Courtney Milan (21 page)

But her father simply took off his spectacles and set them on his desk

Grantham didn’t look at her. “I believe what your daughter meant was that she agreed to accompany me on a call to the Halls, out by Lipham Road.”

“Halls, Halls.” Her father frowned. “Do I know these Halls?”

“It’s unlikely. She takes in laundry,” Grantham said. “Her husband died, leaving her with sole responsibility for eight children. When we spoke at the Workers’ Hygiene Commission, Lydia agreed to bring the Halls a basket for the coming holidays.”

Her father glanced over at Lydia with a small smile on his face.

“It will be a perfectly unremarkable visit,” Grantham said. “Public streets the whole way there, and Mrs. Hall there to chaperone your daughter once we enter the building.”

“Is that what you were working on this morning?” her father asked. “Putting together a basket for this Mrs. Hall?”

Lydia nodded.

Her father fixed Doctor Grantham with another look. “Well, Doctor, despite my daughter’s protestations, you do appear to be a man. A word with you, if you please.”

Doctor Grantham stepped into the office; with a jerk of his head, her father motioned for Lydia to leave. She sniffed and swept out, shutting the door behind her. It didn’t stop her from standing on the threshold though, and setting her ear to the door.

“So,” her father aid without preamble. “You’re walking out with my Lydia.” His tone left little doubt as to what he meant by those words.

She waited to hear Grantham deny the implication—that he had some sort of romantic interest in Lydia. But if he made an audible response, she could not hear it.

Whatever he said—whatever gesture he made—her father grunted. “Yes, yes,” he said, “I understand. But I want to make something clear. If you hurt my daughter by word or by deed…”

“Mr. Charingford,” Doctor Grantham said, “first, do no harm. Those are not just words I mumbled so that I could get a few fancy letters before and after my name. They are a belief. I don’t hurt people. I intend harm to your daughter least of all.”

Lydia pulled back, a little puzzled, and stared at the door. She’d expected Grantham to make some sort of caustic comment about how the damage to Lydia had already been done. But she’d not even heard a note of sarcasm in his voice.

“She’s far more delicate than she looks,” her father was saying. “Don’t think you can talk to her in your usual way. She’s sensitive and—”

“Your daughter,” Grantham replied, “is stronger than you think. I wouldn’t be taking her to see Mrs. Hall if she was the sort to crumple at a few harsh words. Trust me, Mr. Charingford; I am quite able to judge what each can bear.”

This was met with silence. Lydia felt herself frowning. Since when had Grantham thought her strong? Since when had he thought of her at all, except to label her a fribble?

Since he made a wager with a kiss for the stakes.
Her hands tingled; Lydia shook her head, trying to drive that feeling away.

“You see that, do you?” her father finally said. “I don’t think many men would. Still, be good to my daughter, Grantham, or you’ll answer to me.”

“Whatever you do could not be so harsh as what I would feel myself,” he responded.

That was an even more puzzling answer, and she was pointedly
not
thinking of what it could mean when the door opened. Grantham stood a foot from her, his fingers wrapped around the handle of the door. His eyebrows rose at the sight of her.

“Miss Charingford,” he said. “You’re standing very close. Were you coming to get me?”

At his desk, her father shook his head. “She was listening at the door, Grantham,” he said.

The doctor’s eyebrows rose higher. “Miss Charingford,” he said. “I didn’t know that my conversation would be of interest to you.”

“She always listens,” her father said. He didn’t smile as he spoke, but there was a touch of humor to his voice, a hint that he knew something of Lydia—and that he forgave her all her worst flaws.

“I always listen,” Lydia said firmly. “You’re no exception, so don’t think you are. Doctor Grantham, if you’re ready to go, I’m ready to get this finished.”

“S
O,” THE DOCTOR SAID, GESTURING AT THE BASKET
that Lydia carried. “What did you bring? Christmas puddings? Sweets for the children?”

There was a little smile on his face as he spoke, one that Lydia had no difficulty decoding. He imagined that she had no idea what it was like to live in poverty, that she had brought along the sort of insubstantial nothings that she might give to her young nephew.

“A few lengths of heavy, serviceable fabric,” she replied. “A ham. Three pounds of flour, a pound of rice, some fruit, and several jellies.” Her arm ached from the effort of holding it all.

He looked at her a little while longer before turning away. “That’s not a poor choice.”

“And yes,” she said, staring at the side of his head, “I did bring a sack of horehound.”

He smiled. “I knew it.”

But before she’d outlined the contents of her basket, he’d thought she had brought nothing but sweets. He must truly think her an idiot, to bring nothing else for children who hadn’t had a proper meal in months. She squared her jaw and walked on, refusing to look at him. It was always like this with him. He insinuated and implied, without actually coming right out and saying what he thought of her. Well, she’d foolishly agreed to this exercise, but that didn’t mean she had to suffer his subtle insults throughout the whole process.

“Doctor Grantham, I wonder at your spending time with me if you find my personality so objectionable.”

“On the contrary. I find your presence particularly invigorating.”

Invigorating
was one of those words like “interesting” and “nice.” One used it to imply criticism.

“You think I’m naïve,” she stated. The air was cold on her face.

He made a sound that came out as half-snort, half-chortle—a way of denigrating her without coming out and saying the words. Despite the chill in the air, Lydia felt her cheeks heat. Of all the men in the world,
he
was the last one she wanted laughing at her. This man knew her secrets. He looked at her too knowingly, judging her fall to an inch and holding her accountable in the dark recesses of his mind.

She glared at him hotly. “There is nothing wrong in thinking that children—any children—ought to have a treat at the holidays. The fact that they have so little means they are
more
deserving of a moment of enjoyment, not less. I’m sure horehound isn’t practical in the sense of feeding the body, but it will feed the spirit and add to their joy. So don’t you laugh at me for bringing it.”

“Miss Charingford,” he said in that sardonic voice of his, “I wouldn’t dare laugh at you. Furthermore, I don’t believe I did.”

Oh, no. Not on the outside he hadn’t. But inside… His eyes were dark and they sparkled with an unholy light, one that suggested he found her very amusing indeed. And that, in turn, sparked something deep inside her, something red and angry spreading over her vision.

“I am
not
naïve.” She planted her feet and put down her basket.

He stopped and cocked his head at her.

“I know naïve,” she told him. “Do you know what naïve is? Naïve is when, at fifteen, a man ten years your elder says he loves you, that he’ll marry you as soon as you’re old enough for your father to countenance the suit.” She pointed a finger at him. “Naïve is when you love him back. Naïve is when you tell him that you’re willing to do everything but that final act reserved for marriage—because you don’t want to be stupid and become pregnant outside of wedlock.”

One of his eyebrows rose, and she could almost hear him taunting her.
Didn’t work out so well, did that?

“Naïve is when he agrees, and you do everything but that one thing, that one thing that risks pregnancy, that one thing that you’re saving for your wedding night. He tells you that he can’t wait to do that one last thing.” Her eyes smarted—just the cold of the wind; definitely not tears—but she lifted her gloves to her eyes and dashed away the liquid there. “He tells you how much more there is to do over and over as he rogers you senseless. I know what it means to be naïve. It’s believing a man when he says this isn’t how pregnancy occurs. Because you trust him, and nobody has ever told you what to expect.”

His eyes had widened as she spoke. “Miss Charingford.”

“Naïve is when he comes to dinner three months into your secret betrothal. You’re wondering if tonight he’ll tell your father.” Lydia gritted her teeth. “I’ll tell you when you
stop
being naïve, Doctor. It’s when your father asks the man you believe to be your fiancé when he’s bringing his wife up from town.”

Doctor Grantham took a step toward her. “Oh, God.”

“So don’t tell me I’m naïve. Don’t even think it.” Lydia’s voice had a quaver in it, and she hated that sign of weakness, that show of emotion over events that had come and gone. “After…after everything was over, after I realized how foolish I was, how ignorant I had been, I wanted to hate everything and everyone. But if I did, he would have won. He would have ruined me. I wasn’t going to be a bit of rubbish just because he discarded me.” She glared up at Grantham. “And I
refused
to break. I wouldn’t do him the honor.”

He was breathing almost as heavily as she was. His eyes burned into hers. His lips pressed together, and she could see that look on his face—that knowing, judging look. As if he needed
more
of a reason to look down on her.

That rush of heat passed, and Lydia felt almost unsteady on her feet. She took a deep breath, collecting her wits, and suddenly could not look at him at all. She’d just…she’d just…

Lydia put her hand to her forehead. “God,” she said. “I don’t know why I told you that.”

“I do.” He spoke slowly, hesitantly. “It’s because you’re angry, and you’re kind. You can’t be angry at the people who love you—your father, your mother. And you could never shout like that at the people who don’t know what happened. That leaves me.” He gave her a half-bow. “I know, although I should not. I’m the best target you have. I’m the only person you can scream at in all the world.”

There was another sardonic half-smile at that.

“I’m not angry,” she said in outrage. “I scarcely think of it after all this time.”

“You’re not angry?” He snorted. “I don’t believe that for one instant, my dear. I’m not you, and
I’m
furious. If you told me his name, I would hunt him down and…”

“And what?”

He shrugged. “And I don’t know. I was never the sort of boy to resort to fisticuffs as a child, and I haven’t ended up that kind of man. But you can rest assured, my dear Miss Charingford, that nothing enrages me more than a man who lies to a woman about her own body.” His lip curled.

Lydia bit her own lip. Doctor Jonas Grantham said a great many things to her, usually with that sardonic gleam in his eye. This was the first thing he’d said that she thought was entirely serious. His fingers clenched around the handles of his bag, and he looked off into the distance.

“What an odd thing to say.” She picked up her basket. “I revealed so many things that might set you off—my foolishness, my misplaced trust, my failure to protect my virtue. And you are angrier that he lied to me than that he had intercourse with me?”

“Yes,” he said savagely. “If I’ve learned anything, it’s that we know next to nothing. Disease is a mystery. Health is inscrutable. The body itself is scarcely understood; we can only examine the secrets of the dead. And in all that dark ignorance, we’re sometimes granted a rare moment of illumination, of understanding. The truth is a gift.”

She felt quite peculiar. Her chest was too tight; her eyes stung. Lydia shook her head savagely; she didn’t want to inspire that kind of vehemence.

Yet he made a short motion toward her, reaching out his hand before pulling it back. His jaw set, and he looked away.

“I believe,” he said, “that there is a special place in hell for those who steal truth. And that man—whoever he is—I hope he is burning there.”

Chapter Five

M
RS.
H
ALL WAS EIGHT MONTHS ALONG.