My Favorite Countess (29 page)

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Authors: Vanessa Kelly

BOOK: My Favorite Countess
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“Hush, Bathsheba. This is what I do. I won't apologize for it. Abernethy already knows that.”
She nodded, still looking worried, but let him hand her up the steps. As he reached for the door knocker, she stopped him.
“I'd like to see where you work,” she blurted out. “What you do.”
He frowned. “You've already been down to Bart's.”
She looked more certain now, as if she had reached another decision. “No. The other places. I want to see where you work, and to know what kind of risks you have to take.” She took a deep breath. “I think it's important I do.”
“Bathsheba, it's not—”
“Yes. It
is
necessary. I want to know everything about you. I need to, if we're going to consider . . . well, you know,” she said, giving a cautious look around.
Her face was a study of conflicting emotions—curiosity, determination, and trepidation. But mostly determination.
He nodded. “I was thinking something along the same lines, but I didn't expect you would actually want to see it. Or need to. But you're right. You shouldn't make any decisions until you know everything about me.”
She smiled, but that solemn, unfamiliar air still hung about her. He knocked on the door of the town house, telling himself he could trust her—that he
did
trust her to understand his work, and why it meant so much to him.
But as they waited for the door to open, he couldn't help feeling that he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.
Chapter 21
Bathsheba inhaled a deep breath, struggling to ease the tightness in her chest and throat. How could she have been so stupid as to think she could actually do this? She deserved to be locked up in Bedlam for even making the suggestion.
Silently cursing herself for a fool, she grasped John's hand and stepped from the landau onto the pavement. She couldn't control a nervous flinch as an overburdened cart lumbered past, squeezing by them in the crush of activity at this end of Drury Lane.
John gave a quick glance around the crowded street. “My coachman will remain here with the carriage. The laneways in St. Giles are too narrow for it to pass.”
He ran a sharp eye over her walking dress and sturdy boots, then gave her an approving smile.
“I'm happy to see you dressed so sensibly, Bathsheba. Trust me. You'll be grateful for those boots before the end of this day.”
She tried to return his smile but her cheek muscles refused to cooperate. The dread gathering somewhere in the vicinity of her heart made it impossible for her to utter a word in reply.
Her impulsive offer to join him for a trip into the stews to see him work had seemed like a good idea—yesterday. After that infuriating episode with Dr. Steele at Somerset House—and her subsequent heartfelt discussion with John—it had all made sense. And perhaps if he had been able to visit her last night, reassuring her as he always did, she would still think it made sense. But their paths had not crossed last evening. Bathsheba had returned home alone from a dinner party to spend hours tossing and turning in bed, mentally replaying the all-too-public confrontation with Steele and trying to convince herself that marriage to John wouldn't add to her long list of blundering decisions.
When John arrived at her town house this afternoon, her exhausted brain had been shrieking at her to retreat from this misguided expedition. She had seriously considered pleading illness, but she couldn't stand the idea that he would think her a sniveling coward, too afraid to catch even a glimpse of what he faced every day.
Even if it were true.
His grin faded as he inspected her face. “What's wrong?”
She swallowed past the dryness in her throat. “Nothing. How far must we walk in?”
“Not far. The house is in a laneway just off Coal Yard.”
She started off in that direction, but he stopped her by grasping her elbow. “Bathsheba.”
She turned back to face him, afraid he would see her reluctance through the thin netting of the veil that hung from the brim of her hat.
“It's not too late to change your mind,” he said in a voice so understanding it made her skin prickle with shame. “You don't have to do this. Not for me.”
“Yes, I do,” she replied, more sharply than she intended. “I can't pretend that you don't do this work, or that it won't affect our future. You take risks, John. With your life, I suspect, and certainly with your career. I have to find out if I can live with that.”
John stared at her, trying to read her expression through the veil's netting. Her heart sank at the stubborn, taut line of his mouth.
“Bathsheba,” he began in a grim voice.
She stopped him by touching his sleeve.
“It's all right, John. You don't have to say anything. I'll try not to disappoint you.”
He shook his head. “You could never do that, my love.”
She gave him a wry smile, even as her heart took a guilty leap. How wrong he might be.
John took her arm and they set off, moving quickly from the rough but cheerful bustle of Drury Lane into Coal Yard, and into the warren of tumble-down buildings. The tenements crowded along the narrow street, cutting off the sun and casting long shadows over the dirty, broken stones of the pavement.
Bathsheba soon lost her sense of direction, confused by the intersecting alleys and laneways—each one darker and drearier than the next. Her heart began to pound at the fear of being alone in such a place. If she were separated from John, she would never find her way back through the confusing tangle of courts and blind alleys. She had heard St. Giles described as a honeycomb, but this particular honeycomb had nothing of sweetness about it. Instead it oozed darkness, filth, and a heavy sense of despair.
Feeling breathless, Bathsheba huddled closer to the reassuring strength of John's muscular body. She had no one to blame but herself for the vulnerability of her situation. He had suggested bringing his student, Roger, along with them, but she had balked, wanting as few people as possible to witness her folly. And even though John had assured her that Roger could be trusted, she couldn't help thinking that the young man might be tempted to gossip about the Countess of Randolph and her rash expedition in the East End.
John gave her an easy smile, looking completely confident in their surroundings. As they penetrated ever deeper into St. Giles, he never hesitated, taking each turning with an unerring step. Suddenly she felt less anxious. If he could be fearless, so could she. After all, he wouldn't have taken her into the stews if he thought it would put her in danger. One of these days, she would have to learn to let go of her fear and give him her complete trust. And today seemed as good a day as any.
As she matched him stride for stride, her racing heart began to settle. The breathless feeling faded, and she began to take better stock of her surroundings.
There were men, women, and children in every manner of costume—some of it scanty, most of it worn and dirty. Many lounged in the doorways of tenements or what looked like flash houses, eyeing them with a mixture of curiosity, wariness, and, in some cases, undisguised hostility.
John didn't seem to notice the hostile glances, or, if he did, he ignored them. If fact, he obviously knew many of the people they passed—women mostly, who gave him gap-toothed smiles and greeted him with a shy respect. Bathsheba was both startled and impressed when he invariably tipped his hat and answered them by name.
She tugged on his arm to draw his attention. “John, you seem very well known in St. Giles. Are these people the patients who come to St. Bartholomew's for treatment?”
He shook his head. “Most of these poor souls can't get a referral from one of the governors. A few have managed it, which is where they came to know of my work. They are the ones who send for me when a neighbor or a family member falls ill. They know I will come whether they can pay me or not.”
Her unease stirred again. “How long have you been doing that?”
He cast her an unreadable glance. “Five years this October.”
“And how often do you come down to the stews?”
“As often as I am needed.”
She fell silent, dismayed. She knew about his quest to establish his own ward for pregnant women, and about his work at Bart's. But this was different. This looked more and more like an obsession. One he would be loath to relinquish, whatever the cost to his private or professional life.
They dodged a group of barefoot, rag-clad children and turned into a small courtyard. John brought her to a halt.
“Here we are,” he said.
She peered through the gloom at the house before them. Unbidden, the image of a Hogarth engraving came into her mind. Gin Lane—come to life with a sickening vengeance.
The house, three stories tall, loomed over them at a crazy angle. As in the other buildings they had passed, many of the windows were broken and stuffed with dirty rags. Mudsmeared walls and a crumbling foundation gave the impression that the entire structure could collapse at any moment.
A group of men—most of them lacking coats or even a vest—squatted on what passed for the doorstep, all clearly in various stages of inebriation. They ran their insolent gazes over her figure, making lewd comments in a local cant so thick she had trouble understanding it.
Thank God for small mercies.
She repressed the urge to let out a hysterical laugh.
John squeezed her hand. “Don't be frightened. Their bark is much worse than their bite.”
He stepped forward and gave the men an easy smile. “Good day to you, gentleman. I'm here to see Mrs. Butler and the new baby.”
One of the men extracted a smoke-blackened pipe from his mouth and rolled his eyes. “Aye, that be the brat that wails all night long. It's enough to make a man's rod go limp, I tell you, just when he's fixin' to poke his missus.”
His remark elicited a round of guffaws. After a few good-natured jests and a plea for John to fix “the little bastard,” the men squeezed over to let them pass.
As she stepped over the threshold, Bathsheba smiled weakly at the man with the pipe, and he moved aside with a flourishing, mocking bow. She heard a few more indelicate comments about the shape of her backside as John led her down a dark hallway.
“There, now,” he murmured as he steered her toward a staircase. “That wasn't so bad, was it?”
She was opening her mouth to make an acid retort when she got her first whiff of the stench permeating the building. It stank of drains, urine, and unwashed bodies, a choking miasma so thick she could taste it. She blinked several times as her eyes started to water.
Hastily, she groped in her reticule for a handkerchief, only to find a large square of clean linen thrust into her hand. Gratefully, she pressed it to her eyes and then covered her nose.
“You'll get used to it,” John said.
She peered into his face, unable to tell in the gloom of the hallway if he was joking or not. Surely, no one could ever grow used to such degradation.
As they climbed the stairs at the end of the hall, each step groaned loudly, as if the rotting wood was about to give way. On one flight, they had to step around a pair of squabbling women who looked ready to push each other down the stairs. On the next, they clambered over a group of half-naked, giggling children making bets with matchsticks. Finally, John led her down a dank-smelling passage to a closed door.
The door opened at his knock, and he ushered her into the room.
It was brighter than the hallway, with some light from an open window and from a lamp set on a small, rough-hewn table. The room looked and smelled a good deal cleaner than the rest of the building. Cautiously, Bathsheba lowered the handkerchief and dared to take a full breath.
“Mrs. Butler, how are you feeling today?” John asked as he made his way to an old bed shoved up against the wall. A faded piece of dimity hung in the corner, and a battered tea chest sat by an empty grate. On the chest perched a man, presumably Mr. Butler, mending a shoe.
Mrs. Butler huddled under a blanket, cradling a mite of an infant—blessedly quiet for now—to her breast. The woman smiled at John as he set his doctor's bag at the foot of the mattress.
“I'm feeling so-so, doctor, and that's for sure. I don't know when a baby has wore me out so much. My girls never gave me a speck of trouble.”
She smiled and seemed to nod at a spot behind Bathsheba. Startled, Bathsheba turned to find two little girls, dressed in plain dark frocks, sitting in the corner of the room and staring up at her with huge, solemn eyes. One looked no older than twelve or thirteen, the other, several years younger.
“Well, let's see what we can do to make you and little Samuel more comfortable,” John said.
As he began his examination, Bathsheba stood uncomfortably by the door, wishing she had something to do with her hands besides twisting the strings of her reticule. Feeling useless, she returned her gaze to the little girls, who stared back with unblinking fascination.
“Hello,” Bathsheba said, feeling like an idiot.
“Girls,” began the mother. Before she could go on, she broke into a loud, hacking cough that shredded the air. She gasped for breath while John rubbed her back. After a minute, she regained her voice.
“Don't forget your manners,” she wheezed. “Give the nice lady a curtsy.”
The older one stood up and hauled her sister to her feet. Each gave Bathsheba an awkward bob, and the younger girl immediately broke into a cough almost as bad as the mother's.
Bathsheba clutched her reticule, forcing herself not to back away. Surely John would not bring her into a place rife with contagion, would he?
“I'm Bess and this is Amy,” said the older girl. “What's your name, miss?”
“Bathsheba,” she replied with a forced smile.
“You're pretty. Just like one of them lightskirts I sell my flowers to down in the market.”
An amused snort came from Mr. Butler's direction but Bathsheba thought it best to ignore it, as well as the assumption that she was a prostitute.
“So you sell flowers in Covent Garden, do you?” she commented brightly. “What kind do you sell?”
“Primroses when they're in. And violets. The fancy ladies always like the violets. Lilies of the valley and green lavender, too.”

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