That Scandalous Summer (14 page)

“If I make a mistake . . .” When had she ever done anything so important and delicate as this? She did not even do
needlepoint.
She did not even dress herself! “I am the
last
person you should be asking.”

Something moved across his face, too fleeting to decipher. But his stern expression softened. “I would not ask if I did not think you capable. All you need do is take my instruction.”

She could not do this.
No
. She glanced away—and found herself locked in Mary’s agonized look of entreaty.

Her throat closed. How could she refuse?

“Yes.”
My God.
“I’ll help.” She lifted her hands to test them. To her amazement, Mr. Grey was right. They did not shake.

•   •   •

Once Morris had stomped out and Mr. Grey had bolted the door, time seemed to slow. For an eternity Liza scrubbed her hands, disbelief like a panic in her blood, the sting of the antiseptic drawing tears to her tired eyes. Mr. Grey turned up the lamps. Everything became too bright, painfully illuminated. Her heart was pounding like a war cry before battle: what was she doing? He must be mad to ask this of her. She was a butterfly. A
professional beauty
, for God’s sake.

When he held out a rag well blotted with chloroform, she faltered. “There is no one else who can help?”

He held her eyes. “I can send for someone. Pershall should be coming.”

But that might take too long. “I can’t do this,” she said. “You don’t understand.” He had no idea who she was. Had he known her reputation, or understood the poverty of her judgment, he never would have asked this of her.

I will kill her
.

“You can,” he said. “I will explain every step.”

She swallowed, certain she would be sick. But she took the cloth and crossed quickly to Mary’s head, trying to match Mary’s weak smile—God in heaven, an attempt to reassure
her—
before placing it carefully over the woman’s nose.

Mary’s eyes fluttered shut again. And then the whole world contracted to the bed, to Grey’s quiet movements as he propped Mary’s knees atop rolled blankets.

“Now the antiseptic,” he said. “This is your task. I’ll prepare the tubing.”

Amazing that her hand did not shake. How had he known it would not shake? She focused intently on her job, limiting her awareness only to the moment: the pale curve of Mary’s belly as she swabbed it down. The frightening faintness of the child’s weakening kicks.

The sickly sweet smell of chloroform, as she administered a new dose under Mr. Grey’s direction.

The coppery scent of blood as he made the first incision.

Through it all, she felt anchored by his voice—steady, clear, and free of doubt as he directed her. His voice made it possible to keep her hand steady as she assisted him with the india rubber tubing—“To direct drainage,” he told her. His voice kept her calm as she watched him reveal the awful, ugly secrets the skin kept veiled from view. Somehow none of it, none of the blood and mess, affected him; at every turn he remained evenly spoken, transparently unsurprised; and so Liza, breathing deeply, remained collected, too, even as the blood spilled more freely, and his scalpel flashed again. It could not be bad. For he did not sound worried.

Yet when he wrestled the babe free—when he put it squirming and bloodied into her arms, and she realized it was a flawless little girl, with eyelashes and nails all intact—part of her awoke with a sudden jolt. Abruptly she was back in her body, and shaking indeed, in this stinking, close little room, as she gripped a living child who had come so impossibly close to not living at all.

My God,
she thought. She looked between the babe and Mary, who yet slumbered, peaceful in her drugged dreams, and the man standing over her who now
wielded his needle, silver wire flashing. He was piecing Mary together layer by layer, blood up to his elbows, no sign on his face of anything but focused intent.

The same man who had kissed her, and laughed.

She could not look away from him. He did not give up. Having saved one life, he was battling now to save another.

She felt her breath go. She had never witnessed anything so serious. Never witnessed any man performing a task of such import. A queer feeling seized her, a prickling all down her skin, curiously like wonder. She clutched the child harder to her breast.
I know the odds, and I will take them.

The explosive wail made her jump. The baby screamed, red face contorting. Then footsteps pounded, the door rattled, and Mr. Grey looked to her, a hard look that was broken by his blink, as though suddenly he could see again.

“Well done,” he said.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Hand over the baby, but keep them out—I’ll need your help once more.”

She flew to the door.

•   •   •

The surgery concluded, Liza returned to Havilland Hall only to bathe and sleep. At the Browards’, endless tasks awaited her, for by God, she still had the money to make their troubles easier. A wet nurse must be hired, for Mary’s pain required laudanum, which made her milk dangerous. Mr. Broward’s tailoring shop could not be closed, for he was receiving a shipment of cloth from London. But Liza put together a schedule for the neighbors,
young men called in from the fields who would man his shop once he had dealt with the shipment.

Almost the moment those matters were settled, nearly a full day after the baby’s birth, Mary developed a fever. For the first time, Mr. Grey showed concern. And that frightened Liza more, even, than the great heat radiating from Mary’s body.

The second and third days passed in a haze: ice baths to bring down Mary’s fever; the constant administration of medicines; the vigil to make sure Mary’s airway remained clear. Near noon on the fourth day, Mary grew delirious and had to be restrained. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Morris paid a call, requesting to look in on Mary himself. His manner was terse, his anger clearly undiminished. But Mr. Grey ceded his patient courteously, and after a brief conversation with Morris, Liza went to find him, eager to know his thoughts.

He sat in the small, stone-walled garden that adjoined the cottage. She took a seat beside him on the low bench; it was quite wide enough for another two men besides. The mellow sunlight and mild warmth, the bees drifting around them from flower to flower, made a welcome respite from the darkness of the house. Someone, Miss Broward in all likelihood, had brought Mr. Grey a simple lunch of cold beef, Stilton, and bread. He handed her a piece of cheese without comment.

She took a bite, but chewed without enthusiasm. “Do you think the fever will break today?”

“If we are fortunate.” Mr. Grey picked at his bread, frowning.

“It’s a bad sign, isn’t it? That she hallucinates?”

The corner of his mouth hitched, not precisely a smile. “Has Mr. Morris been advising you?”

“He says you must cup her.”

“Cupping will not help,” he said evenly. “Mr. Morris languishes in the 1830s, I believe.”

“But is he right that it’s a bad sign?”

He sighed. “It is . . . not a good sign. No.”

“All right.” She took a hard breath. “I’ll send a note to Havilland Hall, inform them I must stay on tonight.”

He cast her a look she could not decipher. He also had returned home, once or twice, to rest and gather supplies. But by the shadows beneath his eyes, he had not allowed himself very much sleep. “No need for that. The others can help me where it’s needed.”

Strange that she should feel hurt by the notion that he did not require her. “But Paul is returning to school today, and Miss Broward must look after the little ones and the baby. And Mr. Broward is exhausted, and becomes so terribly upset whenever he sees his wife in such a state. It would be better all around if I stayed, don’t you think?”

He turned on the bench to look at her. In the strong light, the shadows beneath his cheekbones were pronounced. “Your help is welcome,” he said slowly. “But surely you have your own obligations to attend to.”

She shrugged. Mather and Jane had the preparations for the house party well in hand—a good thing, for Liza could not think on it right now. As for the rest, Havilland Hall ran like clockwork: she was only an idle spectator to its operation. “Nothing of import.”

He did not reply to that. Nor did he look away, though he angled his face a little, so the light suddenly struck his eyes, illuminating them. They matched the sky behind him, achingly blue.

She shifted a little on the bench, discomfited by
sudden awareness. For days now he’d been a remote authority: the doctor, issuing instructions, who must be obeyed. But now, suddenly, she saw him again as a man, his strong jaw shadowed by stubble, his glossy hair mussed beyond repair. And she saw, too, how his dishevelment became him. He was not classically handsome, but he had the body of a soldier, long and lean—and a sharp and knowledgeable mind, and broad hands that saved an infant and then gently cradled an ailing woman’s head as he spoke to her, whispered to her, encouraged her to believe she would live to know her child.

Liza’s eyes fell to those hands, tanned and long-fingered and capable, and something hot moved through her, something entirely overpowering and mortifyingly out of place. When she had kissed him by the lake, she had not known
anything
of him. Her admiration, her attraction, had been premised on her surprise: a country rustic with wit, a man who smelled delicious, whose lips were surprisingly skilled.

But then he had saved a child’s life, and Mary’s as well. And now he deprived himself of rest to ensure Mary’s continued survival.

And now Liza wanted him for those reasons, too. He was not simply a diversion any longer. He was a man well worth wanting.

And he was still staring at her.

She reached up, tucking stray wisps of hair behind her ears, abruptly conscious of how much she had perspired while helping to hold Mary down. “What is it?” she asked, attempting lightness. “Why do you stare? Have I grown another head?”

He gave her a faint smile. “The one you have is already
quite enough to draw stares. No, I’m only wondering . . . what is it that really keeps you here?”

Her throat closed. Did he somehow sense her shift in mood? That every inch of her skin was suddenly humming, longing to move closer to him? The thought was too awful. With Mary so ill . . . “You said the fever might be serious. But if you prefer . . .”

“No,” he said instantly. “Don’t mistake me. I could not hope for a better assistant. You are calm and clearheaded; you listen carefully, and you’re methodical in carrying out instructions.”

She could feel her face warming. What peculiar praise, to touch her so deeply. “Not the most difficult tasks.”

“You’d be surprised. It was Mrs. Broward’s good fortune, and mine, that you were here to assist that first night. But I confess I’m surprised that you’ve stayed so long. I know that Mary’s health gravely concerns you. But I wonder . . . do you fear what might happen in your absence? Or are you kept here by the . . . novelty of it?”

She stiffened. But on a moment’s reflection, she could find no judgment in his voice, despite his implication that she might be offering her help out of boredom—or suspicion of his abilities. His curiosity sounded too gentle to give offense.

“Of course I trust you to care for her,” she said.

“Thank you.” His voice was grave. “I promise you, I will hold that trust dear.”

How seriously he spoke! As though
her
trust truly did mean something out of the ordinary to him.

The notion made her feel strangely shy. She looked into her lap, attempting to smooth skirts that were
wrinkled beyond repair. “Perhaps part of it
is
the novelty,” she admitted. Attending to Mary felt . . .
useful
in a way she had never experienced. She had offered money before to those in need. But now she had involved her hands and heart in it. She had held a child that her efforts had helped to save.

Who among her friends would have thought her capable of such feats? Nello would have laughed himself off his seat at the notion.

“I suppose,” she said hesitantly, “I rather like feeling as though I’m . . . needed.” She had not felt lonely a single moment over these past few days. Had not once heard the chiding voice of her mother. “Heavens. What a very selfish motive!”

“Not at all, Mrs. Chudderley.” He crumbled a piece of bread between thumb and forefinger and tossed it to an adventurous finch that was hopping toward them. “You’re speaking to a man who chose medicine for his living. Not the usual path, but one that guaranteed my services would be valued. That was important to me, to do something that . . . others couldn’t.”

She hesitated. “Perhaps you might call me Elizabeth. For the sake of convenience,” she said quickly. “Mrs. Chudderley is so cumbersome.” Suddenly she did not like him calling her by the name of her late husband. Alan Chudderley had nothing to do with her now. Nothing to do with
him
.

“Elizabeth.” He spoke the name slowly. “An elegant name. It suits you.”

But he did not invite a similar intimacy. She tried not to feel hurt by it. Perhaps he felt it would be too impertinent for a man of his station. “Was your father in some other business, then?” When he cast her a startled look,
she repeated his words back to him: “Medicine was not the usual path, you said.”

“Ah. Yes, he was a . . .” He laughed softly as the finch hopped closer yet. “Ridiculous bird.” He threw another bit of bread. “My father was something of a . . . businessman. But of course that legacy went to the eldest son.”

An odd note had entered his voice. She hazarded a guess. “Your father did not approve of you becoming a doctor.”

“Oh, he approved of very little when it came to me. Save at the end.” He looked down at the stub of bread, turned it over in his hands. His beautiful mouth firmed as though to hold back his next words, which he spoke, at length, very slowly. “When he took ill, he no longer had much use for cleverness with numbers, or righteous attitudes, or . . . loyalties. I was finally of some use to him then. I alone had the skill to ease him.”