That Scandalous Summer (13 page)

“Are you ruminating?” she asked sweetly. “I can repeat my remark.”

“No need,” he said. “I believe you’ve just insulted my breeding. Do I have that right?”

“Yes, precisely.” She snapped to the next page. Whatever she saw there made her go quite still.

“Did you find your announcement?” he asked.

Her eyes rose to his, then wandered over his shoulder before returning to the page. “Yes,” she said. Where she gripped the paper, her knuckles were whitening.

Perhaps his speculation about a former lover had not been so far off the mark. “Are you quite all right?”

“Oh,
quite
.” She folded the newspaper and stuck it beneath her arm. “Indeed, the announcement was not
for an engagement, but a death: the death of a pleasant stroll, the assassin being a northerner.”

By God, but she was magnificent when she was cross. Put a sword in her hand and he’d be bleeding right about now. “And now it seems our encounter has turned into a rout. I cede you the victory, madam.”

Briefly, her mouth seemed to tremble—but then it curved into a fierce, bright smile. “I do not believe one cedes what one has already lost,” she said. “But take heart; you can complain of my rudeness in the tavern tonight. Be sure to tell them I did not say good day to you, sir.”

She lifted her chin and walked past him. He turned to watch her go. It was not his imagination; her shoulders had assumed a decidedly dejected slope. What had she seen to dispirit her?

Curses. He was going to have to find another copy of that newspaper.

The pounding came in the middle of the night. Liza opened her eyes, then groaned at the bolt of pain that lanced through her head. Too much wine at dinner.

The knocking came again at the outer door.

The carpet felt chill against the bare soles of her feet. Her hand fumbled on the door latch. Behind her, from the boudoir, came the sound of rustling as her maid, Hanson, awoke. She yanked open the door herself.

Mather stood on the other side, her face pale in the light of the hand-candle she carried. “Ma’am, forgive me for waking you.”

The clock in the hall was chiming half past three, and Mather was fully dressed. Dread spilled over Liza like an ice bath. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“A boy has come—John Broward. He said you would wish to know that his aunt is still in labor.”

Her breath caught. “What?” Mary had felt the first pangs almost two days ago!

Mather’s face was somber. “It seems that she asked for you.”

Liza’s heart clutched at the implication. Her friendship with the Browards did not extend to such intimacy; properly, she had no place in their home at such a time. But if Mary Broward feared the worst, then of course she would wish to speak to the family benefactor. Mary was ever plotting the best for her brood . . .

Liza wheeled around. Her maid was gaping like a mooncalf. “Hanson, dress me quickly.” Over her shoulder, she said, “Have a horse saddled. That will be faster.”

“I’ve already given the order,” Mather said.

•   •   •

Not again
. This all felt too familiar. The journey through the dark of night. Her heart pounding with fear. She remembered boarding the train at St. Pancras, blindly fumbling for her ticket, the conductor’s look of sympathy. She had arrived too late then. Her mother had already passed. And now . . .

She stepped inside the Browards’ small bedroom. The air smelled thick with sweat and blood. Mary lay amid a pile of twisted sheets. The sheet draped over her waist and legs veiled the doctor who examined her.

This piece of typical prudery fixated Liza’s attention. A startling wave of anger shot through her. She did not understand it, but it felt better, so much better, than fear. “Why was I not informed before this?” she asked. Too sharply, too loudly. Heads turned.

She realized then that the little room was crowded. Mary’s husband knelt by her head, eyes closed, hands clasped, murmuring a prayer. And Mr. Morris . . . why, the old doctor stood at the window, breathing deeply of what air entered through the open pane.

“Mrs. Chudderley,” he said, clearly flustered. The
man beneath the sheet, the man tending to Mary, straightened and revealed himself to be Mr. Grey.

She had not seen him in a week. His insult now seemed irrelevant. Only his skill mattered. “How is she?” she asked. “Can you help her?”

He had dark circles beneath his eyes, and glanced at her only briefly before Mary’s moan turned his attention away. “You should go,” he said.

“You should take that ridiculous sheet off her,” Liza said. “See what you’re doing!”

“Mrs. Chudderley,” Mr. Morris began sternly, but Grey cut him off.

“Yes,” he said coldly. “So I should. Once you step outside, madam, I believe I will.”

“Mrs. Broward was very specific in her instructions,” Mr. Morris snapped. “She wanted her modesty preserved.”

She did not understand the black look that Grey gave to Morris, but it settled something in her. He would remove the sheet. “I will wait outside,” she said, and stepped into the little hallway where most of the Broward family waited.

Her knees were trembling. Gratefully she took the chair that one of the sons made available to her. Paul Broward, home from school. He made a slight bow to her, to which she replied with a nod. Absently she thought,
They are teaching him manners at Harrington
. Her accountants had tried to talk her out of such expenditures. Boors.

No noise came from the bedroom. The silence in the hallway felt like a heavy weight pressing her down. Daniel Broward, nine years old, eternally grubby, clutched her wrist with a small, sweaty hand. “Is Mama all right? Did you see her?”

Liza peered at him through the dimness. The floorboards creaked as someone went down the stairs. She had never been in this part of the house. She was kin, but not a true friend. Only the parlor for her, and the finest dishes, and the best of the Browards’ tea. Family, but not
real
family.

“Yes,” she said, “she’ll be all right,” but her voice was choked and the boy heard her uncertainty. His hand slipped away, making a fist, which he put into his mouth. Miss Broward, with a small noise of grief, picked him up and pulled him into her lap.

Here was love. Watching it, Liza felt grief wash over her. What purchase could it find amid the grim facts of life?

She grimaced. Too early, this despair. Unnecessary, indulgent. Her anger suddenly twisted, becoming self-directed. “Mrs. Broward will be well,” she said.
There
was the steadiness she required, there in her voice now. “She has two doctors attending her. She will be well, Daniel.”

“Thank you for coming,” Miss Broward said. She sounded dull and hoarse, as though she had been yelling.

“Had I known, I would have come sooner.”

“Of course. We did not wish to trouble you. Then she asked after you, but . . .”

Liza closed her eyes. The ache in her head felt like some intolerable evidence of her own lowness. Tonight she had sat in the drawing room, planning a party, drinking toasts with Jane to all manner of stupidity. Meanwhile, Mary had been lying on that bed, suffering . . .

A raised voice came through the wall, the words muffled but their mood clear. In the bedroom, men were arguing.

Liza cleared her throat. “I thought it would be fine.” At market on Monday, Mary had been feeling the first pains. But she had seemed so calm. Six children borne already. She’d never had any trouble with it.

“Yes,” said Miss Broward, and then said no more.

The door flew open. Mr. Broward stumbled out. “I can’t watch this,” he said, dashing tears from his face. “I can’t. Forgive me.”

Behind him, Mr. Morris appeared. “Mrs. Chudderley,” he said grimly. “If I may beg a word with you.”

•   •   •

Mr. Grey was laying out instruments atop the chest that adjoined the foot of the bed. With unaccustomed aggression, Morris pushed her toward him. “Tell her of your plan. If Mr. Broward lacks the wit to defend his wife,
she
will!”

Liza cast a bewildered look toward the bed. “What is this about?” Mary lay quite still, the only sign of life now her fluttering lashes, and the faint sheen of sweat pearling her skin. “My God, is she . . .”

“No,” said Mr. Grey. “Morris administered a small amount of chloroform to give her ease. It won’t last long.”

Liza’s eyes fell to the scalpel in his hand. He dipped it into a small pot of liquid that bubbled. There could be only one reason for such a blade. “You mean to . . .”

He glanced up at that. His light eyes seemed to assess her. “The child is lodged too high in her pelvis,” he said. “Surgery is the only remaining option.”

“A craniotomy is the obvious choice!” Morris spat.

Liza looked between them. “What is that?”

“A procedure that would save Mrs. Broward’s life,” Mr. Morris said after a moment.

That pause seemed telling. “And the child?” she asked.

His jaw ticked from side to side. “The child . . . would not survive. But she would. Something Mr. Grey cannot guarantee, given
his
way!”

“A craniotomy poses significant risks of its own.” Grey bent, retrieving from his black doctor’s bag a length of silver wire. He unwound the wire, dipping it, too, into the solution. In contrast to Morris’s agitation, his measured movements seemed jarringly calm. “Conversely, a Caesarean section might save both mother and child. And that is Mrs. Broward’s preference.”

Morris scoffed. “
Her
preference—yes, very well, let us listen to a woman hysterical with pain! And while you’re at it, tell Mrs. Chudderley the risk of infection, and how often a woman survives
that
! Not to mention hemorrhage! Why—”

“Uterine sutures,” said Grey.

“Impossible. How will you remove them?”

Grey’s smile was cool and sharp as glass. “It is not my job to educate you.” Now, from the bag at his feet, he produced a needle and a length of white gauze. “Saumlnger wrote an entire monograph on the subject five years ago.”

“No.” Morris was shaking his head. “You would have me condone this madness on the newfangled tactics of some
German
? Absolutely not!”

Mr. Grey made no reply as he focused on his tasks. Liza glanced again toward the bed, anxiety tightening her throat. She did not understand why
she
had been brought into this quarrel. But surely Mary hadn’t much time. Her face looked waxen, nearly bloodless.

“Do
something,
” she blurted. “One or the other!”

“Reason with Mr. Broward,” Morris said to her. “I pray you, persuade him to stop this! His thoughts are muddled. He will rely on your judgment!”

She swallowed. “But
I
have no idea which—that is, Mr. Grey, what is your argument?”

Mr. Grey looked up. “Mr. Broward gave the choice to his wife. And I would not support that choice if I did not think it the best way. I know the odds, and I will take them.”

He spoke curtly, not in the manner of a man bent on persuasion. That, more than anything, decided her. “Then, if the Browards feel it best, we must respect their wishes.”

Morris chopped at the air—a movement so violent that she took a startled step away. “A tailor and his wife! A
tailor—
do you hear yourself? Trust him to judge the cut of a coat, but this is a woman’s life, madam!”

His contempt was sharper and more shocking than a slap. She stared at him. His face reddened but he did not look away. “I will have no part in it.” Spittle flew from his mouth. “Do you hear me? I will
not
assist!”

In the brief silence that followed, panic coiled around her lungs, tightening until she could not breathe. So this was true fear. She had come to watch Mary Broward die. “You must,” she whispered, but Morris averted his face, his lips pinching.

“You aren’t needed,” said Mr. Grey.

The breath burst from her. She turned toward him, savagely grateful to see the cold confidence in his face, as behind her Morris exploded, “Rubbish! You can’t do it alone!”

“Your hands aren’t steady enough.” Grey’s attention fixed on Liza. “I will need your assistance.”

“What?” Shock splintered into horrified understanding. No, he couldn’t mean— “You want
me
to help?”

“Outrageous,” Morris said. “She will faint at the first drop of blood!”

Grey gave her a long look of assessment as he unwound a length of gauze. “Will you?”

Her stomach rolled in reply. No,
no.
He wanted to make her a party to a surgery that might
kill
Mary? “I can’t! I’ve
never
—”

“The child.” The voice came weakly from the bed. “Please . . .”

Morris, on a low oath, turned away. Liza stepped toward the bed, thinking to speak to Mary, but a hard hand at her elbow—Grey’s hand—pulled her back.

“Let her be,” he said. Then, lower, into her ear: “You are frightened. I understand that. But you must decide now, quickly. I would rather not involve her immediate family in the surgery.”

She hesitated, turning in his grip to look directly at him. Strange, fleeting thought: she had thought his eyes so beautiful. But now they were bloodshot, deadly sober. She recognized nothing in him of the laughing flirt who had kissed her by the lake.