An Honest Heart (8 page)

He lowered his head toward her. Caddy turned hers, and his lips landed just beside her ear. He chuckled, his hot breath searing fear into her soul.

“Mr. . . . I am sorry, I did not catch your name.” Caddy struggled to keep her breathing slow and even so as not to let him know how much he frightened her. Fear only made men like him feel more powerful.

“Doncroft.” He kissed the side of her neck just below her earlobe. “Reginald Doncroft.”

“Mr. Doncroft.” Caddy felt for the edge of the step with her toe. If she could get below him, she could likely escape. “I am flattered by your attention; however, if it were to get out that I had an assignation in the back stairs of Wakesdown Manor, I would lose the custom of the Buchanans and with it much of my livelihood. You would not want that to happen to me, would you?”

His grip around her waist loosened. That was it, her chance. She stepped down, pulling the bundle around so that it formed a barrier, albeit a weak one, between them. “Good day, Mr. Doncroft.” She turned and ran down the remainder of the stairs, not slowing until she reached the bottom and stepped out into a footman’s path.

“I beg your pardon.” She sidestepped and swept the gown out of his way to keep from upsetting the large tea tray he carried.

Footsteps clattering on the stairs behind jolted her as if she’d just sat on a pin, and she hurried out through the kitchens to the waiting hackney.

Thomas Longrieve reached for the bundle—but instead, his hands settled on Caddy’s shoulders. “Are you unwell, miss? You look as if you have the devil himself on your tail.”

Caddy calmed her breathing and smiled at the cab driver. “I am fine, thank you.” She stole a glance at the door and, seeing a shadow of movement, thrust the wrapped gown into the coach and climbed in behind it before Thomas could assist her. Alice looked askance at her late arrival, but Caddy shook her head and climbed in so they could be on their way.

She shuddered thinking what might have happened had Mr. Doncroft come across Alice in the stairwell. Though only fifteen, Alice had the look of a woman three to five years older, and she enjoyed flirting with the young men who made deliveries for the greengrocer and the apothecary.

Once back at the shop, Caddy sent Alice inside with the gown. She pulled several coins from her pocket and pressed them into Thomas Longrieve’s rough palm. “Thank you for letting me hire you for the full day. I know you could have made much more than what we agreed on from your regular fares in the city.”

He looked down at the money and tried to hand half of them back to her. “This is far too generous, Miss Bainbridge.”

She stepped back from him, refusing to take the money back. “I had a good day today, Thomas. Please, let me do the same for you.”

The cab driver, probably only ten or fifteen years her senior, swallowed hard and wrapped his thick fingers around the coins. “Bless you, miss. With the new baby . . . well, this is much appreciated. And you know if you ever need anything, you only need to send word by my boy Johnny and we’ll do whatever we can for you.”

“I know, and I appreciate it. Good night, Mr. Longrieve.”

He tipped his tall hat to her. “Good night, Miss Bainbridge.”

Caddy gave him the brightest smile she could muster then waited until he’d climbed up on his high seat and driven away before entering the shop.

Upstairs, she joined her apprentices, Phyllis, Mother, and Mary at the kitchen table for dinner, which Mother had held for their return. Though she tried to keep conversation over meals light and polite, it was about time the girls learned the danger inherent in being a seamstress and visiting the homes of their clients.

“Not every man is like Mr. Doncroft,” Caddy qualified after telling the girls bluntly of what had happened at Wakesdown. “But in our position, we must be cautious that we do nothing to encourage the men of a house to believe we are in any way interested in their advances. We must protect ourselves, yet we must do so with diplomacy and decorum. If we cause the man offense, we are likely to lose the business of his wife or daughter. Remember, it is for his money we work.”

“So we are to let a man do as he wishes to us?” Nan, sitting beside Caddy, leaned closer and looked up at her with wide brown eyes.

“No.” Caddy pushed loose strands of red hair back from Nan’s freckled face. “You are never to allow a man to take liberties with you.” She looked at Alice, Letty, and Phyllis to ensure they understood her words. “I would rather lose money than to see any of you harmed because you felt you must not give offense. But try, first, to politely and diplomatically extract yourself from the situation.”

Filled with dinner and with food for thought, the girls left the table to return to their work. Before Caddy could rise, Mother leaned over and rested her hand on her arm. “I hope if Dr. Stradbroke importunes you with a kiss, you don’t decide to be polite and diplomatic with him. You should kiss him back.”

Heat flared in Caddy’s cheeks. “That is quite enough of that kind of talk.”

Mother grinned and sat back in her chair.

For the rest of the evening, Caddy could not get the vision of what might have happened if Neal Stradbroke had been the one to catch her in the stairwell. No, she likely wouldn’t have been polite or diplomatic. And she probably wouldn’t have turned her face away from him.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

W
hat’s that you’re whistling?”

Neal glanced to his side. “Was I whistling?”

Johnny Longrieve puckered his lips and blew out a good imitation of the song that had been stuck in Neal’s head for two days.

He tousled the boy’s hair. “Very good.”

“What’s it called?”

“‘Springtime Brings on the Shearing.’ I learned it from a shepherd when I was a bit younger than you.”

“Will you learn it to me?” The young face littered with a few days’ beard growth shone with expectation.

Neal shifted his medical kit to his other hand, resisting the urge to correct the boy’s grammar. “Why aren’t you in school, Johnny?”

The boy shrugged. “My da didn’t see the need, but I’m too old now anyway. I got my numbers—adding and subtracting—and I can write my name. But I’m to take over driving the hackney cab when Da is too old. I’d be with him today, taking Miss Bainbridge out to Wakesdown, ’cept I had messages to carry this morning. I only go with him whenever no one needs me to deliver nothing.”

Heat prickled the back of Neal’s neck at the image that formed in his mind at the mention of the seamstress’s name. He tried to shake it off, not liking how two brief meetings with the woman had so affected him.

“Do you want to drive your father’s cab?” Neal started walking again.

Johnny, taking two steps for each of Neal’s, shrugged again. “Don’t matter. It’s what I’ve got to do, ’cause it’s what Da told me I’d do.”

Neal grunted, understanding all too well. After all, his own father had been teaching him the trade of a surveyor until . . .

“Although, I’d love me to be able to read, and to learn others to read. Maybe have a school for boys like me so they don’t have to drive cabs or clean chimneys or do what their fathers and grandfathers did.”

Neal paused on the stoop of the small, low-slung tenement of his next patient. “How much would you like to learn to read? How hard would you be willing to work?”

The boy’s eyes, which always looked too old for the young face, lit up. “I’d do anything.”

“Good. Then ask your father’s permission to visit me in the early evenings, after your chores are done and if your mother gives you leave. I may not always be in, but if I am, I will teach you to read.”

Johnny leapt up, arms raised, and whooped.

“But if I hear you are not keeping up with your responsibilities at home, the lessons will end. Understand?”

The dire tone of Neal’s voice had no effect on the young man’s excitement.

Neal hid his amusement. “Off with you now.” He waited until Johnny trotted off a few yards before turning and knocking on his patient’s door.

After lancing some boils at one home, setting a child’s broken arm in another, and mixing a concoction to help soothe the sore throats of a family of nine, Neal checked in on a few more families in Jericho, then headed back to North Parade. He traversed the distance quickly. Along the way, he returned the greetings of the people he’d come to recognize over the past several days of plying his trade in the poor area not quite a mile beyond his chosen neighborhood of residence.

He stopped at the greengrocer before going home. Setting his bag on the floor, he leaned back on the counter, crossing one ankle over the other, observing the customers milling about.

Unusually, Mrs. Howell was not in the shop. Mr. Howell, though, came over as soon as he saw Neal, greeting him with a handshake.

“What’s the news?” Howell asked, mimicking Neal’s pose.

“Nothing to report. A few minor cases, but nothing to be concerned about. How is Mrs. Howell?” Neal’s gaze followed an older man who hobbled between baskets containing fruits and vegetables straight from the hothouses of several nearby estates. The way the man favored his feet led Neal to believe he suffered from gout.

“She is well, thank you. I shall tell her you inquired. She is visiting with Mrs. Bainbridge at the moment.”

Neal’s interest piqued. “Did Mrs. Bainbridge come here alone?” Though she lived only a few dozen yards from the store, Mrs. Bainbridge should not be walking alone in her condition.

“She walked with her nurse’s arm for support. She was a bit out of breath, but once she sat for a few minutes, she seemed to regain her strength easily enough. She managed the stairs just fine.” Howell straightened and acknowledged one of his customers with a nod. “Please excuse me, Doctor.”

Neal continued leaning against the counter, but he glanced over his shoulder at the door he knew hid the stairwell to the family’s quarters above the shop.

Howell headed back his direction, and Neal pushed himself upright. “Do you think the ladies would mind if I called on them? I should like to pay my respects to your wife.”

“The missus would appreciate that, I am certain.”

Another exchanged handshake, and Neal picked up his bag and went upstairs. He set the kit on the floor in the hall outside the sitting room, then knocked on the door.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Howell, it is Neal Stradbroke. May I come in?”

“Oh yes, please do.”

He pushed the door open. Mary, the nurse, looked up at him from a straight chair beside the door, then went back to reading her book.

Mrs. Howell rose and ushered him into the room, offering him the chintz-covered armchair beside Mrs. Bainbridge. Their hostess regained her seat on the settee across the low tea table from them.

“May I offer you a cup, Dr. Stradbroke?” Mrs. Howell reached for the teapot.

“No, thank you, ma’am. I cannot stay long. But I could not stop in without greeting you. And you, also, Mrs. Bainbridge, when I heard you were here.”

Cadence’s mother beamed at him. She did indeed look much better than she had just yesterday. “Why, such a compliment, Doctor. I am honored.”

He let the ladies engage him in small talk, carefully avoiding giving specific details of patients or their diagnoses. As both were potential patients of his, he wanted to assure them he would not betray any confidences.

The small porcelain clock on the side table showed he’d been here fifteen minutes. When Mrs. Howell paused in her tale of her grandchildren’s latest escapades, Neal cleared his throat.

“If you will excuse me, I must take my leave.” He rose, took Mrs. Howell’s hand, and brushed his lips across the papery skin. She needed to drink more water and possibly use a hand cream to restore her skin’s moisture.

“If you do not mind, Dr. Stradbroke”—Mrs. Bainbridge pushed herself up from the chair, holding onto the arms until steady—“I would beg your arm home. I fear I quite overtaxed Mary on the walk here.”

Neal glanced at Mary in time to see the middle-aged nurse’s brows rise.

“I shall be pleased to escort you home.” He offered her his hand. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Howell.”

“Good afternoon, Dr. Stradbroke. Mrs. Bainbridge.” She saw them to the top of the stairs.

Neal descended sideways, holding Mrs. Bainbridge’s hand and ensuring she didn’t take a spill. At the bottom, she let him assist with her cloak, then tucked her hand through his elbow.

He matched his steps to hers, letting her set the pace. The March wind had a bite to it, but the sun had shone long enough to warm the air tolerably this afternoon.

“Are you from Oxford, Dr. Stradbroke?” The feathers and flowers on Mrs. Bainbridge’s bonnet waved in the breeze.

“No, ma’am. I came here from Winchester. I lived with my grandmother on a farm there.”

“But that is in Hampshire County.” Confusion laced her voice, and her brows pinched together when she looked up at him.

“Yes, it is.”

“You do not have a Hampshire accent. I cannot place it precisely, but you sound more as if you are from the midlands or even the north part of the country.”

Panic rushed in hot and cold waves through him—as it did whenever the topic of his origins arose. He could not lie to her, but he could not let anyone discover the truth either. He’d already learned what that revelation could do to a medical practice. He needed to pay tribute to his grandmother’s tutelage by remembering to use the accent she’d taught him instead of the one he’d learned as a child.

“Perhaps it is because I have traveled much of this country and spent time with many of its residents that I sound as if I could be from various regions.” Not a lie.

Mrs. Bainbridge seemed satisfied with that explanation. “That is likely. Mr. Bainbridge, before we were wed, went to Scotland on a tour before taking orders. When he returned, he amused all of us by speaking with a Scotch burr for weeks. I would imagine that Caddy—Cadence—would be like that. She’s always had his gift of mimicry.”

“Mr. Bainbridge was a rector?” He remembered his earlier visit where Caddy told him her father had died four years ago.