The Healing Season (10 page)

The next thing Eleanor knew, the good doctor swept her up in his arms and was carrying her to her awaiting coach.

Perfect. Better than she could have asked for. She didn’t dare open her eyes, but felt him lay her down along the seat and arrange the squabs beneath her neck.

“My salts…I have them in my…reticule,” she mumbled.

“I have some as well in my bag.” She heard him rum
mage in his medical bag and then the sharp whiff of ammonia brought her eyes open.

“Thank you,” she gasped. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Starving yourself again,” he concluded. “Although I should think that tea you had would have restored you.”

“Yes, it should have,” she answered innocently.

“When you get home, you’d better see your physician if these spells continue.” His tone remained businesslike.

“Yes…yes, I shall.” She rested her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes as if it was too much effort to keep them open. “Could you please tell McGinnis to take me home?”

“Of course.” He knocked on the panel with his stick, and when the coachman’s face appeared in the small opening, he gave the instructions.

Eleanor settled back comfortably when she saw that Mr. Russell made no move to depart the carriage. When he didn’t speak but sat with his attention fixed out the window, she finally said, “Two of the children at the mission passed away. They must have been among the ones I met the first time I was here.”

“Undoubtedly,” he answered shortly. “Hundreds perish each day in London, and no one takes it amiss.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

When he made no reply, she ventured, “Do you have a case on your mind?”

“What—er?” He turned to her, and his eyes locked on hers.

She let the seconds linger, doing her best to keep her own eyes trusting and childlike. At last she spoke as if nothing had passed between them during that interval. “You at least are trying your best to keep some children from perishing.”

He took a deep breath. “It sometimes seems that my efforts are in vain. What can one—or even a few individuals—do against so much poverty and squalor?” He gestured futilely at the window.

“Perhaps if more people were aware of the plight of the children, more would be done.”

“They have but to open their eyes and look around them,” he replied in a bitter tone.

“Not everyone has your courage to venture to these parts of London.”

“These parts of London are everywhere. All you have to do is walk but a few blocks from the City and you are in St. Giles or Clerkenwell.”

She shuddered. “I know it well.” She closed her eyes again.

“Are you quite all right?”

“Yes. I must have slept too little. I shall be fine.”

When they arrived at her street, a quiet, narrow lit
tle street between two squares, the coachman opened the door, and Dr. Russell eyed her. “Do you think you can stand?”

“I’ll try.” She attempted to sit, and the doctor helped her slowly to her feet. He preceded her out of the carriage and spanned her waist with his hands to carry her down. She leaned against him as the two walked up the neat pavement to her door.

“Oh, Mrs. Neville, are you all right?” Mrs. Wilson, her housekeeper, asked as soon as she saw her.

“Yes, I just felt a little faint. This is Mr. Russell, a surgeon. He has been so kind as to see me home.”

The older woman looked nervously from her to Mr. Russell. “Are you sure she is all right?”

“Not completely sure, without an examination. But for the moment the best thing is for Mrs. Neville to lie down.”

“Oh, yes, sir, indeed. Let me show you to the sitting room and get a nice pot of tea.”

“Yes, that would be lovely. You will stay for a cup, Mr. Russell? You didn’t have any at the mission.”

She looked up into his eyes as she leaned against his arm. She felt like a master fisherman, playing with the fish on her line. He wouldn’t be loosed so easily.

“Very well,” he answered slowly.

She was pleased with her little sitting room. It was fashionably furnished, with gold-and-green-striped upholstery on the chairs, light-colored wood paneling, and
a tasteful wallpaper above the wainscoting. A few landscapes by Turner hung on the walls.

The doctor helped her to a chaise longue. He cleared his throat. “I think you should loosen your spencer.”

“Yes.” She began with the top button but dropped her hands to her sides after the first button as if exhausted with the effort. “I’m afraid I must ask your assistance.”

She watched him as he leaned over her. His hands were clean and strong looking, the nails neatly clipped. His lean fingers took the button and silk and, after only a momentary fumble, loosened each button in turn. She took a deep breath as if freed from a terrible constriction. At the sound he took an immediate step back.

He was terrified of her.
The realization came to her in a flash. Mr. Russell, serious, morally upright surgeon, was frightened of the loose-moraled actress, Eleanor Neville. Oh, it was too rich! She managed to keep her expression properly demure as she waved him to a seat near the chaise.

“Thank you. That has helped immensely.”

“You’d better have your maid loosen your stays,” he said, a telltale flush tinting his cheeks.

“Yes, I certainly shall.” She continued to look at him, caressing him with her eyes.

At that moment, Mrs. Wilson brought in the tea tray. Mr. Russell went immediately to help her carry it.

“No need to bestir yourself, sir. I manage this all the time.” The woman set the tray down on a low table, then
bustled about, pouring the tea. She helped Eleanor sit up and placed a cup in her hands. “There, I’m sure that’ll put you to rights.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wilson,” she murmured.

The housekeeper asked the doctor how he took his tea. Eleanor listened idly to their murmurs as she considered the next move of her game.

When the housekeeper had gone, she sipped her tea, her eyes on the doctor. She noticed he kept his attention on the cup in his hands.

“Have you always lived in London?” she asked, growing tired of the silence.

“No. I only came here for my apprenticeship.”

“Oh. Where did you grow up?”

“In a small village on the road north. It’s only about an hour’s ride from here.”

“Do you still have family there?”

He smiled slightly. “Oh, yes, both my parents are still living there, as well as several brothers and sisters.”

“How many are there of you?” she asked, feeling a small pang, as she always did when she thought of her own family.

“Eight, all still living, God be praised.”

“That’s a large family. Are you the oldest?” She could easily picture him in the role of the responsible older brother.

He shook his head with another smile. “No, the
youngest. That was perhaps the reason I was able to come to London to commence my medical studies. By then, all of my older siblings were settled.”

“What do you think you would have done if you hadn’t been able to study medicine?” She was unable to picture him as anything but a dedicated doctor.

“Probably studied for the church. My home saw many great preachers in the years I was growing up. Berridge, Romaine, Newton, and many others whose names have been forgotten, but whose labors have not perished.” His features softened in recollection. “My father even took me to hear Wesley preach one of his last sermons at The Foundry in Moorfields when I was but four. They were all great men of God, but they always had time to address a word to a young lad.”

She felt a stab at his fond memories of childhood. “What about you?” he asked her before she could respond. “Did you grow up in London?”

“London born and bred,” she replied, hoping he wouldn’t ask for details of her childhood.

“Your father and mother?”

“I’ve no idea,” she answered, looking away. “I never knew who my father was, and I left my mother when I was fourteen and haven’t seen her since.”

“I’m sorry. She must have missed you.”

“I don’t know about that. I had plenty of brothers and sisters. Unlike you, I was the oldest.”

“Why did you leave home?” Mr. Russell asked softly.

The direct question caught her off guard. She licked her lips, deciding how much to relate. As he waited for her reply, she resolved to tell him a portion of it. She was curious to see his reaction.

“When I was twelve and my mother great with another child, my stepfather decided I was woman enough to substitute for her. Actually, I don’t know if he had ever married my mother, but he certainly fathered enough children with her.”

The room was still except for the ticking of the clock and the sound of an occasional carriage in the street. She stirred her tea, telling herself to end the story there.

“Your stepfather took advantage of a child.” Mr. Russell’s words stated the fact for her.

“I had a pretty face and already a womanly figure,” she explained. “I endured it as long as I could. I had nowhere to go, you see.”

She risked a look at his face. All she saw was compassion in his brown eyes. “Finally, I could stand no more and ran away.”

“How did you manage that?”

“Waiting till my stepda was plenty drunk. I knew he had just been paid. That’s when he’d get drunkest. As soon as I heard him snoring, I stole his purse. I’ve never been so scared in my life. I knew he would kill me if he found me.”

She hadn’t brought up the memories in many years, and telling them now brought back the terror of that night. She set the teacup down, afraid she’d spill it.

“I gave the money it contained to my next youngest brother—my favorite—and told him if he valued his life, he’d hide it and use it when there was nothing to eat. I took only a sovereign for myself and ran off that night.”

“Where did you go?” Mr. Russell’s low voice prompted her to go on.

She gave a deep sigh. “I had been to see a traveling troupe of players earlier that week. When I saw them act, I decided that’s what I wanted to do. So I went back to them. They were packing up to leave. I asked for a job.” She stopped, reluctant to recall what happened next.

“Did they hire you?”

“They laughed at me and tried to run me off. But I persisted until I finally got to see the owner.”

“How did he receive you?”

“I had a lot to learn of the ways of the world. He made it clear to me there was only one condition if he hired me.”

She gauged his reaction, but his serious features gave nothing away except that he was listening intently.

“I agreed in return for work on the stage.” She paused. “Do I shock you, Mr. Russell?”

He sighed. “Unfortunately, no. I see all too frequently around me the degradation of women of your class.”

Women of her class!
The words burned her. He lumped
her together with the lowest dregs of fallen women. It hadn’t been compassion she’d read in his eyes but pity.

She decided to lay it on thick then. “The owner was a horrid-looking, middle-aged man,” she described slowly. “I found him as hideous as my stepfather, but at least he kept his part of the bargain.

“He only gave me bit parts at first, but I did anything required of me. I learned acrobatics, singing, juggling, whatever I saw others do, as long as it put me in front of an audience.

“It was a tawdry little company,” she admitted with a flick of her fingers at a piece of lint on her skirt. “It could barely keep itself together from town to town, but by the time I left, I was a lead player.

“I stayed four years, learning everything I could. When we returned to London on one occasion, I came to the Surrey, as it was called then, and auditioned for a part. They hired me and I never went back to the other.”

Only the muted sounds of the street below penetrated the curtained windows.

“You never saw your brother again?”

“None of them. The troupe traveled all over the country, and by the time I came back, they were gone. Who knows, an epidemic could have taken them all.”

“I’m sorry.”

She stared at him, angry at the pity she read in his eyes. “You needn’t be. It happened long ago.” She waved
a hand around her sitting room. “You see me now. I’m quite happy with the way things turned out.”

He made no reply. They finished their tea, and she changed the subject, asking him about his work at the hospital.

When Mr. Russell left, he was tender and solicitous with her. He took her pulse before leaving and told her to be sure to have something to eat and see her own physician.

She could have wept. Why had she told him anything of her past? Instead of shocking him, she had only been made to feel shame, a shame she had thought buried from those long-ago days.

That evening, Ian sat once again in his study, but his mind could not focus on his specimens. He got up from the microscope and paced the confines of the room, coming finally to the dormer window. He looked out the dark panes, seeing again a young, helpless girl, at the mercy of who knows how many lecherous men in her past.

He felt again her frail frame beneath his arms as he settled her in her carriage; he smelled again her soft fragrance; he looked again into those clear eyes exuding only innocence.

But she wasn’t innocent. She was a woman used by men, and who’d learned to use them to her advantage by the looks of her comfortable apartment.

He turned from the window and walked to his desk. Opening his Bible to Genesis, he reread the story he’d been hearing since he was a boy, the story his father had read to him of how the Lord had chosen a wife for Isaac.

Ian went to the beginning of the chapter. When Abraham was old and knowing his time was drawing near, he made his servant swear that he would not take a wife for his son of the daughters of Canaan, but would go back to his country and choose one.

Several verses down, when the servant had arrived and prayed for this divine appointment, Rebekah appeared.

“And the damsel was very fair to look upon, a virgin, neither had any man known her: and she went down to the well, and filled her pitcher, and came up.”

A virgin. Neither had any man known her.