers to ruin. Now, as he watched the steady rise and fall of her shallow breathing, he knew what he must do—must risk—to set things right. All the time that Miss Welles had lain abed, he had feared to ask Dr. Musgrove if Cassandra had lost their child when she was thrown from her horse. His horse. How could he have been so foolish to ask her to ride out with him in her delicate condition?

  He tenderly kissed her, feeling the warm softness of her lips against his own. Did sheer exhaustion cause him to imagine it, or did Cassandra seem to kiss him back? He leaned back in the damask-covered chair and blinked to try to keep himself awake.

  Not much more than a minute had passed when C.J. opened her eyes for the first time since the accident. She was disoriented, and the sight of Darlington—pale, unshaven, and coatless—seated on the chair beside her bed added to her confusion. “What happened?” she asked, her voice barely audible. “Did someone die?”