The Healing Season (16 page)

Mrs. Baldwin helped Eleanor sit up.

“Hold up her camisole,” he instructed the woman, keeping his voice as impersonal as possible while he desperately tried to ignore what lay beneath the sheer cotton. Instead, he concentrated on the long strips of sheet in his hand. Working quickly and efficiently, he wound them around her torso.

“This is worse than my stays,” Eleanor gasped.

“I’m almost finished. There,” he added, as he tied the final knot. “Thank you, Mrs. Baldwin. You can let her lie down.”

The woman covered Eleanor with the blanket once again. Eleanor looked on the verge of fainting. Ian’s heart went out to her, wishing once again he could bear her pain.

“I think a sip of brandy might be called for,” he told the wardrobe mistress.

“Yes, of course, I should have thought of it sooner.” She bustled to the dressing table and poured some liquid in a tumbler.

“Here, you go, dearie,” she said, lifting Eleanor’s head enough for her to take a few sips.

When Eleanor was resting quietly, Ian motioned Mrs. Baldwin to the door. “She needs to be transported home and put to bed. She shouldn’t be left alone during the ride. With that knock she took on the head, she really needs to have a close eye kept on her.”

The woman looked doubtful. “I don’t know, Doctor. I have my family I’ve got to get home to.”

“Perhaps one of the other actresses?”

“I’ll inquire.”

Ian didn’t want to go near Eleanor again. He had kept his professional detachment, but seeing her now lying on the settee, he was afraid he’d betray himself.

He wandered instead to her dressing table. It was a sturdy square wooden table with lots of drawers up each side. There was a large mirror facing him, and the surface of the table was covered with all manner of pots of
paints, powders, feathers, combs and brushes, and an assortment of jewels made of paste.

A world of make-believe, he thought, fingering a paintbrush.

“Oh, Mr. Russell, no one’s available,” Mrs. Baldwin announced sorrowfully, entering the room again.

Ian frowned. “Very well. I shall accompany her to her house. Could you be so good as to call for her carriage?”

“Very well, Doctor.”

Ian was loath to leave Eleanor after he’d carried her up to her bedchamber. Her maid and housekeeper were there, and they promised to look after her during the night, rousing her at intervals, but he felt pity that she had no family member to stay with her.

She was resting more tranquilly since he’d given her the bark tea. But still he lingered, needing to have one last look at her. He took her slim wrist in his hand and checked her pulse.

She looked so pale and helpless. How he wanted to bend over and place a kiss on her brow, but he could only play the serious doctor.

With a sigh he laid her arm down gently on the green coverlet. The bed was a mass of frills and lace. He glanced around the room before leaving it. It was everything feminine with its pastel wallpaper and white-and-gilt furnishings. A subtle hint of perfume pervaded it.

When he left her town house, Ian had to walk several blocks before he found a hack stand. One lone coach stood there, its horses bent down in repose.

As he rode through the dark streets, he threw his head back against the squabs and closed his eyes. Despite his weariness, he couldn’t dispel the image that haunted his mind. Eleanor Neville was the loveliest creature he’d ever beheld. Her torso was as perfect as marble statuary, her skin as soft as a vestal virgin’s.

Ian clenched his fist. What a deceptive image. She’d probably been used by more men than he could number.

As soon as he got home, instead of collapsing in bed, he headed to his study and sat down at the desk with his Bible.

He turned to a psalm he had been reading the night before.

“Judge me, O Lord; for I have walked in mine integrity; I have trusted also in the Lord; therefore I shall not slide.

Examine me, O Lord, and prove me; try my reins and my heart…I have walked in Thy truth. I have not sat with vain persons…and will not sit with the wicked.”

Instead of meditating on those passages, he found himself flipping several pages forward to Song of Solomon.

“…thy navel is like a round goblet, which wanteth not liquor; thy belly is like a heap of wheat set about with
lilies. Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins…”

No, he mustn’t read these words! They only inflamed him. He turned to the gospel of Matthew, looking for the Sermon on the Mount. His forefinger ran down the page. Yes, there it was.

“But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.

And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee…”

He felt the weight of condemnation fall heavily upon him.

Another verse he’d heard often from the pulpit came to him: “Know ye not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Be not deceived: neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers…”

He need read no more. He knew what the Word of God said on the subject of lust.

His head fell into his hands. All these years, he’d kept himself pure, and now here he was sinking deep into the pit of lust. Even as he admitted all these things, visions of Eleanor Neville’s body rose before him, haunting him, drawing him.

He wanted her as he’d never wanted a woman before.

Was he lost?

E
arly the next afternoon Eleanor, after a restless night, sat in her dressing gown in her upstairs sitting room, sipping a cup of hot chocolate.

No position felt comfortable. Everything hurt, from her head—she didn’t even want to think about her ribs—down to her calves.

How could this have happened? One moment, starring in a hit comedy, and the next, feeling as if every bone in her body had been broken.

She wanted to weep. How cruel could fate be?

“Excuse me, ma’am.” Her young maid popped her head in the door. “The surgeon, Mr. Russell, is here to see you.”

Her heart quickened at the memory of last evening. He’d been so kind, so protective of her.

“Show him up,” she told Clara.

Before she had a chance to do more than place her cup down and smooth her hair, there was a knock on the door.

Mr. Russell, looking well groomed and very much dressed in contrast to her dishabille, followed the maid into the room.

His eyes barely met hers as he said, “Good morning.”

He set down his medical bag and stood stiffly while the maid asked if she could bring him anything. Receiving a negative reply, she left the two of them.

“How are you feeling this morning?” he asked Eleanor, approaching her settee, his eyes not meeting hers but fixed somewhere near her chin.

“I’m feeling awful. I can hardly breathe, and you’ve got me trussed up like a fowl ready for a spit. How can I bathe this morning?”

At the word
bathe,
she immediately noticed the flush rise in his cheeks.

What was he uncomfortable about? She was the one who looked and felt terrible. It couldn’t be her state of dress—or undress. He was, after all, a doctor; he must see women all the time.

She took a deep breath and immediately regretted it.

“We’ll take off the bindings and I’ll show your maid how to put them back on,” he was saying. “I’ve brought some better ones anyway.” He pulled up a chair close to the settee. “Has the pain abated at all?”

“No,” she said with a pout. “I could scarcely sleep
last night. Mrs. Wilson kept waking me every time I managed to fall asleep.”

“That’s entirely my fault. I instructed her to rouse you throughout the night to ensure you didn’t fall into a coma. It was a nasty blow to your head.”

She touched it gingerly. It felt sore and tender. “How long will my convalescence last, anyway?”

“Hopefully not more than about six or eight weeks.”

Her mouth fell open. “You are funning me!”

His brown eyes finally met hers fully, their expression serious. “Unfortunately not. Whether sprains or fractures, they take their time to heal. You will aid in the process if you continue to rest—”

“Rest? What about my show?” Her voice rose and she held her side at the sudden jab of pain.

He immediately leaned forward, steadying her. “You must calm yourself. Any sudden movement, as you see, will only aggravate the condition.”

“I can see that,” she said through gritted teeth, torn between feeling comforted by his concern and ready to throw a tantrum by his cool manner in telling her she must sit still for six weeks!

“Here, lie back,” he urged, his tone gentle as he helped ease her against the cushions the maid had set behind her.

“Mr. Russell, I don’t think you fully understand the enormity of what you’re telling me. I have just opened with a show that is proving a success. Do you know how
many shows close after only one week, because the audience tires of them?

“We’ve had a packed house every night for the last fortnight. I am one of the leads in this show. I cannot afford to be off the stage right now.”

“You must be thankful you’ve come off with only some sprained ribs. It was a miracle you didn’t break your neck after a fall like that.”

“It couldn’t possibly be worse. Six weeks off the boards, I might as well have broken my neck. In six weeks no one will remember who Eleanor Neville is.”

“I sympathize with what you’re saying. I’m not responsible for your injured rib cage. The fall did that. I’m merely telling you from experience what has happened and how long it will take your body to mend. If you rush this, you will only find yourself in a graver situation.”

She hated that calm, condescending tone, as if he were speaking to an ill-tempered child. “Do you know how long I’ve waited for a part like this?”

He sat back and folded his arms across his chest.

“I’ve been walking the boards since I was fourteen. I shall be five-and-twenty in a few months. Do you know what that means?”

“That you are a young woman with many more years ahead of her…if you don’t go falling down trapdoors.”

She snorted at the last remark, then flinched. “It
means I am a
mature
woman on the stage. I have another five years before I’ll be playing nothing but old dowager roles. This show was my break. Don’t you see, a hit show, the kind of show to attract the managers and owners of Covent Garden or Drury Lane?”

“I am truly sorry for your unfortunate accident—”

“What would you know about it?” She turned away from him, her voice catching, despair engulfing her.

They sat in silence a few moments, Eleanor feeling more and more miserable as the minutes ticked by on the clock sitting on her mantel. She sat with her chin in her hand. Her eyes filled with tears, until finally able to stand it no longer, she brought her hand to her eyes and wiped them away.

“I’m sorry,” she gulped. “I just feel so awful…and I can’t believe you’re telling me I’m going to feel this awful for the next six weeks…and why now? Of all the possible times for this calamity, why did it have to be now?” The tears were flowing freely, but she didn’t care.

Where was Betsy when she needed her? She needed someone’s sympathy, not censure. She felt a handkerchief pressed against her face, and blindly she took it with her other hand, recognizing the familiar scent of soap.

“I am truly sorry. I wish I could tell you this will go away tomorrow. It may prove just a light sprain and in a fortnight, you’ll only feel a twinge of pain.”

She wiped her nose, refusing to look at him. Her face must look a downright mess. “Even a fortnight is too long,” she sniffed. “By then my replacement will have the part down to perfection and the audience will have forgotten me.”

“I’m sure that’s not so. You were brilliant in the piece.”

She looked at him. His eyes were no longer looking so aloof. “You’re just saying that to be kind.”

“Indeed I am not. I saw you last night for the first time in your new role. You were truly magnificent, albeit in a man’s costume.”

She heard the last words in astonishment, remembering his disapproval at her men’s breeches. “Even the critics who’ve hated these burlettas in the past praised me in this role.”

“Rightly so. There will be other shows, you’ll see.”

She toyed with the damp handkerchief in her hand. “It won’t be the same. I’m not exaggerating. I’ve waited a long time for a role like this, and my time is running out.”

“They’re fools if they don’t offer you another good role.”

She had to smile at that. How little he knew of the theater! “Do you know how many younger, more beautiful women there are knocking on the manager’s door each day?”

He was looking at her so kindly, she expected him to
disagree. Instead, he cleared his throat and motioned to her rib cage. “Let me see how you’re doing since yesterday.”

Swallowing her disappointment, she replied, “If you can get through all the swathing you’ve wrapped me in.”

She loosened her dressing gown and let it lie open. As on the night before, he gently lifted her camisole only as far as necessary and asked her to hold it up.

His look and tone again took on that impersonal professional quality. Deftly, his fingers loosened the knot of the binding. She wondered if he would ask her to remove her dressing gown to make it easier to remove the tape, but he didn’t. Although it was an awkward maneuver, he unrolled the tape from her body, his arms loosely spanning her torso.

Then his cool fingers were touching her skin and she felt it down to her toes. She remembered he’d done the same the night before. Then the pain had clouded her to all else, but this morning, she was supremely conscious of the feel of his fingers on her bare skin.

“Does this hurt?”

“A little.”

“This?”

“Yes.”

“Here?”

She shied away. “Yes.”

His head was bent so she could lift her hand and touch his hair. The reddish hue was more apparent this
close up. The light bounced off the thick waves of deep burnished copper.

He ought to have freckles, she thought, but she couldn’t detect any from her angle. But then he pushed back from her and she could see his face.

There was a faint shadow of freckles, as if they were under his pale skin. “The area is still swollen,” he said, seemingly unaware of her close scrutiny. He rose and went to his bag. He came back with a white cloth roll in his hand.

“This will work like the binding we used last night, but it will be easier to get on and off.” As he spoke, he put it around her. It had a couple of tapes on one side, which he tied up tightly.

“It feels snug, but not as if it will cut off my breathing,” she said when he had stepped back.

“You may close up your dressing gown.”

“Oh, yes.” She’d forgotten she still held her camisole up.

He turned away and went back to his bag. “I’ve brought you some laudanum if you have trouble sleeping at night. Also, some more willow bark tea, to take during the day if you are in discomfort. For the rest, you must try to move as little as possible, at least for several days.”

“When can I begin to walk about?”

“You’ll see. As the pain diminishes, you’ll be able to do more. Just don’t overdo things at the first sign, or
you’ll injure the muscles and ligaments once again and be in more pain than before.”

“Yes, Doctor,” she answered meekly.
We’ll see about that,
she added silently. She could not accept the fact that she’d be out of commission for six to eight weeks.

“Would you like some tea or coffee?” she asked him.

“No, I really must be going. I have patients to check on.”

“Of course,” she replied immediately, wondering at the sense of loss she felt. “Thank you for stopping in to see me.”

“There’s no need to thank me.” He seemed to hesitate. “You might want to call your regular physician.”

“Dr. Elliot?” She hadn’t given him a thought. “Is that necessary?”

“Strictly speaking, no. A sprained rib falls in my domain. Still, he might want to know what’s happened to you and what treatment you are following.”

“Very well. But won’t you…” She hesitated in turn, not wanting to appear that she needed him. “Be stopping in anymore yourself?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind, I’d like to measure your progress.”

She smiled in relief. “Of course not. You were the one there last night. You saw exactly what happened.”

“Have you heard anything more about how that trapdoor came to be opened? Is that usual?”

“No! I’ve never heard of such an accident. Occa
sionally an actor will fall from a swinging position from above, but never through the stage floor. Betsy has gone round to the theater to see what they’ve discovered.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He took up his bag. “Well, I must be on my way. Other rounds.” He came up to her and held out his hand. “Good day, Mrs. Neville. I’m sorry about the interruption in your work, but things could have been much worse.”

She took his hand in hers and smiled wanly. “Good day, Mr. Russell. I look forward to your next visit.”

When he’d left, she pondered the visit. She didn’t know what to make of Mr. Russell. He seemed so professional in his capacity of doctor, his manner aloof and impersonal, his hands so gentle, his voice soothing and calm. And yet, when she’d broken down in front of him, he’d truly seemed to care.

But he’d never crossed the bounds of modesty. She’d never experienced that degree of respect in a man. Usually they were undressing her with their eyes, even if their words were decorous. This man had been the soul of propriety.

What had he been thinking as he’d looked at her?

She remembered his story from last night. He’d disobeyed his father and paid the consequences with a broken bone. She tried to imagine him as a disobedient little boy—a boy even at a young age conscientious enough to feel bad at a wrongdoing.

She lived in a world where a person was always scheming to get the advantage over another. Could Mr. Russell be a “good” man? She’d never met such a person. In her experience every man could be bought. Since she’d been a small girl, all she’d known was that survival drove people.

Whatever drove the good surgeon, the man was an enigma to her, and she looked forward to his next visit more than she cared to admit.

“Oh, Eleanor, are you feeling any better today?” Betsy asked as she hurried into the room, untying her bonnet as she approached the settee.

“Only slightly better since drinking that vile willow bark tea the doctor left,” she replied, eager to hear Betsy’s news from the theater.

“Everyone sends their well-wishes,” Betsy began, sitting in the chair Mr. Russell had vacated earlier. “They were so shaken by seeing you toppling down that awful hole last night. Half the audience thought it was part of the show.”

“It would have been comical if it didn’t have such tragic results for me. The doctor says I must rest for several weeks.”

“Oh, you poor dear. But you must do as he says.”

“Did you find out how that trapdoor gave way?”

“No.” Betsy’s blue eyes looked troubled. “No one can
figure it out. For some reason, the hooks weren’t fixed tight. When you stepped on it, as near as they can figure out, it must have given way. The stagehands have been instructed to check each trapdoor before the show tonight.

“The stage manager has questioned everyone. But no one knows anything. He can only think it was an oversight on someone’s part.”

Eleanor frowned. Someone’s oversight was going to cost her career dearly. “Did Mr. Dibdin say anything?” she asked.