The Healing Season (25 page)

He left the smoke-filled tavern, the woman he’d given his heart to as unaware of his presence as if he’d been a fly on the wall.

Eleanor dug into her plate of beef and vegetables with relish, always famished after a performance. It also gave her a good excuse to ignore d’Alvergny. What a bore he was becoming, monopolizing her company. Just because he’d set her up in a wonderful house on Jermyn Street didn’t mean he owned her.

“Mrs. Neville, you were simply magnificent tonight!” A tall young gentleman stopped by their table, boyish enthusiasm coloring his voice.

She smiled graciously. “You flatter me.”

“Not at all, you are a goddess among women. You make Lady Allworth sound sublime.”

“You are too kind. Who is your friend?” she asked with a glance at the dark-haired gentleman behind him.

“This is Rupert, Viscount Stanley. He is half in love with you, too, but is too shy to own up to it.”

“Why don’t you two join us?” she asked with an inviting smile, throwing a careless look d’Alvergny’s way.

The two gentlemen accepted immediately and hailed the waitress to bring some chairs. Soon, Eleanor found herself regaling them with tales of what it was like to work with Kean. Seeing the younger man, Stanley, hardly able to say a word to her without blushing, she paid especial attention to him, drawing him out with consummate skill.

“I think it’s time we were leaving,” d’Alvergny said once their dinner dishes were cleared away.

“It’s early yet,” she replied, sparing him only a glance.

“It’s past twelve,” he replied, flipping open his watch.

“I’m sure you don’t retire till dawn,” she told Stanley, who blushed and stammered a reply.

“Nevertheless, it’s time to depart,” the duke insisted, standing. The other gentlemen rose immediately, each reaching into his pocket to withdraw money.

She waved their intention away. “His Grace will cover it.” She threw him a smile. He said nothing, but tossed some sovereigns onto the table.

In his carriage, the two were silent. She wondered whether this was what a couple who’d been married for years felt like.

At her door, she turned to him, putting a hand to her forehead. “I’m tired tonight. Perhaps you’ll call round tomorrow.”

“A pity, you didn’t seem tired at all at the restaurant.” He descended the carriage and held out his hand for her. She had no choice but to follow him, her heart sinking.

Once inside, she asked him if he cared for any refreshment but he declined. “Well, I’m off to bed, then,” she said with false brightness. “I shall see you in the morning.”

He took her arm as she passed him. “You’ll see me tonight.”

“I beg your pardon?” she asked in haughty disdain.

“I think you need reminding of who is master in this arrangement of ours.”

“Don’t be tiresome, d’Alvergny.” She refused to ever call him by his given name.

Before she could evade him, he kissed her in a bruising, punishing kiss that held no warmth or tenderness. She struggled to break free but his grip was like iron.

“Now that we have taken care of the preliminaries, I expect your full cooperation tonight.”

“And if I refuse?” she asked coldly, hating the very sight of his cleanly shaven, well-fed look.

“Then I shall take great pleasure in demonstrating my superior strength.”

The next instant he took her by the arm and threw her away from him with such force she went flying backward, hitting an end table and landing on the floor. She stared at him, her mind refusing to believe what he’d just done.

He smiled down from his great height. “Don’t think of screaming. I pay those servants of yours, and they know who is in charge. In future, you will never presume to treat me like one of your lackeys. You kept me dangling for months, but now you’re mine, bought and paid for dearly. Do I make myself understood?”

She struggled to stand and he offered her no aid. “I belong to no man.”

In reply, he walked over to an umbrella stand and
removed his riding crop. Slapping it rhythmically against his leg, he returned to her. Despite her urge to take a step back, she stood her ground.

“Next time, it will be that pretty face of yours, and you won’t be fit to be seen on the stage.” He smiled, a smile so sinister she put her hand to her mouth to keep from screaming. “I put you on that stage, and I have the power to take you down again, do you understand?”

She nodded, terror immobilizing her.

He laughed, a deep, self-satisfied sound. “Who do you think engineered your last accident?”

“Wha-what do you mean?” she asked, her mind going to the only accident she’d had on the stage.

“The faulty trapdoor,” he reminded her softly, the smile still playing along his fleshy lips.

“How…how could you…” She stared in horror, her mind refusing to grasp the implications of what he was saying. “I don’t believe you.”

He laughed. “Money can buy anything, including trapdoors that unhinge at the most inconvenient or—shall we say convenient—times?”

What kind of monster was he? “I could have been killed.”

He shrugged. “Then no other man would have ever known you. As it is, I am the only man who can have you!” With those words, he raised the riding crop and brought it smartly against her bare arm. She flinched at the stinging pain.

He touched her cheek with the handle. “Remember, not a word or your pretty face will be maimed beyond recognition.”

I
an slept fitfully that night, waking time and again with the wisp of a dream he couldn’t quite regain. He felt the blackest despair he’d ever experienced in his life—greater than after the bloodiest battle on the Peninsula. There he’d fought against death, too busy rescuing life to have time to dwell on it. He hadn’t been responsible for taking men’s lives, only in trying to save them, so the panorama of the battlefield had only confirmed to him the fallen nature of humanity and the need for a redemptive savior.

Now it was not only his own imminent end he faced, but also the betrayal of a woman, the only woman he’d ever given his heart to. Oh, the perfidy of woman! For this he’d saved himself? In vain, all in vain. The bitterest pill was the fact that he still wanted her. Her kiss still haunted him.

He fell asleep again from sheer exhaustion, only to awake again. This time he remembered the last fragment of his dream.

Search the Scriptures.
A voice had been telling him to search the Scriptures. What did it mean? He had been searching and studying the Scriptures diligently. What more could he do?

Wearily he lit his candle, knowing he’d get little more sleep that night. His clock read four in the morning. Rubbing the gritty fatigue from his eyes, he sat up in his bed and reached for his Bible.

It opened to his marker. His eyes fell on the twenty-first verse of Mark 11: “…behold, the fig tree which thou cursedst is withered away.” Ian felt a stillness permeate his being. His eyes scanned the verses above it. He’d read them only yesterday, but they hadn’t held any particular significance for him then. Now he scrutinized them carefully. The verses recounted how Jesus when he’d passed a fig tree the day before had cursed it because it hadn’t contained any fruit. The following day the disciples, passing by it again, noticed that it had dried and withered to its very roots.

Ian continued reading. “And Jesus answering saith unto them, Have faith in God…whosoever shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; and shall not doubt in his heart, but shall believe
that those things which he saith shall come to pass; he shall have whatsoever he saith.

“Therefore I say unto you, What things soever ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them.”

Whosoever.
That meant anyone. Whosoever meant Ian Russell. And the Lord was commanding him to speak to the mountain.

In all his reading and studying of the Scripture, all he’d read indicated God’s sovereignty over life and death. Jesus had healed all those who’d come to Him. And yet, had Ian prayed in faith? Had he truly believed in God’s willingness to heal
him?
Had he seen so much sickness and death in his life, he found it hard to believe that God was the same God in his day as the one who healed all those who came to Him in Judea, Samaria and Galilee?

He focused on the words again, covering his left eye to block out the blurriness. “Whosoever shall say unto this mountain…” God was telling him to command the mountain.

Slowly, feeling self-conscious despite being by himself, Ian raised his hand to his head. Grasping his forehead and squeezing it as if to squelch the pain ever present inside it, he spoke in a voice still gravelly with sleep.

“I speak to this tumor inside my head and I command it to be removed and cast into the sea.” With each word,
his voice became stronger. “I command it to be removed and cast into utter darkness, in the name of Jesus.”

He reclosed his eyes and rested his head, feeling a little foolish that he, the rational man of science, had spoken like a prophet of old. Who did he think he was? Feeling the doubts resurface, Ian read the Scriptures once again, knowing his only salvation lay in them. He remembered the imperative command of the voice that had awakened him.
Search the Scriptures.

He reread the passages and felt more confident. Then his eyes followed the next verse: “And when ye stand praying, forgive, if ye have ought against any: that your Father also which is in heaven may forgive your trespasses.”

The words were like a sledgehammer against him as he pictured Eleanor’s smiling face earlier in the evening, her charm directed at d’Alvergny. Loathing swelled within him, choking him. Could he forgive her? Must he forgive her? He knew the answer even before he finished the questions.

“I forgive you, Eleanor…I forgive you, Eleanor,” he whispered to the night. “I forgive you, Eleanor…” His voice broke as tears spilled over the rims of his eyes, and his heart felt rent in pieces.

When he awoke again, the room was light, and he realized it was late. Memories of the night returned and he touched his head. The pain was still there though di
minished. He covered his good eye. The same fuzziness blurred his vision, perhaps even more acutely than before.

As he sat up in bed, he recalled the commanding voice once more.
Search the Scriptures.
He couldn’t have imagined it. He reopened the Bible to Mark and reread the passage. Once again, he spoke into the silence of the room commanding the tumor to be gone. This time he cursed it as Jesus had done to the fig tree.

After he’d washed and dressed, he decided to go to the dispensary as he’d normally do. If he truly believed the Scriptures, he must believe God had heard and answered his prayer.

He spent the morning assisting his partner in the dispensary. Denton seemed surprised to see him at first and asked him how he felt. They discussed his condition a few minutes, but then a patient was brought in and soon they were too busy to concentrate on anything but the day’s patient load.

In the afternoon, Ian went to the mission and looked in on the patients there. Afterward, he and Althea sat together over a cup of tea. Ian told her about his experience in the wee hours of the morning.

“God has given you a word,” she said, her eyes alight.

“How can you be so sure it wasn’t something my own thoughts conjured up?”

“Because, ‘all things are possible for them that believe,’” she quoted to him. “You haven’t been studying
the Scriptures diligently to no avail. The Word says if you seek the Lord with all your heart, you shall find Him, and if you turn to Him and be obedient to His voice, He will not forsake you, nor forget His covenant with you.”

“Do I have a covenant with Him?” he asked, feeling himself too low and unworthy to be called into that kind of relationship.

“Indeed you do, one that has been ratified by the blood of Jesus.”

Ian stared at her, the words ringing in the stillness. The blood of Jesus. He’d always seen it as the means of his forgiveness from sins, but not as the sign of a special covenant with God. “I want to know more of this covenant.”

Althea nodded. “I’ll jot down some Scriptures for you to read.”

Eleanor’s life had become a living nightmare. She dared not even look at another man in a friendly manner, fearing the reprisals to come in the night when she entered her house.

D’Alvergny was two people, the suave, urbane man about town he appeared in public and the insanely jealous lover who guarded his possessions ruthlessly from any perceived encroachment.

He was careful never to leave marks on her where they would be visible, but he delighted in treating her roughly, goaded on by her stoic silence, not satisfied un
til he’d made her cry out. Then he’d let her go with a triumphant sneer. In public he was as gentlemanly as when he had been wooing her.

Her only thought was of escape, but it was almost impossible. He’d replaced Clara, her maid, with a towering brute of a woman who had previously been a warden at Bedlam. She cooperated with d’Alvergny in humiliating Eleanor—“priming” her as she called it.

Eleanor lived in terror of losing her job in the theater, knowing if she did she would be finished. All she could think of was Sarah and her future. So Eleanor submitted, willing to sacrifice anything for her daughter’s future.

Althea came to visit Ian one day when he didn’t show up at the mission on his accustomed day. She found him in bed, the pain in his head too severe to allow him to focus on anything.

After she prayed for him and read him some Scriptures, she asked him, “Whatever happened to Mrs. Neville? The last time I saw her she was recovering from the fever. I went by to visit her last week but her house has been let out.”

He turned his head away from her. “Yes, she recovered.”

“Praise be to God,” she replied softly. “I was grateful for her help with the children. She seemed to have a real affinity for them.”

“Yes,” he said with a weary sigh, covering his eyes with his hand.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be talking to you.”

“It’s all right. It distracts me.”

“Have you any idea where she’s gone? We truly miss seeing her at the mission.”

“She landed a leading role at the Drury Lane. I’m sure the mission is the furthest thing from her mind.”

“I see. I suppose that’s what she wanted.”

“More than anything, it seems.”

“I hope she is happy.”

“The last time I saw her, she certainly looked so.”

“Was that…very long ago?” she ventured.

“Quite recently.”

“I’m sorry, Ian.” He felt her hand cover the one lying on the counterpane. “You cared for her.”

“Cared?” An anemic word to describe what he’d felt for her. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

When she said nothing more, only continued to rub the back of his hand softly, he asked, “Tell me, Althea, have you ever fallen in love with the wrong sort of person?”

She was silent long enough for him to think she wasn’t going to answer. When he opened his eyes, he saw her partially blurred and partially clear, but was still able to distinguish a bittersweet smile.

“Yes, I’m afraid I have.”

He hadn’t expected that answer. Althea was to him
the epitome of the truly spiritual Christian. Carnal passions seemed so beneath her that they wouldn’t offer the least temptation. “It must have been long ago,” he filled in for her.

“It was actually quite lately.”

He stared at her in disbelief. He had seen no signs of the lovesick maiden as she went about her duties at the mission, or during her work at the chapel or at the street meetings. How could he have been so unobservant? He tried to think back despite the throbbing in his head.

“When you went away?” he asked finally, the effort exhausting him too much to say anything more.

“Yes. I let my heart be stolen by an unbeliever, can you imagine that?” she asked with quiet irony.

“Your employer in Mayfair?” he asked sharply, remembering the man whose young daughter had died and whom he’d seen only a few times. “Aguilar—that was his name, wasn’t it—the M.P.?”

She nodded, looking down at her lap.

“I’m sorry, Althea,” he said finally, knowing well how inadequate the words were.

Her smile didn’t quite succeed. “It’s all right. The Lord sustains me. I continue to pray for his soul,” she added softly. “He’s quite broken up about the death of his daughter.”

Ian nodded and reclosed his eyes, feeling only a deep sadness. If someone—an unbeliever—had affected Al
thea so deeply, what hope had he that this laceration in his heart would ever heal?

A few nights later, Ian was again awakened from a deep sleep. He had heard a voice, this time a distinctly audible voice in the dark room, not a voice from inside his head. He craned his neck, peering into the darkness, his ears attuned to the faintest noise. But he heard nothing. It had sounded like—but no, it couldn’t have been—Eleanor’s voice, calling to him.

What did it mean? Eleanor calling him? He began to pray for her. As he asked the Lord to guide her and lead her into the truth, he began to feel an urgency for her. He prayed for God’s protection over her. The sense of danger wouldn’t leave him. Was she in trouble? He pictured d’Alvergny, and his stomach muscles clenched in futile rage.

The sense of uneasiness persisted so much that Ian got up and knelt by his bed, continuing to pray for Eleanor. He felt an urge to go to her and assure himself that she was all right. Where would he find her? Most likely with d’Alvergny. What a fool he’d appear if he found her at the duke’s residence. Eleanor would probably dismiss him as a scorned lover.

The next day, the pain in his head was lessened, but his disquiet over Eleanor continued. He decided to go to the mission that night and ask Althea’s advice.

They were conducting an open-air street meeting and he stayed on to help. Afterward, he felt invigorated by the service. To everyone’s surprise, Althea had ended up preaching when the visiting preacher had been held up by an accident. Ian had never heard a woman preach, but he could not deny that the Spirit of God was upon her. The words held conviction, and many of the listeners came forward to repent and accept the Lord Jesus as their Savior.

When they returned to the mission, he said to her, “The Lord used you tonight.”

“Yes,” she answered, the awe evident in her tone. “It was all right, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” he reassured her. “You truly were anointed to preach.”

She turned to him. “Yes, I could never have done it on my own. Ian.” She gazed earnestly into his eyes. “Simon Aguilar was there. He heard the message the Lord gave me to preach.”

He stared at her. “He was there?”

“Yes! He didn’t acknowledge me, but, Ian—” Althea’s eyes shone with hope. “I believe God must be doing something. Will you pray with me for Si—Mr. Aguilar?”

“Of course I will,” he promised.

She grabbed his arm. “We must pray for Mrs. Neville,
too,” she added. “No matter who she is or what she has done, we must pray for her salvation.”

He felt a conviction pierce him, and he realized he had been more concerned with his hurt than about her salvation. Again he remembered the sense of danger that had assailed him in the night. By day, he had managed to convince himself it was only the effect of darkness.

“Yes,” he replied slowly, “we must pray for her.”

“You take me for a fool! Well, it shall be for the last time.” D’Alvergny yanked her toward him, his menacing face looming over her.