The Healing Season (4 page)

“But you laugh and flirt with them as much as the rest of us girls at the theater.”

“It only looks that way. What those gentlemen offer must be very good before I’ll allow them to come any nearer than arm’s length.”

The two were silent a few moments, each lost in thought. Finally Betsy sighed. “Mr. Russell told me I wouldn’t survive a second time. He said it was only by God’s grace that I lived through this time.”

“I don’t know about God’s grace, but I think you were lucky you had a competent surgeon. Now, don’t think about it anymore for the moment. Get some rest and get yourself well. We all miss you at the theater. I’ve told the manager you have the grippe.”

Again Betsy’s eyes widened in fear. “Did he believe you?”

“He was just scared that we’d all get it. He told me you’re to stay away until there is no danger of contagion. Now, get to sleep. I’ll be by again tomorrow. I hope your new nurse isn’t an ogre.” With a laugh and a wave, she left the room.

As she sat in her carriage and resumed her ride home, she told herself to forget about Betsy’s problems for the moment. She herself needed to get her beauty sleep. Tomorrow she would be having dinner with the Duke d’Alvergny. He had been very attentive at the theater for several weeks, and she had fobbed him off.

But she’d made some inquiries and discovered him to be extremely wealthy and influential.

She had spoken the truth to Betsy. Romantic attachments were dangerous, but a gentleman with the right connections and a generous pocket was always worth a second look. Perhaps it was time to see what the duke had to offer.

“Come watch Punch and Judy! Watch Punch knock out Judy! Tuppence a show.” The hawker’s voice carried above the crowd. A young boy tugged on Ian’s hand.

“Oh, may we watch?” The other children took up the chorus.

Ian turned to Jem as the children shouted their glee. “I guess Punch and Judy will be next.” The two men shepherded the children they’d brought from the dispensary neighborhood toward the puppet theater.

Ian fished out his change and gave the money collector the fee.

As the hunchbacked Punch whacked his wife, Ian’s attention wandered. His glance strayed to Jem. The youth seemed as entranced by the small puppet show as the children they’d brought to the street fair.

Leaving Jem laughing heartily at the high-pitched voice of Punch screaming at Baby, Ian looked over the crowd. The streets were packed with people for the annual Southwark Fair. It would be the last one until the winter carnivals.

His gaze was arrested by a small commotion about half a block down. As a few people shifted, providing an opening, he saw what held their attention.

Mrs. Eleanor Neville was holding court. There was no better way to describe the scene before him. Those around her fawned over her, as she graciously bestowed her favor to all and sundry. She smiled, offering her hand to men, women and children alike.

As if on cue, she moved on, ready to greet those farther on. The crowd parted, men doffing their high-crowned hats, women fluttering their handkerchiefs, children clamoring for a last-blown kiss.

She was with another young woman. As they came closer, her attention was drawn to the noise of the Punch and Judy show. Her face lit up and she turned to her companion. At that moment her glance crossed Ian’s.

He thought she wouldn’t recognize him in that crowd, but she raised an eyebrow and he inclined his head in acknowledgment. She said something to her companion and to his surprise, the two started walking toward him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Russell. I’m surprised to see you at such an entertainment. Who is minding the dispensary?”

He smiled sheepishly, aware of the people around them eyeing him curiously. “My partner.”

She smiled. “I confess I find myself perplexed. You have no liking for the theater, yet here I find you at a fair.” Her lips formed a pretty pout. Ian struggled to shift his focus away from them.

He nodded at the young children around him. “I’ve brought some of the children who usually spend their time in the streets around the dispensary.” At that moment Jem turned around and his eyes grew wide at the sight of Mrs. Neville. He made his way to her side.

“Mrs. Neville! What a pl-pleasure,” he said, holding out his hand, then drawing it back again as if unsure that was the proper thing to do.

Mrs. Neville laughed charmingly and held out her own hand. “The pleasure is mutual. It is good to see you again, Mr. Beverly, under more cheerful circumstances.” She introduced them to her companion, a chorus member from the Royal Circus.

Ian, impatient with the curiosity of the crowd around them, said, “I think Punch is becoming angry with our drawing attention away from his show.”

Mrs. Neville turned to the puppet stage. “I love Punch and Judy. I started out playing at street fairs, you know.” She stood at his elbow, so close the sleeve of her dress brushed his arm, and it became even harder to keep his attention on the show than before.

When the show ended, somehow he found himself part of Mrs. Neville’s entourage. She charmed the children, and their group moved along slowly through the jammed streets, stopping at the various stands.

She ended up walking at his side as Jem and the other actress moved in front of them with the children.

“What do you have there?” Mrs. Neville gestured to the bag in his hand.

“Cardamom seeds,” he answered. He held out the bag to her, wondering if she would find the gesture unrefined.

Instead she removed her glove and took one. She chewed on it and smiled. “It’s spicy.”

He felt captivated by that smile, revealing such purity and sweetness. “I got in the habit of chewing on them when I was first apprenticed to my uncle. His apothecary was a treasure of spices and sweet-tasting lozenges for a kid. He told me to eat these instead of the sweets. Better for my teeth and breath, he advised.

“During the war, they helped alleviate the boredom
on long marches across the plains of Spain and fooled the stomach into thinking it had been fed.”

“You were with the army?”

“As surgeon.”

Jem stopped in front of a booth with a dartboard. The hawker immediately challenged them to try for the prizes. The children clamored for Jem and Ian to win them one.

Jem was unsuccessful after three attempts. Ian paid the man in charge and took his three darts. Like Jem’s, his darts landed far from the bull’s-eye. He turned to the children with a shrug. “Sorry, no prizes today.”

Mrs. Neville gave him a coy smile. “I hope your stitches in surgery are better than your aim.”

Her silvery-gray eyes were looking up at him in teasing challenge, and it occurred to him she was flirting with him.

He was accustomed to receiving unwanted attention from the many street women he attended in his practice, but they were derelict and only incited his pity. The heartfelt gratitude he received from other female patients or mothers of children he’d treated humbled him and made him all the more aware of the sacred trust between physician and patient. The only other women he dealt with were at the mission or chapel, modest and respectful in their comportment toward him.

Mrs. Neville’s behavior was different. It was direct and demure at the same time, elegant and playful in one.

“Mr. Russell is the finest surgeon.” Jem defended
him immediately. “You wouldn’t want anyone else if you were going under the knife.”

She chuckled, a sound rich and charming like warm caramel. “I’ll try to remember that when I need someone to cut me open and stitch me up. Now, I’ll show you how to win a prize.” She turned to the children. “Let’s see, how many are there of you?” she asked the children as if she hadn’t seen already. “Three only? That means one prize for each.”

They yelled in excitement. Calmly, she turned to the man at the booth. “I shall need three darts, if you please.” She gave him a coin and received her three darts.

The children began hopping up and down, pointing to the things they wanted to win.

“Now, you must hush.” She put her finger to her lips and bent toward them. “Be very, very still so I can concentrate and win your prizes for you.” Wide-eyed in wonder, they promptly fell silent. Ian couldn’t help smiling at the immediate obedience Mrs. Neville’s words invoked in the children. At the same time he wondered if it was wise getting their hopes up.

She turned to the dartboard and hefted the three darts in her hand, as if determining their weight. She chose one and brought it up level to her face, pointing it toward the round board. The crowds behind were forgotten as the attention of their party was focused on the black center of the dartboard.

Breaths held, they watched as, after an interminable few seconds, she threw the dart.

It arced, then descended and, with a soft thud, landed firmly within the bull’s-eye. The children erupted in shouts of triumph.

She paid them no attention, as her hands once again toyed with the remaining darts.

“Beginner’s luck! Beginner’s luck!” the owner of the booth chanted. “Let’s try for two in a row. Can’t make two in a row.”

Other patrons, waiting for their turn, took up the chant. The noise brought more people to the booth.

Mrs. Neville ignored them as she took aim again. The crowd fell silent as if collectively holding its breath.

Another tense few seconds went by, before
whoosh
and bull’s-eye.

The cheers were louder this time. Some of the children couldn’t contain their excitement, but jumped higher, clutching at the railing of the booth. Ian glanced at the owner of the stand, who was the only one not looking pleased at the victory.

“Here, now, you watch it,” warned the owner sternly to the boisterous children. “I don’t want my stand comin’ to pieces.”

Ian gently held them back from the railing and told them to be still for the last turn.

Mrs. Neville moistened her lips briefly, the only sign
that she was feeling anything other than perfectly calm. The last dart was held lightly in her fingertips. Slowly, it rose to eye level.

It flew through the empty space and landed at dead center, right between the other two darts.

The crowd shouted and applauded.

“I never seen such an aim. And a lady, too!”

“That’s the actress, Eleanor Neville.”

“She’s a wonder.”

“Amazing.”

As if oblivious of the compliments being thrown around her, she bent down to the three children and asked them to tell her which toys they wanted. They pointed to the desired objects. She turned to the stern-faced proprietor, who had taken out the darts and held them in his hand, and calmly told him her choice of prizes.

With a jerk, he took the toys off the shelf and slammed them on the counter, a Bartholomew baby doll for the girl, a wooden dog covered with patches of fur for one of the boys, and a yo-yo for the other.

The children grabbed them and chattered happily as they were led away by the adults.

“You’ve made a few children happy for the day,” Ian remarked as they continued down the street.

“You say they hang about the dispensary.”

“Yes. The whole neighborhood is full of children.” She made no reply. “Mrs. Neville, where did you learn such an accurate aim?”

She smiled. “Oh, I’ve thrown a lot of darts in my life. I told you I started out my career at street fairs.” She nodded up ahead. “See the acrobats? I was cutting capers and walking on ropes since I was fourteen. We traveled from village to village and town to town. There was ample time to play darts at taverns or just nail the board to a tree when we had to camp out on a meadow.”

He listened, finding it hard to imagine such a fashionably dressed young lady up on a makeshift stage doing acrobatic tricks.

They ambled down the street, stopping frequently. The children watched in awe a juggler tossing balls in the air. Another player balanced a ball at the end of a stick.

“I’ve done it all. Even equestrian feats. That’s how I started at the Surrey.”

“And now?”

“Now? I have lead roles in the melodramas, only we mustn’t call them melodramas, only burlettas, or we might lose our license. The royal theaters at Drury Lane and Covent Garden are the only ones permitted to put on straight dramatic works.”

“I didn’t think there was much difference,” he said drily. He knew enough of the theater to know that in recent years the Drury Lane and Covent Garden were known to put on bigger and bigger extravaganzas instead of pure classical dramas.

“Strictly speaking, anything the minor theaters put on must be set to music, with no spoken lines permitted. But you’re right, there is less and less distinction between the majors and minors. Still, we must watch how we bill our performances or we could be shut down.”

A pastry vendor came by, swinging the tray suspended from his neck back and forth. “Tasty hot pasties. A ha’pence each, penny for two. Come and have a meat pasty!”

Ian stopped the man and bought the children each a bulging meat pastry. He turned to Mrs. Neville. “Would you care for one?”

“No, thank you. I eat very little before a performance.”

He eyed her critically. She seemed much too fragile to him. “You can’t mean to say you starve yourself during the day.”

“I have been recently following a regimen of only fruit and vegetables on a performance day and tea laced with honey and lemon for my throat. I only dine after the show.”

“You certainly don’t look as if you needed to follow such a strict regimen.” He offered her his pastry.

“I shall only take a bite since it looks so tempting.” She broke off a corner of the warm pastry he held out to her.

“Thank you, it’s delicious,” she told him after she’d swallowed it and daintily wiped her mouth with her
lace-edged handkerchief. As she looked up at him, he was struck afresh by the color of her eyes. It was the clear gray of the mist hanging over the sea at dawn.

He cleared his throat, too dazed by his reaction to her to formulate any more complicated response than “You’re welcome.”

They stopped at another booth, this one selling all sorts of trinkets. After Jem had bought a pair of fans for the two ladies, he turned to present one to Mrs. Neville.