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Authors: Caroline Warfield
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after, fortune led me to Mr. Forester and the work he does in Edinburgh.”
Georgiana could respect a man possessed by his work; she knew that feeling well. Her work gave her the courage to come here.
Peabody knew his business. He interjected questions into his chatter, and she answered them.
“Are your courses regular?” he asked. “How much bleeding precisely? How long does it last?” She told him with little fuss.
“Have you ever born a child or had relations with a man?” Those questions silenced her. And yet there was no judgment in his voice, only concern.
A voice deep inside her wanted to wail, “No, and I never will!” She looked at him in distress and saw nothing but compassion. Humiliation passed.
“No.” The whisper came from deep inside her. “No husband, no lover, no children.” There never would be. Her failure was complete.
Peabody ignored the dejected droop of her shoulders. He outlined a course of treatment with brisk common sense and warm encouragement. She could improve. She certainly would. He insisted upon it. He buoyed Georgiana along on the waves of his certitude.
Morose thoughts walked with her down the ugly stone stairway, where the smells of dirt, damp, and camphor emanated from the walls. Her faced burned hot at the memory of the things she told him, things she had told no one else. No one. Not even Andrew.
She knew it was ridiculous to think of him now. His earnest young face, the face that didn’t come back from Waterloo, danced in her mind. She might have confided in that person, but she could never confide in the man he was now.
She stepped gracefully around one more landing and forgot to breathe. As if conjured by her thoughts, he stood silhouetted against the sunny entry arch, one foot poised indecisively on the bottom step, an ebony cape across his shoulders. Beneath disheveled hair, black as the clothes he wore, Mallet stared back through golden rims.
In the depths of her despair, his sudden appearance horrified her. She wailed inwardly. Why does the blasted man have to plague me now?
Four days of pain laid Andrew in his bed, unable to walk or even stand, after his foolish walk to Green Street and even more idiotic attempt to stand by his promise to Mrs. Potter. Damn Georgiana Hayden anyway.
The pain—and Harley’s impudent badgering—finally forced him to surrender. He ruffled through the references that Glenaire sent to him via the ever-helpful Jamie Heyworth until he found the only one in Cambridge. Two days later he waited to be carried to an appointment with Edwin Peabody. He waited with little patience and less cheer.
“Where is the damn chair?” Andrew disliked the old fashioned display of a sedan chair, but that mode of conveyance damaged his pride less than being lifted into a carriage.
“The damn chair is waiting at the corner.” Harley handed him his staff and hat. Four doors to the corner was agony enough. He faced the sedan with loathing.
“Mind the step,” Harley warned.
“I see the bloody step. I don’t need help.”
Andrew pulled his hand free with a violent yank and half fell into the sedan. He swallowed pain-induced nausea, sank against the unyielding seat, and grimaced as the chair was lifted unevenly by its four corners. Travel proceeded slowly but smoothly enough; a carriage from the public livery would have been worse. After a half hour of teeth-gritting pain, the bearers lowered the chair to the ground with a bump.
“None of yer nonsense. Take my hand.” Harley reached in and pulled him to his feet. He was too weak to object.
“Enough,” he said, leaning on his staff. He closed his eyes and fought back dizziness for several long breaths.
Harley’s hand darted out when he took one step forward, but Andrew shook it off. “Enough,” he repeated.
He mustered his dignity and entered the building under his own steam, determined to walk in upright only to let loose a string of curses. Everywhere he looked there was a
Georgiana could respect a man possessed by his work; she knew that feeling well. Her work gave her the courage to come here.
Peabody knew his business. He interjected questions into his chatter, and she answered them.
“Are your courses regular?” he asked. “How much bleeding precisely? How long does it last?” She told him with little fuss.
“Have you ever born a child or had relations with a man?” Those questions silenced her. And yet there was no judgment in his voice, only concern.
A voice deep inside her wanted to wail, “No, and I never will!” She looked at him in distress and saw nothing but compassion. Humiliation passed.
“No.” The whisper came from deep inside her. “No husband, no lover, no children.” There never would be. Her failure was complete.
Peabody ignored the dejected droop of her shoulders. He outlined a course of treatment with brisk common sense and warm encouragement. She could improve. She certainly would. He insisted upon it. He buoyed Georgiana along on the waves of his certitude.
Morose thoughts walked with her down the ugly stone stairway, where the smells of dirt, damp, and camphor emanated from the walls. Her faced burned hot at the memory of the things she told him, things she had told no one else. No one. Not even Andrew.
She knew it was ridiculous to think of him now. His earnest young face, the face that didn’t come back from Waterloo, danced in her mind. She might have confided in that person, but she could never confide in the man he was now.
She stepped gracefully around one more landing and forgot to breathe. As if conjured by her thoughts, he stood silhouetted against the sunny entry arch, one foot poised indecisively on the bottom step, an ebony cape across his shoulders. Beneath disheveled hair, black as the clothes he wore, Mallet stared back through golden rims.
In the depths of her despair, his sudden appearance horrified her. She wailed inwardly. Why does the blasted man have to plague me now?
Four days of pain laid Andrew in his bed, unable to walk or even stand, after his foolish walk to Green Street and even more idiotic attempt to stand by his promise to Mrs. Potter. Damn Georgiana Hayden anyway.
The pain—and Harley’s impudent badgering—finally forced him to surrender. He ruffled through the references that Glenaire sent to him via the ever-helpful Jamie Heyworth until he found the only one in Cambridge. Two days later he waited to be carried to an appointment with Edwin Peabody. He waited with little patience and less cheer.
“Where is the damn chair?” Andrew disliked the old fashioned display of a sedan chair, but that mode of conveyance damaged his pride less than being lifted into a carriage.
“The damn chair is waiting at the corner.” Harley handed him his staff and hat. Four doors to the corner was agony enough. He faced the sedan with loathing.
“Mind the step,” Harley warned.
“I see the bloody step. I don’t need help.”
Andrew pulled his hand free with a violent yank and half fell into the sedan. He swallowed pain-induced nausea, sank against the unyielding seat, and grimaced as the chair was lifted unevenly by its four corners. Travel proceeded slowly but smoothly enough; a carriage from the public livery would have been worse. After a half hour of teeth-gritting pain, the bearers lowered the chair to the ground with a bump.
“None of yer nonsense. Take my hand.” Harley reached in and pulled him to his feet. He was too weak to object.
“Enough,” he said, leaning on his staff. He closed his eyes and fought back dizziness for several long breaths.
Harley’s hand darted out when he took one step forward, but Andrew shook it off. “Enough,” he repeated.
He mustered his dignity and entered the building under his own steam, determined to walk in upright only to let loose a string of curses. Everywhere he looked there was a
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