TemptingJuliana (4 page)

“I really must be on my way, Aunt Aurelia.” James forced his lips to curve in a smile. “You’re healthy as the day you were born.”

“Are you certain?” A tad plump, but elegant for all of that, Aurelia reclined on her peach-draped bed. Her entire house was decorated in peach. In fact, sometimes when James was here—which seemed to be way too often lately—he fancied he was
in
a peach. “My heart was paining me so,” she continued. “I tell you I could barely breathe. Won’t you check it one more time with that ingenious new instrument of yours?”

“If you insist.” Suppressing a sigh, he opened his black leather bag and drew out the ingenious instrument, which really wasn’t ingenious at all. It was simply a foot-long cylinder of wood. One end had a hole to place against the ear, and the inside was hollowed out in the shape of a cone. The thing was so
un
ingenious, in fact, that James was tempted to kick himself for not thinking of something like it years ago. Instead, just this past March, a young French physician named Laennec had invented the instrument and christened it the stethoscope, derived from the Greek words for “I see” and “the chest.”

James leaned close and placed the wider end of the
instrument over his aunt’s heart. Her scent wafted to him, a unique combination of camphor and gardenias, the latter applied a little too liberally. On second thought, he silently thanked Laennec for his brilliance. Without the stethoscope, he’d have to press his ear to Aunt Aurelia’s potent, pillowy chest.

Her heartbeat sounded strong through the tube, the thump-
thump
clear and distinct. “Regular as Grandmother’s clock,” he assured her.

“You’re certain?” She shook her coiffed gray head disbelievingly. “And my lungs?”

“Sit up, if you will.” He braced a hand on the headboard and applied the stethoscope to her corseted back. “Breathe in,” he said as patiently as he could. “Out. In. Perfect. You’re healthy as a newborn babe.” He dropped the instrument back in his bag and fastened the clasp. “Now I really must leave, Auntie.”

She climbed from her bed and accompanied him downstairs. “You’re expected in Parliament?”

“Not today. It’s Wednesday.” The House of Lords sat on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. “But I was expected at the Institute hours ago. Only one other doctor volunteered for the early shift today.”

“I do appreciate your visit.” She squeezed his hand, making his heart squeeze as well. Aunt Aurelia was a dear, even if she was a hypochondriac. In the foyer, she glanced at Grandmother’s tall-case clock. “Such a shame that Bedelia hasn’t returned. She’ll surely want to see you, too. She had a horrid case of the putrid sore throat this morning.”

Bedelia, his mother’s other sister, shared the house with Aurelia. Two childless widows whose lives centered on their imaginary physical ailments.

“Tell Aunt Bedelia to gargle with salted water. I am certain that will cure her.”

“Do you expect so?” Aurelia’s blue eyes looked dubious.

“Absolutely.” James doubted Bedelia’s throat was putrid; if her throat hurt her at all, it was likely due to nothing more serious than incessant chattering. “I’ll see you again soon,” he added, escaping to his carriage
before Aurelia could ask him to clarify what he meant by
soon
. If she had her way,
soon
would be tomorrow—if not an hour from now.

On the way to New Hope Institute, he scribbled more notes for the speech he planned to deliver in Parliament, recommending compulsory smallpox vaccinations for infants. So immersed was he in his work, his carriage drew up to the door of the Institute before he noticed all the people queued in a line that stretched down the street.

Way
down the street.

They might be London’s poor, but they were good people, trying to do their best for their children. Mothers shivered in the cold, damp air, their faces set in resigned, unhappy lines. Babies cried. Small children whined, and restless older children taunted one another. Rather than wait, people were giving up and leaving, walking away from the Institute.

For the second time within a month.

Without waiting for the steps to be lowered, James bounded from the carriage and dashed through the drizzle into the building. In the reception area, more babies wailed on impatient mothers’ laps. Two boys playing tag raced around the room, bumping into the knees of those seated. Slipping off his tailcoat, James looked to the counter for help.

No one was behind it. He untied his cravat as he pushed through the door into the back.

His private office was tiny—not much more than a desk and chair, since he preferred to do paperwork in his study at home. He tossed his coat and cravat onto the chair, then poked his head into the first of three treatment rooms, finding it empty although the next patient should be waiting there. The second room held one harried-looking physician along with a mother and her teary-eyed three-year-old.

Unfastening the top button of his shirt, James frowned. The vaccination procedure went more smoothly with a cooperative patient, and candy—a real treat for a poor child—usually proved a good distraction. “Where are the sugar sticks?” he asked.

Dr. Hanley shrugged, setting aside the ivory lancet
he’d used to inoculate the little girl. “I haven’t a clue where…what is that new assistant’s name?”

“Miss Chumford.”

“Ah, yes.” He tied a fresh bandage around the girl’s arm. “I haven’t a clue where Miss Chumford keeps the sugar sticks. I cannot seem to locate anything on those shelves. I consider myself lucky to have found a supply of the vaccine.”

“Where
is
Miss Chumford?”

“In the next room. Crying her eyes out. And I don’t expect a sugar stick will help.” Dr. Hanley stood the sniffling child on her feet. “There you go, sweetheart. If you want a sugar stick, follow Lord Stafford.”

“Dr. Trevor,” James reminded him. He preferred not to be called “Lord” at the Institute—it intimidated the patients. As did his aristocratic clothing, which was why he always shed the more formal items. “I shall send in the next patient,” he added as he ushered the girl toward the reception area. “Did Dr. Hanley tell you what to expect?” he asked her mother.

Clearly awed to be in a peer’s presence, the woman answered shyly. “Yes, my lord. A big blister but no pox.”

“That is correct. It may take some weeks for the blister to heal, and it will leave a scar. But your daughter will be spared from the smallpox.”

“Thank you,” she breathed, lifting the little girl and holding her close. “If I could pay you, I would.”

Noting the telltale pox scars on her face, he knew her words came from the heart. He usually encouraged parents to be vaccinated along with their children, but that had obviously been unnecessary in her case.

“Thank
you
,” he returned, “for doing your part. We’re not in need of your money. But please tell your friends and neighbors about New Hope Institute. With your help, we can annihilate this dreadful scourge once and for all.”

James would be happy with no less. It was his belief that if only everyone everywhere were vaccinated, smallpox could be wiped off the globe. It was a daunting task, he knew, but he was determined to do his part in London.

Unfortunately, London was not particularly cooperative. The poor were sadly skeptical and uninformed, and some churchmen preached that vaccination interfered with the will of God, believing smallpox was sent to chasten the population. In addition, the Institute could handle only a certain number of people per day. But James paid men to canvass the poorer parishes and talk people into bringing their children, which made it all the more frustrating when those who agreed were forced to stand out in the cold and rain.

He found a box of sugar sticks and sent the girl and her mother on their way, then settled the next patients in the two vacant treatment rooms. Once he ascertained that Dr. Hanley had a quantity of vaccine, sugar sticks, and other necessary supplies, he knocked on the door to the third room. “Miss Chumford?”

A prolonged sniffle was the only answer.

“Miss Chumford, may I come in?”

“It’s your Institute,” the young woman pointed out in a tiny voice.

Yes, it was. He opened the door. Then almost closed it at the sight of Miss Chumford’s red, splotchy face.

There were few things he avoided more than a woman’s tears. Emotional tears, in any case. As a doctor, he’d learned to endure tears caused by pain, but the other sort was another matter altogether.

With a sigh, he stepped into the room. “There’s a queue outside, and if it grows any longer it’s likely to reach all the way to Surrey.”

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered.

“Whatever could be amiss?”

Both of her hands pressed to her middle, she raised flooded eyes to meet his. A lone tear trickled down her cheek. She said nothing.

He shifted uncomfortably, torn between heartrending sympathy and heart-hardening annoyance. He had the Institute to run. People in need. He’d employed her to keep the physicians well supplied and make sure the patients were seen as quickly and efficiently as possible. A simple job, really, and necessary to the smooth operation of the facility. And she was the second assistant within a month to…

He looked back to her hands, which were rubbing her middle now. “You’re with child, aren’t you?” he suddenly realized, even though her belly looked flat.

After all, that was the reason his last assistant had left.

She nodded miserably, with the longest, most pathetic sniffle yet.

“And you’re not wed, of course,” he surmised less than brilliantly. After all, she was
Miss
Chumford.

This time she nodded and words tumbled out of her mouth. “Papa will k-kill me, or at least throw me out of the house. Harry, my…the f-father of my child, cannot afford a home of his own. We shall have to live with his p-parents, and his mother hates me, and his father—”

“Your Harry is willing to marry you?” James interrupted. “To take responsibility for his offspring?”

She nodded again, still blubbering. “H-Harry is a good man, m-my lord, and a hard worker. B-but—”

“Wait here, Miss Chumford.” He could take no more of her tears. There were plenty of things to be miserable about that couldn’t be fixed. Fixing this would be a simple enough matter.

He had a small safe in his private office, from which he withdrew fifty pounds. A pittance to him, but enough to cover a small family’s rent and food for two years or more. It would provide Miss Chumford and her baby’s father with a start, and should Harry be as good a man and hardworking as she claimed, he and his new wife and child would weather this disaster quite well.

After Miss Chumford left—tearfully blubbering her thanks—James sighed and lettered a
HELP WANTED
sign, propped it in the Institute’s front window, and settled down behind the counter for what he knew from experience was likely to be many hours spent interviewing candidates.

Well, at least his mother wouldn’t be able to drag him to Almack’s tonight.

TRIFLE

Over the next two days, Juliana helped Amanda order an entire new wardrobe. They shopped for cosmetics, hats, shoes, hosiery, and other assorted fripperies. They practiced posture and walking, devised new alluring smiles, and perfected
the look
. Juliana taught Amanda how to apply the cosmetics so skillfully that no one would notice she was wearing any. She plucked Amanda’s heavy brows, hardening her heart to the older girl’s squeals of pain and protest—after all, all but the luckiest of women suffered for their beauty.

With each hour, Amanda’s confidence grew, as did Juliana’s certainty that her plan was going to work.

Finally, Saturday dawned.

Juliana dragged Corinna out of bed early—at noon—to help her make trifle before Amanda arrived to dress
for Lady Hammersmithe’s ball. Unfortunately, Corinna was hopeless in the kitchen on the best of days. And considering she’d stayed up until seven o’clock in the morning to finish a painting, this day was not her best.

“My arm hurts,” she complained. “And I’m tired.”

“Just keep beating those eggs until they’re creamy, please.” Juliana added two more handfuls of rose petals to the water she had boiled. She was determined to make sure Amanda’s cheeks would be nice and rosy. “I cannot understand why you won’t go to bed at a reasonable hour.”

“I am not a reasonable person—I’m an artist,” Corinna reminded her. “
I
cannot understand why you won’t ask a kitchen maid to beat these eggs.”

Juliana consulted their family’s heirloom cookbook, an ancient volume to which each lady in the family had traditionally added a recipe every Christmas since the seventeenth century. Many of the sweets were thought to be magic charms. She poured the rosewater into a pot of cream and sprinkled it with a bit of ginger. “How many times must I tell you that the Chase family recipes must be made by Chase family members if they’re to work?”

Corinna rolled her eyes. “You and your traditions. I cannot countenance why you and Alexandra believe such nonsense.”

“It hurts no one to try. Besides, the trifle will be delicious—you’ll have some, won’t you? If you and I and Amanda all have rosy cheeks tonight, perhaps we will all find husbands.”

“A rouge pot would be a more efficient method of obtaining rosy cheeks, regardless of A Lady of Distinction’s opinions on the matter.” Corinna started grating sugar into the eggs. “Although I suppose poor Amanda can use all the help she can get.”

“I’ve worked wonders with her,” Juliana said, giving her mixture a vigorous stir. “Wait until you see. Her gown will be exquisite, her complexion flawless. I’ve summoned a hairdresser—”

“Just don’t make Amanda so beautiful she steals your own suitors.”

“That’s an unkind thought.” Juliana snatched the
sugar loaf from her sister before she could add too much as usual; Corinna’s sweet tooth was legendary even among the sweets-loving Chases, and she had no concept of the proper amount of any ingredient. “I’ve no suitors I wish to marry anyway,” she added with a sigh.

“You’re trying too hard,” Corinna said. “Just relax and enjoy all the attention.”

But how could she relax? Next year she’d be twenty-three. Twenty-three and unmarried. At what age did one become a spinster, and how did one know when one reached it? Had Aunt Frances simply awakened one morning and decided to put on a spinster’s cap?

“There, it’s creamy.” Corinna banged the bowl onto the big wooden table and rubbed her arm. “Am I finished? Assuming I can still hold a brush, I’d like to varnish my painting.”

“Varnish away,” Juliana said and watched her sister leave the kitchen. Even without the security of a happy marriage like Alexandra’s, Corinna seemed content with her life. She wished she could say the same for herself.

The trifle was chilled in its silver bowl by the time Amanda arrived with two footmen carrying boxes. The French hairdresser was waiting, and less than an hour later, Amanda’s once knee-length hair reached only the middle of her back. She watched in Juliana’s dressing table mirror as her golden tresses fluttered to the floor, her face white as linsey, her eyes wide and apprehensive.

Juliana scooped trifle into a cup, thinking it might distract her friend. “Eat this. It will make your cheeks rosy.”

“What is it?” Emily asked, adjusting Herman on her shoulder. “May I have some?”

“It’s trifle, and yes, you may.”

The girl cocked her blond head. “Our cook’s trifle has cake and fruit.”

“This is a very old recipe.”

“Our cook is probably older,” she said, then spooned the sweet into her mouth and smiled. “It’s good. Your hair looks pretty, Lady Amanda.”

Amanda drew a sharp breath. “Do you truly think so, Miss Neville?”

“Absolutely,” Juliana answered for the girl. “Shorter hair is the thing. I cannot imagine why you hid those gorgeous curls in that plait.” Juliana had always despaired of her own stick-straight hair, but at least she knew better than to scrape it all back into a braid so tight it looked plastered to her head.

Amanda grimaced at another snip.

“Hold your head still, if you will.” Madame Bellefleur clipped off a final inch. “
Parfait
.”

“It’s trifle,” Emily corrected. “Not a parfait.”

“In French,” Juliana told her, “
parfait
means ‘perfect.’ That length will be so much lighter and easier to put up.”

Madame smiled and nodded. “Now, some shorter tendrils around the face,
oui
?”

“Brilliant.” Juliana resumed unpacking the boxes, admiring all the dresses they’d ordered. The seamstress had sent only one of the ball gowns, but promised the rest would be ready next week. “Your hair will be stunning,” she assured Amanda.

Amanda responded with a rather maniacal laugh.

Juliana winced. “You must practice a new laugh. An alluring laugh, like tinkling bells.”

“Like this?” Amanda attempted a girlish giggle.

Even Herman recoiled.

By the time they’d perfected the new laugh, Madame Bellefleur had experimented with different hairstyles, ultimately choosing one in which Amanda’s blond mane was loosely gathered, twisted up, and pinned, with the remaining curls arranged artistically on top of her head. The hairdresser left, and Juliana swept the ball gown off her bed.

Amanda looked from the lavender silk dress, to Emily and Herman, and back to Juliana. “I would prefer not to disrobe in front of a snake,” she said stiffly.

“So that’s why you refused to strip to your chemise in order to be measured.” Juliana laughed, remembering how the seamstress, Mrs. Huntley, also hadn’t been very keen on working with Herman in attendance. She called
her maid and asked her to walk Emily and the creature home. But after Juliana and Amanda were alone, it turned out Amanda didn’t want to undress in front of
her
, either.

“Turn around,” the older girl instructed.

“It’s just me.”

“Turn around.”

Sighing, Juliana did so, hoping this didn’t mean Amanda would be loath to bare a little skin in front of the man she chose to compromise her. Much rustling followed, evidence of Amanda’s struggles dealing with garments that weren’t meant to be donned without help. “Gracious me!” she finally exclaimed, sounding anything but gracious. “I cannot wear this.”

Juliana spun around to find her friend staring down at her chest in dismay. “Of course you can. You look beautiful.” She could hardly wait to see society’s reaction to the new Amanda. “Turn around and let me button you up in back. Once you see the dress properly fastened, you’re going to love it.”

Unfortunately, turning around brought Amanda face-to-face with the looking glass. Her hands flew up to cover her cleavage. “This is entirely too low,” she complained. “I’ll have to wear a different gown.”

“You have no other suitable gowns. Besides this, Mrs. Huntley sent only a few day dresses. The rest of your order won’t be ready until next week.”

Frowning, Amanda yanked up on the bodice. “I am certain the example Mrs. Huntley showed me had a much more modest neckline.”

Of course it had, else Amanda would never have approved it. But that was before Juliana gave Mrs. Huntley her instructions, which, thankfully, the seamstress had followed to the letter. Although Juliana had always considered her friend a bit chubby, Amanda had a surprisingly lovely shape once she was rid of her baggy clothes. And Juliana intended to show that off, the better to snag a young husband. “It is not too low,” she said, reaching around to tug the bodice back down.

“It is so.” Amanda pulled it higher.

Watching her friend in the mirror, Juliana could only laugh. “Look at yourself!”

Amanda’s neckline was indeed very near her neck—which meant the ribbon sash that was supposed to ride beneath her breasts was perched absurdly on top of them. Her mouth quirked, then spread into a reluctant smile, followed by a nervous titter.

“Tinkling bells,” Juliana reminded her, and Amanda responded with her new, practiced laugh.

“Much better.” Juliana reached once more to pull the bodice into place, dragging it a bit too low in the process. When an unusual fleur-de-lis-shaped birthmark was revealed on Amanda’s left breast, a delighted smile curved Juliana’s lips. “Quite seductive,” she murmured, raising a brow.

“Pardon?” Amanda looked down, then tugged the lace-trimmed bodice up to cover it. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Whyever not? It’s a delicate, pretty thing. I’m sure a man would find it enticing.”

“Enticing?” Clearly scandalized, Amanda blushed. “It’s
private
.”

Tying the sash, Juliana sighed, wondering again if—in spite of her newfound beauty—Amanda might be rather too reserved to attract men. But at least the blush brought out the roses in her cheeks.

She gave her more trifle, just in case. And brushed on a little extra rouge, as Corinna had suggested. As she applied the rest of her friend’s cosmetics—as artfully as her sister painted—she drilled Amanda over and over. “Let me see your smiles one more time. And you must practice
the look
again before we leave.”

All this preparation was
not
going to be for nothing.