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Letty was a tremendous disappointment to Mrs Barton. Indeed, her mother would have disowned her except she feared it would cause talk. Mrs Barton hated to be the topic of ‘talk’. Besides, Ramsey had convinced one of his more aristocratic friends to provide some mumbo-jumbo about the upper classes adoring eccentricity.
Living alone in her little stone house was certainly eccentric.
Not that Mrs Barton knew about the doctoring. Letty smiled grimly. That information would doubtless have sent Mrs Barton into a decline or given her fits. Indeed, the fact that Letty had wasted almost two years in London without finding a husband was sufficiently dreadful.
‘I suppose I must go,’’ Letty said, her head sinking lower.
‘A failure to show might result in a visit from the elder Mrs Barton.’
Letty groaned. ‘I’d best avoid that.’
‘Indeed,’ Sarah agreed.
‘Give me an hour to sleep,’ she instructed. ‘Then get me up for this flower party.’
‘Garden party, I believe, miss.’
* * *
As expected, her mother’s influence was clearly visible and nothing had been done by half-measures. Liveried servants lined the flagstone path leading towards the comfortable brick façade of Letty’s childhood home. The box trees now resembled African animals and the ornamental fountain frothed and burbled. The flower beds were colourful perfection, the dark soil freshly turned, the weeds removed and a statue of a lion placed in the very centre of the rose garden.
A huge tent stood on the emerald lawn. Long tables covered in white linen extended from its shadows, laden with food, drink, silver cutlery and crystal stemware. Meanwhile colourful groupings of the local gentry and other notables chattered, protecting their pale complexions under ruffled sunshades in pastel hues.
Letty frowned. What was the point of a garden party if one erected a house and hid from the sun?
Just then, she saw her mother. Mrs Barton was not as tall as Letty, but was still slim. She had been talking with several ladies close to the box tree giraffe, but stepped forward on seeing her daughter.
‘I am glad you are here and on time,’ she said, with a bob of her white parasol as she presented her cheek for a kiss. She looked well. She had Letty’s pale skin and reddish hair, but her locks had a pleasant auburn shade, threaded with a few strands of grey, as opposed to Letty’s more vibrant hue.
Letty tried to think of a suitable but truthful response. She couldn’t really say that she was glad to be here. In reality, there were any number of places she would have preferred to be.
‘I am glad you are happy,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I wonder if there is not a connection between one’s physical health and one’s emotions.’
Her mother’s forehead puckered, as though uncertain how best to take that statement. ‘Well, never mind all that. And where is your sunshade? You know how dreadfully you freckle. And why must you insist on wearing such dull shades?’
‘Likely a reaction to the overly bright hues of my youth,’ Letty murmured.
‘But grey? It is such a raincloud of a colour.’
‘But serviceable.’
‘Which you would not need to worry about if you had not decided to waste money buying a house. I am quite certain your father did not intend for you to fritter your inheritance.’
‘The purchase of a house hardly seems frivolous.’
‘It is when you could stay with me at the Dower House or with dear Flo and your brother. Well, no matter—I have a gentleman I particularly wanted to introduce—’
At that moment, Flo, or Florence, approached, her smile wide and genuine. ‘But first, Lord Jephson is here and I absolutely promised him an introduction. He wanted to meet you as he has a lively interest in humours. You do not mind, do you, Mama?’
She addressed this last statement to Mrs Barton while expertly steering Letty towards the house.
‘Humours! You know science has moved beyond humours. And who is Lord Jephson?’ Letty asked as soon as they were out of earshot.
‘A rich lord without a wife which will absolutely thrill your mother. But don’t worry, I don’t think he has any interest in acquiring a wife. Besides, I wouldn’t do that to you. Ramsey is in his study and will be so delighted to see you. He says you are the only person outside of London able to provide intelligent discourse—’
Just at that moment, a disturbance occurred beside one of the long tables and both Letty and Flo turned abruptly.
‘Good gracious.’ Flo lifted her skirts so that she could move with greater efficiency. ‘I think someone has collapsed or fallen.’
Letty hurried after her sister-in-law. Quite near to the tent, a cluster of women encircled a young female reclining on the grass. The woman wore black, but looked to be young with fashionable blonde curls peaking from under a dark bonnet.
‘Do not crowd her,’ Letty directed.
‘Really, I can get up,’ the young woman said, struggling to stand.
‘A fallacy. You are as white as a sheet and look ready to swoon again.’ Letty pushed through the bystanders, kneeling beside the young woman, instinctively reaching for her wrist to feel for a pulse. ‘Give yourself a moment. You are likely still dizzy and—’
Before she could complete this sentence, a second wave of interest coursed through the group of onlookers. A tall man approached, striding from the house, his gait uneven. From her kneeling position, the newcomer’s height was extenuated, his broad shoulders all but blocking the sun so that his size appeared superhuman, like Zeus or Neptune.
‘Elsie? What happened?’ His voice was harsh. ‘Are you in pain?’
‘No, I just went dizzy with the heat. Really, I am quite fine now.’ The young woman again tried to rise. Two splotches of colour appeared on her otherwise pale cheeks. Her skin looked damp with perspiration. Letty saw miniature beads of moisture along her upper lip and forehead. Moreover, her face had a fullness or puffiness which Letty did not like.
‘I disagree,’ she said, releasing her wrist. ‘Your hands and face are bloated. I cannot accurately measure your pulse in present circumstances, but it seems too fast which could indicate a more serious condition.’
‘Young lady—’ The man addressed Letty sharply as he knelt also beside the prone woman. ‘Who are you? And why are you attempting to scare my sister witless?’
Letty glanced at him. His face was still shadowed from the sun, but there was something arresting about him and she found herself momentarily bereft of breath.
‘I do not intend to alarm her,’ she said, her mouth peculiarly dry. ‘Merely to ensure that she seeks medical treatment.’
‘She is already under medical care.’
‘It doesn’t seem to have been entirely effective. I would advise further consultation.’
‘Thank you for that. Obviously, I will ensure her physician is called immediately.’
‘Please, Tony,’ the young woman said. ‘Can we move from here? Everyone is looking.’
‘Let them. And don’t flatter yourself. They are likely more interested in me than you.’
It was true, Letty realised. The group of onlookers had grown and stared openly with an avidity at the gentleman which seemed oddly devoid of good manners—particularly among a group who could forgive murder more readily than a lapse of etiquette.
Letty nodded. ‘Indeed, I would strongly advise moving out of the heat.’
‘It is still quite cool indoors,’ Flo said, now also bending. ‘I can help.’
‘Rest assured I can support my sister,’ the gentleman said, putting out one hand to help the young woman.
This single-handed gesture seemed oddly awkward, Letty thought, as she stood, also supporting the young woman.
‘Perhaps—however, you appeared injured when you walked here. You are only offering one hand and, depending on the nature of your injury, the strain might do further harm.’
‘You need not concern yourself. I am quite capable of managing my own physical condition,’ he said tersely.
‘Now, rise slowly and you will be less likely to feel vertiginous,’ Letty said, ignoring the irascible gentleman as they helped his sister rise.
Together, they moved towards the familiar stone bulk of her family’s home, crossing the lawn, an odd, unwieldly threesome, while Flo walked ahead. They left the crowd behind and the quiet deepened as the chatter of voices fell away and Letty could better hear the young woman’s laboured breathing.
With her arm about the woman’s waist, Letty could feel the bulge of pregnancy—about five or six months along—although these new fashions made her belly less noticeable. Occasionally, she peeked at the gentleman, but he kept his face averted and largely in profile, silhouetted against the bright summer sky.
Although tall and broad, he had a thinness also, likely due to whatever hardship he had endured. There was a familiarity about him. She saw it in his profile and the timbre of his voice. She could not place him, but she had likely met him during her eighteen months in London and her peculiar double life, that odd mix of days and night within London’s brightest ballroom and the morgue.
‘The front Salon will be hot,’ Letty said, as they stepped out of the warmth into the familiar front hall. ‘We should go into the library. It will be cooler.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Flo agreed. ‘And is there anything you need? Smelling salts? Brandy? Well, there is brandy in the library already. But if there is anything else?’
‘Solitude and quiet would be nice,’ the man said.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Flo replied, her hands making the fluttering motions she always made when nervous. ‘I will let Letty—Miss Barton—take you to the library.’
‘You didn’t need to be rude,’ Letty said to the rather formidable gentleman, as soon as Flo had left.
‘It proves effective in clearing a room.’
‘So does the discussion of pustules—that doesn’t mean one has to do it.’
The man gave a sharp, spontaneous bark of laughter, which struck her as familiar. ‘You speak from personal experience?’
‘Yes. Well, it was actually an abscess.’ It had been during her adolescence and her mother had spoken rather harshly to her on the issue of suitability. She had learned some restraint since then.
He looked her, his expression intent, and she had the feeling he had not properly noticed her previously. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Might we focus on my sister and not my manners? Elsie, why don’t you sit here on the sofa?’
‘Thank you,’ the young woman agreed as they helped her sit. ‘I am Lady Beauchamp, by the way, and this delightful creature is my brother, Lord Anthony. And thank you, Miss Barton. Truly I appreciate your kindness.’
‘It is nothing. Hopefully, you will feel better after a rest. Oh, and I would advise keeping your feet elevated,’ Letty said, placing a brocade cushion under Lady Beauchamp’s feet and helping her to lift them. ‘Are you in any pain?’
‘No. I was just dizzy.’
Letty stepped back, trying to better study the woman’s face and wishing she could wear her glasses, but she dared not. Whenever possible she only wore them as Dr Hatfield.
‘Your lips are dry,’ Letty said.
‘Yes, my doctor advises that I do not drink too much.’
‘What?’ Letty straightened. ‘You mean wine or spirits?’
‘No, anything.’
‘Then we will get you lemonade or water immediately.’
‘Miss?’ Lord Anthony said, his tone again sharp and any hint of humour eradicated. ‘It would seem you are contravening the doctor’s advice.’
‘I am contravening a load of nonsense,’ Letty retorted.
‘You base that opinion on your extensive medical knowledge?’ His tone was unpleasant and yet again oddly familiar. Letty glanced at him, but he had turned away.
‘Some. I used to talk to the midwives,’ she said, truthfully enough.
She narrowed her gaze, looking carefully at Lady Beauchamp. Even without glasses, Letty could see that Lady Beauchamp was definitely increasing and her face had a fullness that did not look right. There was a puffiness about the wrists. Indeed, the skin just above her gloves appeared taut as though stretched too tight.
‘Lady Beauchamp, are your ankles similarly swollen?’
‘What? Why, yes, my slippers no longer fit. Indeed, I had to order new ones and now they are also dreadfully uncomfortable.’
‘Headaches?’
‘A few.’
‘Double vi—?’
Before Letty could finish the question, Lord Anthony turned, cocking his head towards the far end of the room. ‘If I might speak to you for a moment, Miss Barton.’
Letty nodded and followed him. When he turned, she noted that one side of his face had been recently injured, a mark like a burn snaked down his cheek while the skin was stretched taut, an odd mix of red and white until the scar disappeared under the collar.
‘I was injured at Waterloo,’ he said.
‘A burn, I would surmise.’ She studied the tautened skin with a clinical regard. ‘About third-degree, according to Heister and Richter.’
‘Are you insensitive or just plain rude?’
‘Interested. I have not seen that many burns and I have an interest in their care.’
For a moment, he said nothing. He fixed her with a steely grey-blue gaze, his expression unreadable.
‘You are unusual. What did you say your name was?’ he asked at length.
‘Lettuce Barton.’
Chapter Two (#u90f429ed-7cf0-57d6-95da-1c4519e89f15)
The words, the voice, melodious but firm, brought everything back. Tony remembered that last Season before he went to war. He remembered the dances, music, laughter, warm, perfumed rooms glittering with mirrors and chandeliers. He remembered card games, horse races, fox hunts and his facility for wit and humour—for saying the right thing.
Now, he said nothing or said nothing right. He was in a foreign landscape, uncomfortable within his own skin. He avoided his friends, hiding within the fog of alcoholic stupor.
Whereas before he’d enjoyed friendships and a good story or joke, now he was the story, always under curious scrutiny. Or an observer and everything about him was but a play, a bad play which evoked little interest.
She’d worn a bright-green dress, he remembered. She had been reading about smallpox or cowpox and she’d had remarkable green eyes.
