The Healing Season (21 page)

The thoughts went round and round—from fear to crying prayers to self-reproach. If not for him, she wouldn’t be lying here near death…

Betsy wrung out a rag in the cool water in the basin and placed it on Eleanor’s forehead. Eleanor made no movement.

None of Ian’s knowledge aided her. It was up to the body to fight the infection or succumb to it. He buried his head in his hands.
Oh, God, grant her Your grace. Bring her through this. Please…please don’t take her…

When he finally left Eleanor’s town house, it was past midnight. He knew he had to get some sleep. He had other patients to see in the morning. Thankfully, his partner was willing to take a lot of his load at the dis
pensary, and his uncle was lending Jem whenever they were shorthanded.

On top of everything else, Ian was feeling poorly himself. He could no longer ignore the blurring of his vision in his left eye. It was not the lens of his glasses. He’d already been to see an oculist. Added to the blurring was an increasing incidence of headaches. Sometimes he thought his head would explode with the dull pressure building inside his skull.

As he negotiated the dark cobblestones, keeping his eye out for a hackney bringing someone home from a late evening out, he stubbed his toe against a cobblestone and went flying headlong. His arms shot out for balance and he managed to right himself.

He didn’t know what was wrong, but knew he was becoming increasingly clumsy. In the darkest recesses of his mind lurked the growing fear that his hour had come. Too long he’d dealt with human illnesses, remaining immune himself. A part of him felt the time of reckoning was here. Somewhere in the distance as a church clock tolled the hour, he felt a death knell.

There at last, a lone hackney coach turned the corner. Ian picked up his pace, hailing the driver. He just needed more sleep. That’s what it was. As soon as this crisis was over—
please, God, heal Eleanor, please—
he would be able to get some decent rest, and he would be fine again.

Eleanor opened her eyes. For the first time in so many days, the bright sunshine didn’t hurt her eyes. Her head no longer hurt. Following this discovery came thoughts of Sarah.

Where was she? How was she? How many days had it been since she’d seen her? Her mind couldn’t grasp the sense of days. She’d awakened off and on, always in pain, feeling chilled to the bone or as if she couldn’t breathe. The last time she’d awoken she’d been bathed in sweat. Betsy and Mr. Russell had been leaning over her, he feeling her forehead, Betsy crying.

Now she let her gaze wander beyond her bed. Was there anyone in the room? Yes, there was Mr. Russell…Ian, she’d called him that in her dreams, standing by the window, his head bowed. What a dear man he was. He’d stayed with her throughout.

She must have made a sound, because he turned toward her. Immediately he was at her side. “Good morning,” he said.

She smiled at him, and he smiled back, and she thought what a beautiful smile he had.

She reached out her hand, realizing how weak she was, but he saw the motion and met her halfway, clasping her limp hand in his warm, strong one.

“Welcome back,” he said softly.

“Have I been away long?” she asked.

“About a fortnight.”

“It seems forever and as if not a day has passed.”

He nodded. “Don’t tire yourself with talking. You’ve had a strong fever but it broke last night.”

She digested this information, closing her eyes as the lassitude came over her again. She would just take another short nap and then ask him about Sarah….

Ian looked at their joined hands, continuing to hold hers in his until her steady breathing indicated she was asleep again. She looked so wan and fragile. The blue shadows beneath her eyes and the thinness of her arm frightened him, but they didn’t take away the gratitude he felt for her survival.

She would be many days rebuilding her strength. A relapse was an ever-present danger, but with the proper care, she should grow strong again.

He returned to thanking God for His deliverance of her. His forehead sank onto the bed as he knelt there, continuing to praise Him.
Your mercy and grace endureth forever.

That evening after her first meal of something other than watery gruels, Eleanor pushed away from the spout of the posset cup, which Betsy held for her.

“You still have some of the whey left,” her friend said.

“I’ve had enough for the moment.”

“Would you like me to spoon the curds for you?” Betsy asked.

She nodded and Betsy gave her a spoonful of the sweetened custardlike curds.

“That’s all I can manage for now,” she told her after a few spoonfuls.

“Well, no matter. Perhaps some more a little later?” Betsy asked hopefully. “We’ve got to restore your bloom.”

“Do I look so terrible?” she asked. Although her maid and Betsy had washed her earlier in the day and dressed her hair, she hadn’t seen herself in a mirror yet.

“No, dear, just a bit thin,” she replied, taking the napkin from under Eleanor’s chin and wiping her mouth.

“Well, I must eat all my curds, I suppose,” she answered drowsily, still feeling too tired to care much about anything beyond the thought of sleep.

As Betsy was tidying up, Eleanor thought of what her friend had done for her. Betsy and Mr. Russell both. He had never even billed her for attending her sprained ribs, and now two weeks of a fever. She remembered how he’d come to Sarah’s aid when Eleanor had called for him. As the gratitude flooded her, she felt a stirring in her heart. She had never known a man to do so much for her without asking for something in return.

What did Mr. Russell want of her?

She’d think about it tomorrow. Tomorrow, when she’d feel a little more alert than she did today.

The first time she saw herself in the mirror, Eleanor almost fainted. She looked like a witch. She eyed the pasty skin, the fair hair that hung as limp as seaweed, the wrists sticking out of her nightgown like sticks.

She shivered in distaste and turned away from the mirror. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this.

Mr. Russell—she stopped, realizing how much he had seen. Feverish, probably delirious, wretching, sweating like a hog, and worse. She groaned. How could she ever appear beautiful in his eyes again? The desire she had read in them was surely gone for good. If she tried to flirt with him now, she’d appear ridiculous. Shame burned her cheeks.

She reasoned with herself that he was a doctor; he was accustomed to seeing people in all states of sickness and distress, but it didn’t help. She had read desire in his eyes once; how could she ever bear to read disgust in them?

In the ensuing days, she diligently ate and drank whatever Betsy or Mrs. Wilson brought her. She allowed them to wash her and dress her until gradually her energy returned and she could begin to do some of it for herself.

When Sarah was finally allowed to visit, Eleanor’s spirits lifted. But at Sarah’s first words, “Oh, Aunt Eleanor, you look so skinny!” Eleanor’s spirits plummeted and she had to fight to put up a cheerful appearance before Sarah and the Thorntons.

Mr. Russell stopped by frequently, although his visits were brief in those first few days, but soon they became fewer.

She hadn’t realized how much she’d come to rely on him until two days went by and he didn’t appear at all. Every time her maid or Betsy came into the room, Eleanor started up, ready to smile, thinking it would be Ian.

She sank into depression each time she saw herself in the mirror. It was because she was no longer attractive to him that he avoided coming by. Once she’d been sure of her allure. Now she shuddered at the thought of his seeing her bony frame.

She was shaken out of her gloom by the faint sound of music outside her window. As she lay there listening to it, wondering if she had the strength to stand on her own and go to the window, Clara entered the room.

“Oh, miss, you must come see who is here!” The maid’s smiling face beamed at her.

“Who?” she asked, distracted from the Christmas carols.

“Let me help you over to the window, and you shall see.”

“That music! Does that have something to do with it?” she asked as the young woman began to draw off the bedcovers and help her sit up.

Clara only smiled.

Intrigued, Eleanor tried her best to stand and make
her way across the room. Her legs still felt like jelly, but Clara held her firmly under the arm.

From the window, Eleanor looked down into the street. Puzzled at first, she surveyed the group of children standing below. They were all looking toward her window, their faces red with the cold, their cheeks straining with singing. Her maid pushed the window up an inch, and the sound of Christmas tunes was clearer.

“‘Hark, the herald angels sing!’”

“Let me get your wrap so you don’t get chilled.”

When she’d donned her dressing gown and a warm shawl Clara brought her, Eleanor listened, enjoying the music. Mr. Russell stood beside the children and Althea on the other side of them. Eleanor smiled and waved down at them.

Strains of “Joy to the World” came up to her in childish voices, then “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” She felt her throat swelling for a moment and her eyes threatening to fill with tears. They hadn’t forgotten her!

She had missed all the holiday festivities, including the Christmas pageant. All that work for nothing, but now hearing the children’s voices, she felt a welter of emotion struggling within her. Gratitude for Mr. Russell predominated, for she was sure it had been he who had brought the children.

When the caroling was over, Eleanor sent the maid down to invite the children in for cups of hot choco
late and cakes. She had Clara distribute the small parcels she had prepared for Christmas before she had fallen ill.

As the children were enjoying this downstairs, Mr. Russell and Althea came up to greet her.

“What a wonderful surprise,” she told them, sitting up in bed now. “It’s just what I needed to cheer me up.”

“The children wanted to show you how much they have practiced their songs,” Althea said eagerly.

“It’s a shame about the play,” Eleanor began. “I’m sorry I couldn’t finish what I began with them.”

Althea smiled at her, making her pale features come alive. “Oh, but your labor wasn’t in vain. The children put on their play Christmas Eve. Everyone enjoyed it immensely. We were only sorry you couldn’t be there to see it.”

“They did?” Eleanor shook her head in amazement. “I can scarcely believe it. They hardly seemed ready that last afternoon I rehearsed with them.”

“Oh, but I think they were so sorry to hear you’d fallen ill—particularly that you could have contracted this fever from the mission infirmary—that they wanted to practice as much as possible and put on the show for you.”

“How lovely of them.” She glanced at Mr. Russell, who hadn’t said much of anything at all since entering the room. “I have some gifts for each of you, gifts I’d purchased before succumbing to the fever.”

“You didn’t have to think of getting us gifts,” Althea began.

Eleanor fumbled with the bedcover, suddenly shy. What if they didn’t like what she’d bought? “I know I didn’t have to, but you’ve welcomed me without…” How could she explain it? “Well, you know…without knowing much about me…”

“We all have our past,” Althea said softly, and held out her hand to her.

Eleanor reached over to her night table to the two parcels her maid had placed there. “I hope you like what I got. It’s not much, but anyway, happy Christmas, though it’s a little late in coming.” She struggled with the words as she presented each gift.

The surgeon approached the bed slowly, almost reluctantly, or was she being overly sensitive?

“Oh, they’re beautiful,” Althea exclaimed, touching the embroidered handkerchiefs Eleanor had purchased in a fashionable shop on Piccadilly.

Mr. Russell took longer unwrapping his small parcel. When it was opened, he said nothing at first, but then sensing the others were waiting, he looked up. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

He took the pocket watch from the surrounding tissue paper and held it up.

Althea broke the awkward silence. “Oh, Ian, it’s just what you’ve needed.”

His first name upon her lips was like a reproach to Eleanor, making her painfully aware there were women closer to him who had the right to call him by his given name, a right she was not entitled to. For the first time she wondered what the relationship between the surgeon and the director of the mission was.

“I—” Again Mr. Russell hesitated, holding the silver watch as if not knowing what to do with it.

“I’m tired of your being late to your appointments,” Eleanor replied carelessly. Why was he behaving so strangely? “Truly, I sometimes wonder how more of your patients don’t expire as they’re waiting for you to appear.”

Althea laughed at the remark, but Mr. Russell only gave a pained smile. “Thank you,” he said at last, placing the watch carefully back into the tissue paper and reclosing the box. Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t rejected it on some moral high ground. Was that the reason?

After the doctor and Althea had departed with the children, Eleanor fell back into a low mood. She felt helpless. Never had she been out of work so long, and now it would be weeks before she was once again her normal self. Helpless anger engulfed her. What a mistake it had been to spend all that time visiting the mission. What had it accomplished but almost kill her?

It seemed she had ended in a deeper pit than when she’d first begun her acting career.

She pounded her fists against the bedclothes, but even that gesture mocked her, as the effort left her exhausted.

Life was a bitter struggle. As long as she could remember, she’d been up to the fight. Was she getting too old and weary now to do anything more but fall down and let herself be trampled?

D
espite her bouts of depression, each day Eleanor felt herself grow stronger. After a fortnight, she could get dressed and go downstairs. She felt almost recovered, even though her dresses still hung on her, and her hair still hadn’t yet regained its former luster and bounce. She’d had to resort to a little rouge on her cheeks to give them their former bloom.

Was it more than the ravages of the fever? Or was it that she was growing old? Soon she would be five-and-twenty. She frowned at the mirror over the mantelpiece, examining around her eyes and mouth for any signs of lines. She didn’t like the shadows that still lingered under her eyes. She knew they were evidence of her sleeplessness at night when she lay awake thinking of her bleak future.

“Mr. Russell is here.”

“Thank you, Wilson, send him in,” she replied to her housekeeper. Was he finally come to check on his patient? she thought bitterly. Since she’d given him the watch, she hadn’t seen him and had tried in vain to put him out of her mind. It was only because her circle was so reduced that his visits had come to mean so much, she told herself.

But she couldn’t stop the thudding of her heart, as she waited for him to come up. When he did enter the room, she felt her mouth go dry. He looked fresh and full of vigor, probably from walking all over town. Really, she’d probably have to buy him a carriage—or horse, at least—someday as a gift. Every successful physician kept his own carriage, or at least a mount, these days.

“Good morning, Mrs. Neville. How are you feeling?”

“As you can see, I’m up and dressed,” she answered with false brightness, holding her arms out from her sides.

“Yes, you look quite well,” he said, taking his glance off her as soon as he’d uttered the words.

His tone sounded stiff and formal. Couldn’t he at least
pretend
to be glad to see her? He made her feel as if all her efforts this morning to dress in a pretty frock and do her hair had been in vain.

She hid her dissatisfaction and pasted a smile on her
face. “Please, have a seat. I haven’t seen you lately. How is everything at the mission?”

“Much fever and influenza are going around right now. The infirmary is overflowing with sick children. Mr. Denton and I are out every day visiting patients too ill to come to the dispensary.”

“You must be exhausted,” she said, immediately contrite at her selfish thoughts.

He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “No rest for the weary at this time of the year.”

Compassion welled up in her and gave her courage. “You’ve done so much for me.”

He waved aside her remark.

“No, I really am grateful,” she began again, too restless to sit. She took a step toward him and saw the alarm in his eyes. It almost made her laugh, except she was feeling too unsure of herself.

She looked down at her hands. “Ever since my fall at the theater, you’ve come to my rescue, taking care of Sarah…and now this fever.”

“I only did what any physician or apothecary would do.” His voice sounded strained.

She gave a choked laugh. “You haven’t even billed me for any of this! How can I not feel beholden to you?” She reached out an arm, but he was too far from her to reach him, and it dropped back to her side.

His tone softened. “You mustn’t feel that way. I’m
just grateful to God that you are better. That’s enough for me to feel repaid.”

She took a step closer, emboldened by his gentle words. “I want to give you something in return.”

“I don’t want anything,” he said sharply. As she stared at him in shock, his tone softened. “I mean—you’ve already given enough…the watch. I really meant to tell you it wasn’t necessary.”

“Don’t you like it?” she asked in a hurt tone.

“Yes—no…I mean it’s a fine watch, but it’s too good for me.” He’d stood and now ran a hand through his hair, as if uncomfortable with the whole topic.

She pressed her lips together, to keep from crying. He was rejecting her gift. She’d known she was no longer attractive to him. Had all the longing she’d seen in his eyes left forever? She had to know. She gave a gasp and clutched her chest.

He was immediately alert. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she murmured.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” He’d moved closer at least.

“I feel…palpitations,” she said softly. “I haven’t been sleeping well at night.” At least that much was true.

When he said nothing, nor came closer, she grew desperate, remembering the days when he hadn’t hesitated to examine her. Had she lost all appeal to him that he couldn’t bear to touch her?

“That stick you have…that baton, the listening device.” She struggled for the right word. “Why don’t you use that?”

“The stethoscope…” Even his tone sounded reluctant.

“Yes,” she whispered, desperately playing her last card.

She heard him open his medical case and take out the instrument. She waited quietly, her hands clasped in her lap, her heart thudding till it reverberated in her ears.

He finally approached the settee and sat down beside her, the black baton held loosely in his hands. She turned to face him, making it easier.

When he placed it against her chest, she waited, willing herself to remain still and not reach out and touch his hair.

“What do you hear?” she asked in a low voice.

“Your heartbeat.”

“Do you hear how hard it beats when you come near?” she whispered, her hand no longer able to remain still.

He retreated from the touch of her hand on his and put a space between them on the couch.

She looked deeply into his eyes and found only wariness. “You’ve been so good to me. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.” She glanced down at her hands, trying to remember the words she’d rehearsed during the waking hours of the night. “I haven’t much to offer now.” She swallowed, determined to go on. “But what little I have I want to give you.”

He seemed frozen, staring at her. Thinking he didn’t understand, she went on. “I have only myself to give.”

The silence grew long in the room. Did he still not understand? She put a hand to the neckline of her dress.

This time he came to life, springing away from her and off the settee. He coughed. “You need say no more, Mrs. Neville. As I said, you owe me nothing for my services. If it makes you feel better, I will send around a bill—”

It was her turn to stare. Her worst fear had been realized. He no longer wanted her! As the fact penetrated her numbed brain, she clutched at the cloth of her gown, seeking support.

He was refusing her offer.
She had to repeat it to herself to fully grasp the fact. She had truly lost all physical appeal. Of course he no longer wanted her. She felt more than mere wounded vanity. She knew she hadn’t misread the desire in his eyes all those weeks, nay, months, as she’d dangled her attractions before him. No, what stared her in the face now was her future. A woman with no physical appeal had very little future anywhere.

She rose from the settee. “Don’t trouble yourself. I understand perfectly. You are no different than any other man. I’m thin and ugly now, so you can scorn me. I no longer have anything attractive to offer. I have been out of work for longer than I care to think. The public has forgotten me, so I have no allurements left.”

She turned away, bitterness suffocating her. She was finished, her beauty gone, her acting career in ruins.

His words broke the stillness. “You are wrong.”

“I don’t think so,” she said with a short laugh.

“I am not like those other men.”

She wiped at a tear that had begun to fall down her cheek. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d brought her to tears.

“And it has nothing to do with your fame on the stage or lack of it.”

“It’s because I’m ugly now—”

“How little you know. Free of the artifice of the stage, you are as flawless as a diamond. You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”

She could have wept with relief. She swiped at the rouge on her cheeks as she slowly turned to him. Could he be speaking the truth? She needed reassurance. “Am I really?”

It was his turn to expel an impatient laugh. “Can’t you see that I speak the truth, Eleanor?”

His name on her lips was more thrilling than anything she’d imagined. As she stood there, saying nothing, he must have read the lingering doubt in her mind.

Instead of saying anything more, he took a step toward her. That step seemed to activate hers, and without quite knowing how it had happened, she found herself face-to-face with him. He was looking at her so seri
ously that she almost doubted she had heard his words correctly.

And then he was leaning down toward her, and she leaning up to him. When his lips touched hers, she felt the same sensation she had the day of her fall through the trapdoor on the stage. Suddenly the floor gave way beneath her and she was free-falling. She clutched the lapels of his coat, not wanting the moment ever to end.

He held her lightly by the elbows as she drank of him.

She’d wondered an eternity how those lips would feel against hers. They were warm and slightly full for a man, oddly sensuous for such a serious man. His breath was sweet and spicy like the cardamom seeds he was always chewing on.

The moment was enchantment itself, completely stopped in time. She had never known such a thing. In her experience, men’s kisses were always a prelude she must endure. She, who’d never enjoyed their damp intrusion, now found herself craving more.

Only with William—Lord Eaton—had she come close to letting herself go, and then he’d left her. And she’d vowed never to be vulnerable to someone again.

Now she found herself forgetting the past in the pure touch of Ian’s lips against hers.

Before their bodies could draw closer, he disengaged his lips slightly from hers. “There, you may laugh at my
inexpert attempts at kissing you,” he said in a low tone, his breath brushing her.

In reply, she grasped his face in the palms of her hands and brought it down to hers, and began to kiss him deeply, giving herself to him in that kiss, holding back nothing of herself, as she had always done with others.

She could feel his yearning in the way he returned her kiss, in the way his hands came up to embrace her. And then all she felt were the barriers crumbling inside her. Emotions too long pent up behind her defenses began to build and crest until the walls buckled.

Before she had a chance to explore the kaleidoscope of sensations he was producing in her, before she had a chance to do more than rest her hands on his shoulders, before she’d even had a chance to whisper his name, Ian broke the contact of his lips against hers. Gently but firmly, he grasped her by the wrists and set her away from him.

“I cannot!” he whispered.

She was so stunned by the abrupt end to the kiss, she would have fallen forward if he hadn’t been holding her. He returned her to the settee and strode away from her as soon as she was seated.

He reached the window and leaned against the sill.

“I will not give in to this!” The words seemed to burst forth from him. “I haven’t kept myself for so long to give myself to one such as you!” The words spoken
in soft vehemence exploded in the silent room, like glass falling against a stone.

They found her with all her defenses down. Not a shred of pride or anger or resentment covered that naked organ of her heart. Tender and defenseless, it lay exposed to the stiletto sharpness of those deadly shards.

She brought her hands to her chest, as if to cover her heart from his words. But it was too late! He’d found her laid bare.

“Get thee behind me, Satan,” he ground out, his back still to her.

Satan! He was calling her Satan! The words succeeded in bringing her out of her stupor. No! It wasn’t too late to defend herself.

He turned at last and came toward her. “Please forgive me, Mrs. Neville. My conduct was unforgivable. You have been under my professional care, and I had no right to…touch—” he stumbled over the word “—you in any way like that. I’m sorry. Good day, madam.” Already he was turning away, leaving her destroyed.

How dare he be the one to leave?

She stood as regally as Mrs. Siddons in her last performance.

“You can’t even say the word,” she hissed. “Is it because you daren’t call such an inept, fumbling attempt a kiss? A man who has never been with a woman.” She
looked down her nose at him. “At your age—it’s not natural. What kind of a man are you?”

His jaw clenched, and she knew the barb had hit home. She was hurting his manhood, and she took great pleasure in it.

“What did you hope? To bed Eleanor Neville? Not many men have had that privilege, I can promise you that!” She gave a harsh laugh. “I must thank you for your refusal if your moral sensibilities stopped you in time.

“For what could
you
possibly offer me? A penniless surgeon who squanders all his talent on the miserable rabble of London?”

His throat worked but still he said nothing, and her satisfaction deepened. She was a great actress, and he’d never realize how great.

“Do you honestly imagine all your noble self-sacrifice is doing any good? Have all those years of self-denial pleased your God to any discernible degree?” She looked him up and down with scorn, knowing she must not overplay the scene. “At least my antics on the stage make the poor fools laugh for a few hours, so they can forget their pain and squalor. What do you do but cut them open and cause them more pain? Most of them end up dying anyway, don’t they?

“What have you done for them, in the end?” she taunted him. “Hastened them to their Maker?

“Yes, go ahead and save yourself for some pious evan
gelical bride—it might be a long wait. I may be Satan’s spawn, but at least I shall have some enjoyment from my short duration upon this stage. What shall you end up with, Mr. Russell? If you don’t shrivel up and grow old waiting, you’ll die prematurely contracting some foul disease from one of your wretched patients.”

When he said nothing, his face pale and set, she smiled. “If you were in the theater, Mr. Russell, you would realize this is your cue to exit the stage.”