Fortune's Mistress (15 page)

“
And very wise is nature,” she returned with some asperity, “else women would never be persuaded to bear more than one!”

“
Very likely not,” he agreed judiciously. “Shall I order some tea for you, while I rescue little Falstaff? It was he, was it not?”

“
Heavens!” she cried. “I had forgot all about the scamp. Oh, please do!”

He opened the connecting door and made his request to Annie, who happened just then to be passing by. Then he proceeded through the French doors into the garden once again, leaving her deep in thought.

Though Marianne had not before today discussed her condition with the doctor— nor indeed had he pressed her to do so— his manner and smile when he did so just now seemed to reflect far more than just professional interest. His anxiety was as real as hers, and when he had, for a moment, let down his guard, he seemed unaccountably to share in her joy. What sort of man, she wondered, rejoiced in the mere notion of new life, in the quickening of a child not his own? She could not begin to understand him, but it was little wonder that one such as he pursued his life and dreams beyond the brittle cynicism of the
ton,
where children were merely security for ancient titles and the building of fortunes.

The doctor returned a moment later, bearing the prodigal on his shoulder. He set the kitten back in the basket with his siblings, where he curled into a ball and went to sleep, apparently unrepentant.

“I do not wish to unnecessarily concern you, Mrs. Glencoe,” he said when he had seated himself, “and I recognize you are not my patient. But it is important for you to begin paying more attention to your symptoms and act on them accordingly. Ladies who have led quiet lives, as you seem to have done, tend to be more delicate, more prone to discomforts, than those who are used to exertion. I believe that Old Maggie will attend you very well when your time comes, but in the interim you must be careful. Do not over-tire yourself. Do not go farther than your voice might be heard, should you be overcome again. And,” he added with a twinkle, “you must be sure to ask for assistance the next time you are called upon to rescue a kitten.”

“
Yes,” she said. “Of course, you are right. I have undergone some similar dizziness in the past, and a little nausea, but not quite so violent as today. I rather think the pain must have made everything else seem worse. I must thank you for your concern.”

“
Nonsense,” he said brusquely. “It is my work.” He patted her hand. Against his own, it seemed tiny, like that of a doll. “Besides, it is I who must thank you. During these dreary days of applying poultices and setting bones, it is not often the occasion arises that I may exercise my dusty sense of chivalry.”

“
Nor,” she replied with a slight smile, “have I been much accustomed to being rescued in quite such a dashing manner
!
”

“
Ah, so all your rescues have been commonplace?”

“
They tend to be,” she said archly, “when one is forced to perform them herself.”

He would like to have pursued this interesting comment when the door opened and Annie en
tered, balancing a tray carefully. It was laden not only with a pot and cups, but a plate of scones, marmalade, and cream, as well. “Cook thought you might be in need of sustenance, ma’am. She declares you are too thin.”

“
Take it away, Annie,” her mistress said, turning from the sight. “I could not …”

The doctor looked at her narrowly.
“Perhaps later then. Just set the tray on the table, Annie. Your cook is a wise woman, Mrs. Glencoe,” he told her. “In my experience, thin mamas bear thin babies, and we cannot have that. Annie, I have left my bag in the garden. Will you fetch it for me?”

When Annie had set about this errand, he once more directed a critical eye at Marianne.
“Have you been eating regularly and well?”

“
As well as I am able,” she responded. “Sometimes, I must confess, I feel as if I will eat everything in the pantry—the curry you were so kind to bring did not see the end of that day, I can assure you— but there are other times I am not equal to a single bite.”

He pressed his lips together into a frown. Women, he knew, suffered from a variety of odd humors during these last months. Chances were that all was well. Still, it was best in these matters to be prudent.
“I hope you will not think me impertinent, but I think it would be wise if I conducted an examination—just to be certain all is progressing normally. These late months of a pregnancy can sometimes be difficult.”

Marianne leaned back into the sofa and shut her eyes for a moment. It was foolish to think she could go much longer without the doctor
’s suggesting such an examination, and certainly not after the state in which he had discovered her today. If anything were amiss, she must learn what it was. Still, the notion of submitting to such a procedure rattled her at her core. She was haunted by that fear, foolish or not, that signs of her past could be read on her body. What if he could spot some telltale sign, could perceive her past?

Annie set the doctor
’s bag inside the door just then, and stood waiting. Marianne shook herself and nodded.

“
There is no hurry, Mrs. Glencoe,” the doctor told her. “Do you think you could manage a cup of tea?”

“
I am ready now,” she said resolutely.

“
I shall not be very long about this I promise, Mrs. Glencoe,” he said briskly, taking up his bag. “Shall we adjourn to your chamber?”

His innocent suggestion reverberated with painful memories, and she revisited with painful clarity all those moments in the past when draw
ing room conversation had been a mere prelude. Would there never be an end to this sensation of the past reliving itself in new contexts? It was all so awkward, so unnerving, and the doctor’s vitality, his courtliness, his physical presence only underscored these sensations. If only the doctor were some prosing Methuselah, she might not be reminded of these persistent ghosts!

Marianne pressed her lips together and arose without comment, preceding him from the room. Just as she gathered up the hem of her heavy black skirts to ascend the staircase, the doctor asked,
“Will you have Annie attend you, or have you a personal maid?”

Surely he knew she did not. Marianne gripped the banister as she felt the blood rush to her cheeks. So much for her pains! How could she have forgot such a simple thing as not allowing a gentleman, even a doctor, to accompany her to her chamber without another woman in at
tendance? Her heart pounded as the impropriety into which she had almost allowed herself to fall struck her.

She did not turn, however, merely paused a brief moment before replying,
“Annie, of course, will come.” Then she continued to make her way up the stairs.

A little while later, Marianne shivered behind a screen while Annie helped her remove her gown and wrapped a shawl about her, over her chemise. The doctor, she could see, stood gazing
out the window, waiting for her to be ready. She stepped into the room resolutely and sat herself down on the edge of the bed.
All I must do
, she thought
, is think on good things. Ignore everything else. Think about next summer’s flowers, the birds. Think about my baby.

She lay down on the bed and turned her eyes to the wall.

As Dr. Venables drove home, his thoughts were oddly sorted. In past weeks, the doctor had watched as Mrs. Glencoe hugged herself at the mention of her babe, radiant with the sensation of life within her, and had felt a familiar tug at his heart. Watching the ghost of sorrow fade from her countenance was part of what sent his footsteps in her direction day after day. He had been careful not to reveal his emotions, however. The stricken look in her eyes the day he had so rashly kissed her hand had haunted him ever since. What secrets lay behind those fathomless blue eyes?
he wondered.

What had really sent her from the embrace of the
ton
to the wilds of Cornwall? For him, this had been a place of healing. Years ago, the open fields and the sound of the sea had acted as a balm on his shattered soul. Time after time, he had observed the serenity of the place soothe others. Here, he had seen the beasts and children heal their wounds as well.

It was the same with Mrs. Glencoe.
With Marianne. As he observed her, first with the kittens, then in tutoring the children, he hardly noticed her beauty anymore. It was rather like the feeling one had in summer; after the joy of spring, summer’s beauty was both accepted and expected for the gift it was, but rarely remarked upon. Whenever he could find an excuse to do so, Venables had basked in the glow of Marianne’s goodness, her intelligence, and growing humor.

He ought not, he knew, to trail after one so newly widowed, and he hoped that his motive in finding his way so often to her door was not as transparent as he feared. Though he had, as yet, turned from the question of whether or not he were in love with her, he knew he was fascinated by the lady, at ease in her company, and nervous as a cat when he was not. If only the same were true
of her. She had, he thought, begun to warm toward him, but he had spoiled it all by acting unwisely, grasping for a happiness which might never be allowed him. All too often of late she had seemed abstracted and overwrought in his presence; never more so than today.

A physical examination was never comfortable
for ladies, but there was something exceedingly odd about the one he had just conducted. Odd from the start. Odd that Marianne should have forgot to request the maid to accompany her. No lady, widow or otherwise, would have dreamed of placing herself in such a position. Though he had little patience with such conventions, and would certainly not have condemned her for her oversight, he knew such habits died hard.

But still, he argued with himself, she is preg
nant and newly widowed. Either such eventuality would be sufficient to make a lady forgetful. He shook his head. Ladies might forget where they had left their embroidery silk or workbasket, but the deportment lessons of their governesses and mamas, never. Though her voice and manner clearly revealed she had sprung from the highest circles, something, he felt in his heart, had happened to her. Something more than the death of a husband (particularly one who seemed to be mourned not at all) had interrupted the custom of one sort of life and replaced it with another. She seemed to live between worlds, this Mrs. Glencoe from nowhere in particular.

What nagged at him the most as he drove through the deepening twilight was her manner during the examination itself. How could that be accounted for?
he wondered. He had expected the reluctance, the embarrassment other ladies had in the past exhibited. But there were no blushes, no demurring. She had simply lain herself upon the bed quite passively, and turned her head away from him. She had shown not the least response when he placed his hands upon her abdomen to ascertain the child’s size and position, nor when he rested his head against her bosom to listen to her heart. When his examination had become even more intimate, she had not even twitched. It was as if she had taken her
self
away, as if only her body were there. In India, he had often witnessed such detachment, but never in England, never in a woman.

Then it struck him. There had been such a woman. Good God, he had almost forgot her. It was when he had first begun to study medicine. He had accompanied old Dr.
Thurlow on his rounds down the filthy back lanes of London. He was desperate to help the wretches he saw there, yet too green to prevent averting his eyes from their misery at every turn.

A child had grasped
Thurlow’s arm and all but pulled him up a narrow flight of stairs to a hovel that passed as home for seven other children and their consumptive mother. She strained fitfully against her labor pains, but made not a sound. It was clear as soon as they saw her emaciated body that neither she nor the infant would have the strength to live. When Thurlow placed a hand on her abdomen, the woman had turned away unseeing, unfeeling, as if accepting whatever the touch might bring for good or ill.

Today, he had recognized that same dispas
sionate resignation in Mrs. Glencoe. There the resemblance ended, but it seemed to him that some history, some similar incident of hard usage must connect the two women in spirit. It chilled his heart to recall the similar expression on their faces, the vulnerability of their bodies. This was what men did to women. A shaft of anger pierced his heart. Perhaps, he concluded grimly, that was the reason no trace of Mrs. Glencoe’s late husband was in evidence. She did not wish to remember him.

It seemed, then, that she bore the burden of secrets, and bore it close—as he did his. He shook his head. He had no right to pry into the lives of his patients— for that was what she was. He could claim no more of her. His only duty was to heal an
d ease pain. That must be sufficient.

* * * *

When he entered his home, he at once encountered Mrs. Maiden, who was balancing a heavily laden tray as she embarked on the stairs.

“
Good evening, Mrs. Maiden,” he said. “How fare our patients?”