A Holiday in Bath

by Julie Daines

  Lucy took leave of the rest of the ladies, who stared after her with stunned expressions.

  “Hurry, Lucy dear. Bring us word as soon as you can,” Aunt Imogene called after her.

  She ran after Edmund with Lady Hardy’s reticule and cloak. When they arrived at Barry’s premises, the doctor realized the gravity of the situation immediately. Edmund, still carrying his burden, followed him into his examining room, and the door shut firmly behind them, leaving Lucy to fret in the reception room.

  The reception room boasted a modicum more comfort than the free clinic with its wooden benches. Patients could choose from the threadbare couch, a settee that listed unevenly, and several wooden chairs, not one of which matched another. Lucy stood against the wall.

  Barry’s regulars, who did not seem to be in crisis, gradually drifted away as time passed, some grumbling that they would come back later. Finally, Lucy shared the room with only a young mother whose feverish son slept in her lap and a fern drooping in a pot by the window. Neither had much to say.

  The door to the physician’s examination room stayed closed. Lucy hoped her sense of time had slowed with worry, because she hated to think Edmund and Dr. Barry had actually disappeared with her friend several hours earlier. She had come very close to the limit of her endurance just before the door opened, and Edmund gestured for her to come in. The young mother glowered when Lucy disappeared into the inner rooms.

  They faced each other in the dim hallway, the narrow passage forcing them to stand close together.

  “Tell me! How is she? May I see her?” Lucy demanded.

  Edmund took both of her hands in his. His thumb made little circles on the top of her left hand, but she doubted he even realized he was doing it. “She had an attack of apoplexy. I thought—” He swallowed hard. “What I thought doesn’t matter. I have much to learn. Barry rates it minor. He believes she will recover given time and enough to eat.”

  “She starves herself!” Lucy said hotly.

  He nodded, anger transforming his normal good cheer. “Her son should be horsewhipped. The apoplexy may have more to do with her age, but starvation made her vulnerable and will certainly impact her recovery.”

  “What happens now?”

  “Barry has some patient rooms. She will stay for several days for Barry to assess how much damage the attack caused and for us to make sure she eats.”

  “She won’t take charity, Edmund. Aunt Imogene and I have tried, you must know that.”

  “She won’t have a choice, or rather, her choice is here or the charity ward at the General Hospital. We need to feed her while we can.”

  They found her sleeping when they looked in. Mrs. Barry had dressed her in a loose, comfortable gown and put her in bed. Lucy spoke with the physician’s wife in hushed tones, assuring her that she would not be without help. Mrs. Barry slipped out to take a look at the woman with the child.

  Convinced her friend would be well until morning, Lucy left Lady Hardy’s cloak and reticule and let Edmund lead her out. “Dr. Barry sends his thanks. He left to call on a patient,” he told her.

  “You knew what was wrong immediately, didn’t you?” she asked while he helped her with her cloak.

  “Yes, but not what to do about it—and I wasn’t certain how bad an attack we witnessed. Barry knew. He handled her brilliantly. I have much to learn.”

  “You said that before—that you have much to learn. Do you intend to study, then?”

  “That’s what I meant to talk to you about today. My degree is finished, and I have a year of medical lectures behind me. Barry thinks I can be licensed based on that and my clinic time.”

  A dozen questions rushed like bees into Lucy’s mind. For a moment, she could only stand in the narrow passageway to Dr. Barry’s premises and stare at the man she had come to care for. His proximity and the spicy aroma of his cologne got in the way of coherent thought.

  His eyes never left hers. “What is it, Lucy?”

  “Aren’t the teaching hospitals in London?” she whispered.

  “That isn’t entirely true. Barry thinks the bishop can license me to practice here, especially if I put in some time observing at a local hospital.”

  “You would stay here in Bath?” She sounded breathless even to herself and trailed off in a self-conscious fluster, wondering if Aunt Imogene would let her stay indefinitely. Can he hear the hope in my voice? He must think me forward.

  He turned to the door and offered his arm, leading her out to the street. “It isn’t quite that simple,” he said at last. “I have to get references from lecturers at Oxford and from Cartwright. Barry, of course will help. Even if I’m licensed and all goes smoothly, I’ll have to find rooms and obtain equipment and supplies. It will be very dear.”

  Lucy didn’t stop walking with her eyes forward, but she screwed up her brow, puzzled. Edmund is wealthy, isn’t he? How can he worry about costs? The answer came to her in a rush. “Your parents won’t like it. Will your father put stumbling blocks in your way?”

  “They will hate it, and yes. I think it likely he will cut off my funds.” He turned sharply toward her. “I don’t mind for myself. I don’t need luxury, and I want to stand on my own.”

  “But to set up a practice . . .”

  “It may be difficult to do that or—or anything else,” he finished in a rush and continued walking.

  Lucy tried to tame her unruly thoughts, afraid to believe he might mean a wife or to hope it might be her.

  After a moment, he stopped again. This time, he faced her and went on, “I can’t speak further until I know exactly how I stand. Mother wrote to Father asking him to intervene when she knew I was helping at Barry’s clinic. She wrote twice, but he never replied. I must go back to London to confront him. I can’t make plans until I know. Do you understand, Lucy?”

  They had come to the edge of Spring Garden, thick with bushes. He pulled her out of sight of passersby and cupped her face with his hands. He studied her face as if it held the secret to his life. She hoped it did.

  He scrutinized her with such intensity she thought he might scorch her face. She could hardly breathe, much less answer. When he groaned and lowered his head for a gentle kiss, he chased the last of her thoughts away. His lips touched hers softly, moving first to one side and then the other. She returned the favor, mimicking his motions with ones of her own.

  He must have liked it because he put his arms around her back, pulled her closer, and opened his mouth to nibble her lower lip. She moaned and opened her mouth to him. He moved his open mouth across hers, sending sensations exploding in her entire body. He lifted his head and let his hands slide down her back before he dropped them to his side.

  “I have to speak with my father, Lucy. Do you understand? I can’t—”

  She put two fingers on his mouth to silence him. “I know,” she sighed. “Do what you must.”

  They walked to Aunt Imogene’s home in silence. In the morning, he was gone.

  Chapter Nine

  Lady Hardy fussed when Lucy brought in a tray at dinnertime. “Can’t ’ford pay,” she complained. In the week she had been Dr. Barry’s guest, her speech had improved, and her grumbling signaled that she became more her old self every day.

  “Hush, my lady. Dr. Barry ordered me to feed you this supper, so eat it you shall,” Lucy replied, unable to hide her smile. Lucy fed her every night and could therefore judge the tiny steps by which her friend improved day by day. She missed Edmund horribly and threw herself into the work to keep her mind occupied. It proved a mixed blessing.

  The medical practice reminded her of Edmund and his ambitions, and it brought him closer when she worked there. He had departed for London without saying good-bye or stopping to see her, and he had not written to her.

  “I should say not!” Aunt Imogene had pointed out tartly. “Lord Edmund is too well behaved to correspond with a young lady. It isn’t done, Lucy, you must know that. He would have to travel all the way to Herefordshire to ask
your father’s permission to do that.”

  Lucy wished he might be a little less honorable for once, but no letters were forthcoming. When the second week passed, her worries increased. She wondered if he really had been hinting he might pay his addresses to her when he returned. His parents would never approve. They would want an earl’s daughter, at least.

  Long days in Barry’s clinic or at his practice caring for Lady Hardy left her exhausted, but happy. If Edmund could begin such work and I could help him . . . The thought lodged in her heart—her dearest dream.

  The days crawled by, and her worst fears began to dominate her heart. Has he fallen into London’s delights so deeply that he lost his interest in being a physician and Bath no longer draws his attention? London ladies are so much more sophisticated than I am. The very worst came to her every night when she stared into the dark. Has he forgotten me?

  “I’m well. You must let me go home,” Lady Hardy insisted at the end of the second week. Dr. Barry told Lucy to do whatever she could to keep the old woman there for a month, until she was strong enough and better nourished.

  Lucy handed her the spoon and held a bowl in front of her. They had progressed to a richer stew from the basic broths of the beginning. The woman’s hand shook when she gripped the spoon and tried to dip it into the stew, leaving splatters on the towel Lucy had placed on her front. “Let me do that,” Lucy said gently. She began to spoon the stew into the woman’s mouth.

  “Miss Ashcroft, please come.” Mrs. Barry stood in the door, looking worried.

  “I’ll be right back,” Lucy told Lady Hardy, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  “What is it?” Lucy asked, coming into the passageway.

  “Someone wants to see Lady Hardy,” the physician’s wife explained.

  It couldn’t be Aunt Imogene or the other ladies. They came in turns at noon to help and hardly needed to ask. Her heart leaped. Edmund? “Who is it?” she demanded.

  “A man claiming to be Baron Hardy, her son. He is pacing the reception room like an angry bear.”

  A stout, bluff-looking man with coarse, close-cropped, brown hair and a square face spun on well-shod heels when they entered. He wore a brown suit much rumpled from travel and a plainly knotted neck cloth.

  “Where is my mother?” he demanded.

  “Baron Hardy?” Lucy asked.

  “Who else would I be? I’ve been told she’s here.”

  “Your mother has suffered apoplexy. We’re caring for her here,” Mrs. Barry told him.

  “She hasn’t seen you in several years,” Lucy began.

  “Neither here nor there, and not anyone’s business. And who are you?” he shouted.

  “I am Miss Lucy Ashcroft, Lady Hardy’s friend.”

  “That man mentioned you. Some kind of hanger-on, are you?”

  “I beg your pardon? Your mother lives alone with only the kindness of friends to keep her from utter ruin.”

  Baron Hardy’s face had reached an alarming shade of red, whether from anger or shame, Lucy couldn’t tell.

  “If, as Miss Ashcroft says, she hasn’t seen you in some time, my lord, your appearance may be a shock. In her fragile condition, you could cause a setback.” Mrs. Barry spoke with her head high and hands clasped in front of her.

  The baron drew in several large breaths, pulling himself under control. “I did not come here to harm the woman. I came here to see her condition for myself, as a son ought. When that Lord Edmund Parker insulted me in my own home and told me—”

  “Edmund came to see you?” Lucy gasped.

  “Pushed in and accused me of failing in my duty—falsely, I might add. Where is my mother?”

  Lucy straightened her back and tipped her chin. “Lord Edmund Parker doesn’t lie, Lord Hardy. Did he tell you your mother lives in dire poverty? That she hasn’t enough to eat? That the only reason she didn’t die was because her attack happened in front of friends?”

  Baron Hardy’s mouth tightened to a thin line. “Show me to my mother,” he ground out through stiff lips and stalked toward the door. Lucy scurried to slip in front of him and hurried down the hall.

  “Lady Hardy,” she said with a forced smile when she burst through the door, “someone is here to see you.” The baron followed on her heels.

  “Penrod!” Lady Hardy pushed up on her elbows, eyes wide with shock. Lucy turned to chastise the baron and found an identical expression on his face.

  “Mama?” Lord Hardy groaned. “What has happened to you?” He dropped to a chair at her side.

  “Is it truly you, Penrod? I thought you forgot me as soon as you abandoned me.”

  “Abandoned you? You and Mildred couldn’t get along, and we agreed Bath was best, did we not? I never abandoned you. I left Mr. Jenkins instructions . . .”

  “You never wrote,” his mother cried, tears flowing, “and it took all of the pittance you sent me to pay for my room. I had naught for food the last of each quarter. How could you leave me like this?”

  “That devil Jenkins told me you had a respectable suite of rooms—even asked for more, and I gave it willingly,” he sputtered. “I don’t understand this.”

  “But you never answered my letters.” She cried harder. “I begged and begged you . . .”

  “I didn’t get any letters. How did you send them?”

  “I—” Lady Hardy’s voice cracked. “Oh, God. I gave them to Jenkins to send you. I had no coin for the post.”

  Lucy put a hand to the wall to steady herself. “We would have posted them for you, my lady. You know Aunt Imogene would have.”

  The lady turned her head away. “I won’t take charity,” she whispered.

  Baron Hardy took his mother’s hand. “I’m sorry, Mama. Jenkins is a scoundrel,” he said.

  Lucy thought the man might have checked instead of trusting his man of business, but she kept her counsel and opened the door to leave.

  “Miss Ashcroft, may I have the honor of calling on you and your aunt tomorrow?” Baron Hardy asked.

  She retrieved her card from her reticule and gave it to the man. “We take waters at the Pump Room in the morning. Your mother knows our habits,” she told him. By the time she left, he had begun to feed his mother awkwardly but with determination.

  Lucy walked home with a surge of pride. Edmund visited Baron Hardy—and did a thorough job of it! What else has he done these past weeks?

  Chapter Ten

  Edmund watched Michaels pack a valise and tried not to interfere, even though he had already dispensed with the man’s services. The valet meant it kindly and took pride in his work, for which the Marquess of Waringford paid him well. However harsh Edmund’s father might choose to be with his son, he would not fail to pay a servant.

  “Here you are, my lord. Bare necessities for your journey,” the man said with a frown. “Shall I have a footman carry it to the foyer?”

  “I believe I can handle it,” Edmund responded, containing his amusement. “I will have to from now on, won’t I?”

  Michaels shifted from one foot to another, an uncharacteristic sign of agitation. “If I may be so bold, sir, I shall miss being in your service, even if—”

  “Even if I take less care of my appearance than a gentleman ought?” Edmund finished with a twinkle.

  “As her ladyship says, my lord. I wish you well in your work. Medicine is a noble calling, if not an activity in which fashionable gentlemen generally participate.”

  Edmund had no response to that pronouncement. Being a physician ranked low in the social ladder, a few short steps above the unthinkable—engaging in trade. Michaels leaned forward to whisper nervously, as if he feared being overheard, “It’s a noble thing you do, and make no mistake.”

  Edmund took his leave before they both became maudlin, and carried his valise to the front door, where the butler informed him, with a ferocious frown of disapproval, that his hackney had not yet arrived.

  Another expense, he thought, mentally husbanding every penny, but
I can’t walk to the coaching inn in a timely fashion.

  “Is His Lordship in his study?” Edmund asked and, upon being assured his father was indeed in his office, set off in that direction.

  His mother had taken to her bed after the final row and would not speak to him. You would think I proposed to disappear into Africa and go native, he thought. Or open a gambling den, although she might approve of that one. She vowed never to set foot in Bath again, which, all in all, might be for the best.

  “Enter,” his father growled in response to his knock. The old man scanned Edmund’s traveling coat and suit with distaste, a familiar response.

  “My transport should be here momentarily. I wanted to take my leave.”

  “Come to face me, have you? I’ll give you that. Have you informed Philmont?”

  “I wrote to Charles last night. It is in the morning post.” He left unspoken the fact that Charles had urged him to follow his dreams the previous summer. Parental wrath on Charles’s head wouldn’t help Edmund one iota.

  “I’m not dying. I’m removing to Bath. I’ll see Charles again,” he went on. He didn’t ask whether or when his parents would receive him again.

  The marquess grunted. “There’s no turning you from this road, is there.” It wasn’t a question. The old man shook his grizzled head and scowled ferociously. “I won’t wish you well. Don’t expect it.”

  The odd statement took Edmund aback. “I wouldn’t expect it. You made your disapproval plain. I wish you well, Father; I hope we meet again before too long.” He hesitated from old habit, waiting to be dismissed.

  The marquess laid a fisted hand over an envelope on his desk. “If you can’t make us proud, at least don’t disgrace us in Bath. Gossip travels, and your nephews would suffer.” He glared without wavering at Edmund, who had no response to this outburst, but he held his father’s gaze without shirking. It was his father who looked away. He shrank a little, picking up the envelope and holding it out.