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Her mother made another tutting sound. ‘You can scoff all you want. But Florence and Ramsey will have their own family soon. I know your father left you comfortably placed, but your funds are not unlimited. And Ramsey cannot be expected to support you in this nonsense.’
Letty rubbed the cloth of her skirt between her fingers, then stilled her hand. She’d heard this all a thousand times and refused to believe her mother’s doomsday prediction. After all, she was almost self-sufficient.
Although she did tend to be paid in rather a lot of root vegetables which, she supposed, might lead to a healthy lifestyle, but hardly one of affluence.
Yes, it was a tenuous, fragile success and one based on smoke and mirrors. The purchase of the two houses and the doctor’s buggy had taken a considerable sum and her training in London was not without cost. Moreover, it would only take ‘Dr Hatfield’ to make some mistake, or some sharp-eyed individual to see beyond the wig, spectacles, her flattened chest and man’s attire.
Briefly, her mother’s face softened. ‘Besides, this must get lonely. Your father and I weren’t close exactly, but we shared a common goal to look after you and Ramsey, to secure the best for you. Surely you must want a family, children?’
For a moment, Letty remembered Mrs Jamison’s expression as she held her baby. It would be something to feel such love. It would be something to create new life. Yet she remembered also the mothers she had seen in hospital whose children could not be saved. She remembered the desperation in their eyes. They had been broken by the loss.
The pain of losing a child must be more awful than anything she could imagine. She’d felt broken enough by her father’s unexpected death. Even now she could see him in stark detail, his face ashen, contorted with pain as his hand flew in a futile gesture to his chest before dropping to the floor.
There was nothing she could do.
Was that when she’d decided that she must find a way, however desperate and crazy, to pursue medicine? Was that when she’d realised that she could not be satisfied with reading alone or even sneaking after the midwives?
Those visits had started a few years earlier. Whenever her mother was in London, Letty would wander to Mrs Soames’s cottage, fascinated with its bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling, air heavy with the scent of caudle. Later, she became more daring, tagging along when Mrs Soames was summoned to attend a birth. At first, Mrs Soames had shooed her away, but eventually she’d been allowed to boil water or bring in the hot caudle for the mother to drink.
Of course, she’d been motivated in part by rebellion, a need to experience something before becoming enclosed within the noose of societal expectation. But it had become much more than that.
‘I don’t think I have quite the same aspirations as other women.’
‘Tell me something I do not know,’ her mother said with a rare glint of humour, albeit grim. ‘Again, I blame your father. He educated you in a way which did not prepare you to fit into society.’
‘Perhaps you are right about that,’ Letty said.
‘And I was away too much in London. I always found the country so dull. Besides, I worried about the wrong things. One fears one’s daughters will go to dances before they are officially come out or make a fool of themselves over some handsome boy, not wander about as a ministering angel.’
At that moment, the door swung open and Sarah bustled in with the tea tray, placing it on the round table with extra care, as though well aware of Mrs Barton’s critical eye.
Thankful for the interruption, Letty poured the tea and for a few seconds the room was quiet except for the trickle of liquid and Sarah’s soft retreating footsteps as she exited into the corridor and towards the kitchen. Letty handed her mother the cup and Mrs Barton sipped, making no comment.
Fortunately, Mrs Barton chose to abandon the topic of Letty’s adolescence. It had not been pleasant. Her mother had eventually learned of her escapades and put an abrupt stop to those excursions. Even her father had not entirely approved when he’d become fully aware of her activities. Indeed, he’d suggested that she would do better to read about modern advances than to acquire knowledge too steeped in superstitious folklore to be of use. He added also that the former would be safer and considerably less distressing for her mother.
As she drank her tea, Mrs Barton focused more intently on recounting Mr Chester’s virtues and insisted that she introduce Letty to that gentleman as soon as she could determine an appropriate and timely manner to do so.
‘You must realise that a widower of good character and sizeable income will not remain available for long and it is incumbent upon us to move in an expeditious manner.’
‘But—’
‘And if you wanted a younger man with hair, you should have acquired one while in London with Florence, which was the perfect opportunity.’
Letty opened her mouth and then snapped it shut. She had no desire for a husband, with or without hair. In fact, she knew she would be a dreadful wife, but it would be impossible to convince her mother about this.
Instead, she listened stoically, hoping that Mrs Barton would eventually run out of adjectives to describe Mr Chester. Surely, there was only so much one can say about a dead wife and a solid bank balance.
Standing at last, Mrs Barton glanced around Letty’s drawing room. ‘Sarah keeps it tidy enough, I’ll grant you, and I am pleased you do not have too many of those books in evidence which absolutely screech “bluestocking”. But living here with only a servant for company is no substitute for family.’
With those words, her mother left. Letty saw her to the door and then flopped down with unabashed relief, lying on the sofa with her legs inelegantly draped over its arms as the carriage wheels rattled into the distance.
Departure was always the best thing about her mother’s visits.
Her poor mother—she would have been so happy with a nice girl who wanted to get married to a nice gentleman of superior social status with a moderate bank account and have nice children who also wished to marry nice individuals with superior social status and moderate bank accounts.
At times Letty wondered whether she should be grateful to her father for enabling her to escape such a dire fate, or angry that, as her mother said, he had ensured she could never fit into an appropriate role, as prescribed by society.
The door opened. Sarah entered, her face crinkled with worry.
‘What is it?’ Letty asked, lowering her feet and sitting upright.
‘A note, miss. For the doctor.’
‘Very well.’ Letty took the note. It appeared to be on good-quality paper and more literate than the usual summons from a villager or farmer. Her gaze skimmed the terse lines. The writing was in bold black ink and in a masculine hand and she felt a start that was half-panic and half-excitement.
‘Good gracious—Dr Hatfield is requested to provide a consultation to a Lady Elsie Beauchamp,’ she said.
* * *
Tony glared out of his window. He sipped his coffee which was strong and harsh the way he liked it. He was being a damned fool, he knew. It was ludicrous to be swayed by the notions of a redheaded miss with interesting eyes, but lacking a shred of medical knowledge. Dr Jeffers had trained in Edinburgh. He plied his trade successfully, or so it would appear, given his horse, carriage and clothes.
Tony drummed his fingers against the window sill. Indeed, Jeffers had turned up promptly enough following their return from the garden party. He had immediately suggested leeches to withdraw the excess fluid in Elsie’s arms and legs, which made sense, he supposed. The physic had also directed the continued limitation of Elsie’s fluid intake, which also made sense.
After these pronouncements, Dr Jeffers had settled himself with Tony in the library and dedicated himself to his own fluid intake in the form of several brandies.
And Elsie had almost cried when she’d heard she should not drink water or lemonade.
Today she did not look a whit better.
She looked worse.
A lot worse.
Tony could feel the fear. It cut through his numbness. It lined his stomach. It made his mouth dry and his body hollow. Elsie was his only living sibling and the child she carried was his best friend’s heir.
He rang for Mason. ‘Has that new doctor come yet?’ he asked as soon as his man had entered the study.
‘No—sir—but the footman returned and said that he would attend her ladyship.’
Tony nodded. ‘It cannot do any harm to get a second opinion. I would take her up to London, but she begged me not to do so. She said the journey would make her feel too ill, especially in this heat.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘I will not have my sister suffer because Dr Jeffers is too busy drinking brandy to properly concentrate on her.’
‘No, my lord.’
‘And you said he was good?’
‘According to the cook’s sister. She spoke quite highly of him, sir.’
‘I am relying on Mrs Greene’s sister?’
‘Mrs Peterson, my lord. Mrs Greene is the housekeeper.’
‘I am relying on the report from a random relative of one of the staff here?’
‘Two, sir. The second footman’s mother had a good report. She didn’t like Dr Jeffers, sir, although you were kind enough to pay for the cost of his visit. Called him foolish, sir.’
Then her doctor is a fool.
He smiled, remembering Miss Barton’s words. ‘The second footman’s mother is not alone in her opinion.’
‘Er—no, sir.’
Tony had felt something yesterday as Miss Barton had brushed by him. He’d experienced a tightening within his stomach and an added level of awareness as she’d skewered him with that bright luminous gaze. It was like a shadow—a reflection of what had been. Or what he had once been capable of feeling.
Before Waterloo, he would have noted her curves, the creaminess of her skin, the elegance of her neck, that russet hair and the firm line of her lips, the bottom lip full and slightly pouted. The very dowdiness of the grey dress almost enhanced her appeal, like an intriguing package, delightfully obscured.
He swore. His hand had jerked, spilling the coffee.
‘My lord?’
‘Clean up this mess. I seem intent on burning my good hand, as well.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘And tell me as soon as that new doctor arrives.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Mason dabbed at Tony’s hand and at the liquid spilled on the sill.
Tony brushed away his efforts irritably. ‘“Yes” and “no”—is that the extent of your linguistic capabilities?’ he muttered. ‘You sound like a bloody parrot. Go. You know I hate hovering.’
‘Yes, my lord. I mean, no, my lord.’
Chapter Three (#u90f429ed-7cf0-57d6-95da-1c4519e89f15)
Letty sat within the shaking chassis of the doctor’s elderly vehicle. Arnold was driving and she began to wish she had chosen to do so herself. Arnold drove somewhat ponderously which, when combined with Archimedes’s aversion to over-exertion, meant for a slow journey. Besides, if she had driven herself, she would have been outside which would have been considerably pleasanter than this sweltering heat which seemed to exaggerate every noxious scent ever contained within the vehicle.
Sweat prickled her palms and armpits while her stomach tightened so that she felt quite ill. The window did not open so there was no way to ensure a breeze and her scalp under the wig itched quite dreadfully.
Trying to distract her mind, she applied herself to the study of the passing scenery. It had been a hot, dry summer. The fields had turned yellow and the cows huddled under the shade trees. What should have been small bogs or shallow ponds were dried mud, beige patches marked with a criss-crossing pattern of cracks.
At least, as the doctor, she could see the view with clarity. As Miss Barton, she never wore her spectacles and her world was blurred.
The trap swung from the main road and into a small copse, a shady pleasant place. It reminded her of afternoon visits with her mother when they had called in on Lady Beauchamp—Elsie’s mother-in-law, she presumed.
Letty pushed a finger under her wig, trying to make it more comfortable. She felt a fluttering of nerves. Sarah’s fault, no doubt. She’d hovered about earlier, her face so furrowed she’d all but resembled a death mask at a feast.
So why had she taken this extra risk? Letty supposed she could rationalise it from a purely financial viewpoint. At some point, she needed to grow her practice and to be paid in money, as opposed to root vegetables.
But why start with Lady Beauchamp and Lord Anthony with his sharp, hard eyes and bitter smile?
Generally, she understood herself well enough, but today her motivation seemed more complex. She was genuinely worried about Elsie. She’d read about a condition where the expectant mother’s face and extremities became puffy and swollen. She’d also spoken to local midwives and had once seen a mother, with similar symptoms, have fits.
She had died.
Letty also knew there were preventative measures, but no cure. Indeed, she might well be unable to help.
She placed her forehead against the carriage window. No, it was not only worry for Elsie, but something else. There was another element, a thrill of excitement, a feeling of daring and exhilaration. The very riskiness of the enterprise appealed.
But this was not logical and, while she had taken risks in the past, they had been calculated. By any measure, she should avoid Lord Anthony at all costs. He had seen her as a woman and a cynical intelligence glinted from those grey-blue eyes.
She’d liked his eyes.
She frowned at this errant thought, pushing her hand further under the wig. She hated it. She hated having to dress up in this stupid disguise to do the job she was meant to do.
As they passed through the woods, twigs and branches scratched against the buggy as it bumped over the uneven path before pulling on to the well-tended drive. For a moment, Letty knew a sudden longing to return to the dim, shadows of the woods.
Shafts of bright sunlight returned, spilling through the carriage windows. Trees flanked the drive so that the light flickered as they progressed towards the mammoth structure at its end. Good heavens, she had quite forgotten its size. It made Oddsmore seem but a country cottage. On either side, she could see the green expanse of the immaculate park, punctuated by bright flower beds, shimmering ponds and neatly trimmed box trees.
At least, payment would not be in root vegetables.
But the very elegant opulence of this place served to spike her worry. These people had power. Any complaint, any disclosure would be believed.
Arnold pulled the vehicle to a stop. Up close, the house seemed even more imposing; a three-storey structure with a stone façade and turrets. Ramsey had enjoyed a brief fascination with architecture and they’d studied turrets with their tutor.
Arnold clambered down and opened the carriage door. For a moment she hesitated, then climbed out, looking up with a shiver of apprehension at the wide staircase and imposing bulk.
‘Good gracious, they even have lions,’ she muttered.
Indeed, two stone lions flanked the staircase as it ascended towards an impressive black-lacquered door.
This portal opened even before she’d walked up the stairs and a rather grim-faced butler stood within the doorway.
‘Dr Hatfield...’ the elderly butler intoned, more like a statement than question, as though announcing her entrance to a grand banquet.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, keeping her voice gruff, her spine straight and her shoulders square.
He had a squint. Hopefully, the squint indicated limited vision.
‘Her ladyship is resting in her sitting room,’ the butler continued. ‘I will lead you to her. And His Lordship also requested that you visit him before you leave.’
‘Naturally,’ Letty said brusquely, ignoring the peculiar fluttering within her stomach.
After removing her hat and cloak, she followed the tall, somewhat stooped gentleman along a narrow passageway and into Lady Beauchamp’s sitting room.
A maid opened the door and Letty stepped into a dark apartment, the curtains so tightly drawn that the only light entered through a tiny crack between the cloth.
