The Healing Season (19 page)

“As long as you don’t have to sell your soul in the bargain,” he commented.

“A soul isn’t worth very much if it’s starving in the gutter.”

“Jesus would argue that it’s worth every bit as much as one of these ladies’ or gentlemen’s.”

“Tell that to a starving person.”

“Many of these people are starving and don’t even know it.”

“Let us not argue on this fine day, Mr. Russell. Tell me instead more about this laughing gas. How did it come to be discovered?”

“Actually, it was a nonconformist minister who first identified the gas over forty years ago.”

“A clergyman? That is certainly amazing.”

“Not entirely. The Bible tells us wisdom is found in God. Many of history’s greatest scientists have also been its most devout men.”

When she made no comment, he went on to explain how the gas was isolated at the turn of the century by some medical men at Bristol. “Humphry Davy is perhaps the best known of them since he has become a director at the Royal Institution here in London. It was he who began experimenting the way we saw today with some of society’s leading figures like Coleridge and Southey. The notoriety has helped achieve a social phenomenon, but it hasn’t really advanced the scientific investigations. There has been little serious experimentation although the potential for its uses is great.”

“Goodness, yes. What I felt today was astounding.”

“The implications for numbing pain could be revolutionary.”

“Yes! Just think, for surgery—” Her eyes sparkled.

“Unfortunately, it seems to increase the pressure of blood circulating through the vessels, so for surgery, that would be counterproductive, indeed dangerous.”

“You mean, someone might bleed to death?”

“Precisely,” he said, pleased with her quick understanding.

The waiter brought them their tea and lemon tarts.

“I must have gained a stone with all this convalescing. I am growing fat and lazy,” she said, eyeing the tarts.

It was on the tip of his tongue to disagree and tell her she looked lovelier than ever, but he stopped himself. He must never forget he was merely a medical attendant to her, nothing more.

“These are delicious, I confess,” she told him when she’d eaten one. “I concede your opinion that Gunter’s primary attraction is its pastries and not the company that frequents it.”

“I’m glad the laughing gas succeeded in lifting you out of the doldrums. I sensed something was on your mind when I first came by this afternoon.”

“You are very discerning.”

He waited to see if she would volunteer anything.

She took another pastry and stirred her tea, but after a while he was rewarded.

“I had a somewhat—unpleasant—visit this morning before you came by.”

Ian waited patiently, preferring to feast his eyes on her than sample the pastries. Everything about her was feminine and graceful, from the way she held her teacup to the way she dabbed at the corner of her mouth with
the edge of the napkin. It was difficult to believe she had arisen from the depths of poverty. Where had she learned to be a lady?

Her words startled him out of his speculation. “The owner of the Royal Circus came by. I was naive enough to think he was coming to see how soon I would be back.”

“And?”

She looked away from him. “He merely wanted to tell me not to bother coming back until next season. Oh, he couched it in very pretty terms. I must take my time to fully recuperate, and so on and so forth.”

“Is that such a terrible thing? Maybe he is concerned for your welfare.”

She gave him a pitying look. “He no more cares for my health than that waiter over there does.”

“So, what is the real reason?”

“The real reason is that my stand-in has proved popular in the role, and Mr. Dibdin doesn’t find it in his interest to remove her from the part at this point in time.” She dusted away the crumbs from the tablecloth. “For all I know he is smitten with her, and doesn’t want to upset her.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, knowing the words were inadequate and, worse, probably insincere, but feeling she had been dealt an unfair blow.

She gave him a twisted smile, which affected him more deeply than he cared to acknowledge. “Thank you.”

“What will you do now?”

“I am going to look for a part in a new theater,” she said with a note of determination underlying her dulcet tones.

“You shouldn’t have any problems after the success you enjoyed before the accident.”

“That success hasn’t come easy. I’ve had to fight for every role.” She sighed. “It is true I have achieved a certain amount of success. I don’t believe there will be great difficulty securing a position with a company at one of the other minors. But I want a role at one of the licensed theaters this time. I feel my time has come.”

“You mean Drury Lane or Covent Garden?”

“I mean precisely that. And those are coveted roles.” She leaned her chin in her hand. “Oh, to act beside Kean,” she said in a dreamy voice. “Now, there is an actor.”

“Even
I
have heard of him,” Ian said in amusement.

“It’s said he’s a bear to work with…exacting, demanding all attention. Poor man, he was born for greatness and yet, he can only act in the tragic roles.”

“Why is that?”

“He is short and ugly.”

“Is that what a man is judged by on the stage?”

“If he wants to play a leading man. So poor Edmund must be content to play twisted Iago or evil Richard the Third. He is brilliant in those roles, but I think a part of him wishes to punish those who can play the handsome leading roles.”

“You are one of the fortunate ones, then,” he said lightly.

She met his gaze and he could feel his face redden.

“Why, Mr. Russell, is that a compliment?”

“It is merely a statement of fact.”

“I see. Ever the exacting man of science. Yes, I’m thankful for my passable looks. They would be much more dramatic onstage if I were dark. Thankfully, there are wigs and blacking for brows.”

Ian coughed to keep himself from commenting on that. “Is Kean playing in anything currently?”

“I’ve heard he just opened at the Drury in
Richard, Duke of York.
I’d like to go see him. The Drury has recently been redecorated. It is the only theater with gas lighting.” Her voice sounded wistful.

“Why don’t you go?”

“It isn’t so easy going to the theater as a woman alone. And to go with an escort…that requires care in the selection. It wouldn’t do to have my name linked with just anyone’s.” She caught his frown.

“That surprises you? I do not seek to have my name in the scandal sheets, contrary to what you may think of actresses.” When he said nothing, she looked at him steadily. “I am not a promiscuous woman. There has only been one man in my life whom I have cared about.”

Ian could feel himself grow cold with the admission.

She continued, unaware of how the words were affecting him. “The only man I have allowed in my life—the first being forced upon me, and the second being a
matter of survival—the only man I ever allowed in my life was a gentleman. He is the one who taught me all the refinements of the fashionable world. Because of him you needn’t be ashamed of being seen with someone like me at a place like this. I know how to hold my spoon and sip my tea, thanks to him.”

The tea turned acrid in his stomach. He should have guessed it had been a man who had taught her how to be a lady. For long moments at a time, he allowed himself to believe in the illusion of her persona—such pure, innocent looks, such a stage presence, such convivial company. But she was nothing better than a prostitute, picking and choosing her lovers. She might be a high-paid one in contrast to those he came across every day in the streets around his practice, but a prostitute nonetheless.

He was almost relieved when he heard a voice beside them say, “Good afternoon, Eleanor. What a pleasure to see you out and about again.”

His relief evaporated when he recognized who it was.

Beside the table stood the same gentleman who had followed Mrs. Neville out of the greenroom the first time he’d gone to the theater. Ian hadn’t missed the fact that he’d addressed her by her given name. The knife twisted further in his gut.

“Your Grace,” she replied with a slight smile, which to her credit was neither effusive nor displeased. Or was it merely calculating?

The Duke didn’t even spare a glance in Ian’s direction.

“Lady Holland is holding her salon this Thursday evening. She is sending you an invitation.”

“To Holland House? How lovely.” She looked genuinely pleased. As pleased as when Ian had invited her to Faraday’s? “I look forward to receiving the invitation.”

With that, d’Alvergny bowed and retreated. Mrs. Neville watched him until he’d left the restaurant. Then she returned her attention to Ian as if just remembering his presence. “He was awfully rude to ignore you,” she observed.

“He’d notice me quickly enough if he had a sudden attack of gallstones.”

Mrs. Neville laughed heartily. Ian stared at her slim neck, wondering how he could be so drawn and repelled by one person at the same time.

“You’ve made me laugh almost as much as the laughing gas did,” she said, wiping her eyes. Despite his anguish, he felt himself soften toward her.

“You’re not appreciated until people need medical attention, is that it?” she asked sympathetically.

He shrugged. “I met many young men of high birth on the battlefield. I was not gentleman enough to be noticed by them when they were hale and hearty, but they screamed out to me when their bodies were broken and bleeding after a battle. All thoughts of their lineage and breeding were forgotten then.” He
sighed. “So few of them made it. That’s how I met Lord Cumberland.”

“He was in the army?”

“Yes. He’s sold his commission since then. He’s the only one who has kept up our friendship since he’s returned to England. The rest have gone back to their Mayfair existence and scarce remember mine.”

“How horrible,” she said softly.

“It’s no different in civilian life. The moment a person receives a sentence of death, he’ll look to his surgeon or physician for succor. Unfortunately, there is little a medical man can do in many cases.”

“You see much death?”

“It’s all part of the practice.”

“Doesn’t it disturb you?”

“I believe in eternal life. When a man or woman has lived the full extent of his years on this earth and has made his peace with God, I feel it a privilege to be there at the end to shut their eyes.”

His jaw hardened. “But those occasions are fairly rare. Much more common is to see death and destruction among the young and those who’ve scarcely begun to live their lives. I fight death then with every tool I have. It angers me exceedingly.”

“I cannot imagine you angry. You always seem so scientifically detached.”

“You little know me, Mrs. Neville.”

“That is undoubtedly true, Mr. Russell. Do you let anyone know you to that extent?”

He looked away, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.

“So, do you rail at your God when you lose a young patient?” she asked softly.

“No. I hate the Devil even more on those occasions.”

“The Devil?” she asked in a puzzled tone.

“Yes, with each premature death, I feel Satan has scored another victory.”

“The Devil…” she mused. “I always pictured him as that little goblinlike figure with a pitchfork and long, pointed tail. Is he really so dangerous?”

“He is only concerned with destroying God’s creation.”

She shivered, and he didn’t know whether she was mocking him or really feeling frightened. “He sounds like a very evil fellow.”

“He is evil personified.”

“Well, then let’s talk about someone or something else, shall we?” She brightened. “I have a stupendous idea.”

“What is that?” he asked, wary at her sudden switch.

“Why don’t you take me to the Drury to see Kean? Have you ever seen him act?”

He shook his head cautiously.

“Oh, you needn’t fear what I said earlier of my being seen with you. You are merely my surgeon. There would be no impropriety.”

Before he knew what was happening, he had agreed to escort her to the play. What was worse, he went as far as feeling pique that she didn’t even consider him as worthy of causing gossip.

On the wings of that thought came the question, was d’Alvergny suitable fodder for the gossip mill? The notion disturbed Ian greatly.

Eleanor took her second cup of cocoa over to her window seat and sipped it slowly. She wanted to savor the events of the previous evening.

It had been truly a magical night.

She had felt attractive again after so many weeks shut in. No more tight binding around her ribs, her hair dressed in curls with glittering jewels threaded through it, her evening dress a latest French creation.

The redecorated Drury Lane was a suitable backdrop. It was one of the biggest theaters now. The foyer was a marvel, decorated
à la chinoise.
Chinese lanterns hung along the walls, and a row of pagodas ranging in ascending size ran down the middle of the long room and ended at a Chinese tearoom. “A miniature copy of the pavilion at Brighton!” she had exclaimed upon seeing it all.

But the most spectacular change was the gas lighting. The improvement to the stage from candlelight and oil lamps was incomparable. Encased in glass globes on the stage floor, and hidden from view by props and side
scenes, the gaslights illuminated the cavernous stage like daylight.

Mr. Russell had purchased a box near the stage, as she had advised him. With such a large theater, the actors’ words were lost to those sitting in the rear half.

Eleanor savored her chocolate, remembering how distinguished Mr. Russell had looked in his evening clothes. She smiled, remembering how, just as the play was ready to begin, he had pulled on a pair of spectacles and she had teased him, telling him he looked like an eminent physician with them. He hadn’t responded to the humor. Instead he had replied seriously that it seemed he already needed a new pair, because one lens wasn’t focusing properly. Too many nights studying specimens under a microscope was taking its toll on his sight, he’d explained.