by Emma Jameson
“You look like a slender wee lad, but you weigh more than a keg o’ me best. At least when I shift one o’ those, I’m padding me pocket while I strain me back.” Foss sighed theatrically. “Let me fill my lungs and I’ll fetch down your bloody chair.”
It was a bumpy transit via wheelchair down the pub’s front steps, beneath two elms, and into the dazzling afternoon sun. Parked by the curb was a Crossley 20/30, gleaming ebony and clean as a whistle. Its driver leaned against the bonnet, six foot two if she stood an inch, clad in what looked like waterproof trousers, a man’s green Macintosh, and galoshes. Dull brown hair was scraped back in a bun, exposing what seemed like too much face: a vast expanse of forehead and chin and cheeks, all of it sunburned. Ben, aware that during the war, unmarried women would temporarily fill the positions vacated by able-bodied men, thought this she-behemoth was better suited to farm or factory labor. Perhaps when it came to hiring drivers, Lady Juliet’s judgment was as questionable as her taste in men.
“Good heavens, it’s the man himself!” she called. “After such a long wait, I’d nearly succumbed to despair.”
Ben gaped at her. He hadn’t expected that smooth, educated voice to issue from those lips.
His expression must have amused the woman, who laughed. “Don’t look so frightened, Dr. Bones. I don’t eat injured men for lunch. Nor do I dress for dinner, as it were, to run midday errands. Unlike you.” She eyed him critically, as if his London wardrobe were wildly inappropriate. “If my arrival had been foretold, would you have received me in top hat and tails? Mr. Foss, I fear our new village physician is the achingly formal sort. Introduce us properly, would you please?”
Slightly overwhelmed by the torrent of words, Ben tried to frame a rebuttal, but Foss was already speaking.
“Lady Juliet Bolivar, this is—”
“Linton. I’ve taken back my family name,” she cut across him.
Foss’s bushy eyebrows lifted, tiny eyes gleaming again. That new kernel of information would soon take root in his pub’s fertile ground. “Lady Juliet Linton, this is Dr. Benjamin Bones. Old Sully says we ought to call him ‘Broken Bones’ on account of the accident.”
“Ah, yes. An accident which killed his wife.” Lady Juliet’s smile disappeared. “Has Old Sully produced a clever nickname for that aspect of the tragedy, too? ‘Wrecked Widower’? ‘Heartsick Husband’?”
“Come now, Lady Juliet. The lads were just having a bit o’ fun. No need to—”
“Dr. Bones, I see once again why it’s folly to rely on others for introductions or, indeed, almost anything else,” she said. “They omit what you care about, sprinkle in what you don’t, and tie up the package with a ribbon of indifference. Best speak for yourself. I’m Juliet. It’s a terrible name—curse of my life, next to my height—but there it is.” Looming over the chair, she stuck a large hand in his face. The thumbnail was torn off to the quick; the palm was crisscrossed with scratches.
“I’m Ben.” Quickly, aware he might be cut off if he gave her an opening, he continued, “You should know, my knee hurts like the devil and I have no idea why you insisted I come down to meet you. I don’t suppose you’ve received a message from the Army?” More hopefully, he asked, “Are they ready to transfer me to a small hospital or sanatorium where I can continue my convalescence?”
She gave an unladylike snort. “No. I did hear from the Army a week ago—or my mother heard, which is the same thing. They’re under the impression you’re fit to begin work in the village. Still, the Council elected to give you a bit more recuperation time, what with the magnitude of your loss.” She fixed him with light brown eyes. “My deepest condolences.” For the first time, the words weren’t tinged with acid.
“Thank you. But fit? I can’t even walk.”
“Must you walk to attend the sick?” From her great height, Lady Juliet studied him like a blue heron surveying a fish. “Old Dr. Egon was seventy-four. In the end he couldn’t hear, couldn’t see, and most assuredly couldn’t walk, at least more than a few yards, without assistance. Also, he was drunk by eight o’clock every night. Nevertheless, in his final year he delivered eight babies, set eleven broken limbs, and treated any number of fevers and coughs. If the scotch hadn’t killed him, he’d be staggering toward me now, peering through his thick specs and asking me to repeat every third word.” She sighed. “Surely you can do better, even from a wheelchair. I have a—well, a delicate case, a situation that calls for a physician. Someone with discretion and a glimmer of human empathy,” she added, pitching her voice toward Foss. “Are you willing, Dr. Bones?”
It was on his lips to say no. The sun beat down with summer-like intensity, his knee throbbed, and even if Foss helped him into Lady Juliet’s car, heaven knew how much more pain a drive over rutted country roads would bring.
She stared at him, arms folded across her chest.
“Very well.” He heaved a great sigh calculated to let this bossy, ill-dressed woman know how far she’d overstepped. It was drowned out by her crow of delight.
“Capital! Mr. Foss, please help the good doctor into my car before he changes his mind. Yes, there’s room for his chair in back. This heap seats seven, don’t you know.”
“Wheels are a wee bit muddy,” Foss warned after depositing Ben on the front passenger seat’s threadbare upholstery.
“Never mind that.” Climbing behind the wheel, Lady Juliet slammed her door with gusto. “Do I look like the sort who’s afraid of a little mud?”
He struggled to come up with an answer. From this close, he noticed two things: her brown eyes were surprisingly soft, and there was a slender twig in her hair. It stood up, just atop her severe bun, like an intrepid climber who’d scaled a mountain.
“Oh, Dr. Bones, don’t be so taken aback. I wasn’t fishing for a compliment.”
“I know, it’s only… you have a stick in your hair. Now that I mention it—a walking stick. Insect, I mean.”
He expected a shriek. Instead, Lady Juliet looked mildly intrigued. “Do I? It’s a wonder I can’t feel it. Relieve me of this uninvited passenger, there’s a good man.”
Gently, he plucked the stick-insect from her hair. Lady Juliet grinned at it. “I suppose you think you’re terribly clever, catching a ride with me. Come on, then. Step this way,” she ordered the bug, linking her finger with Ben’s until the insect obeyed. “Let’s get you sorted.”
Ben watched her climb out of the Crossley, stride across the meadow opposite the pub, and deposit the insect on a tree stump. He heard her telling it something—parting advice, no doubt—and then she returned to the 20/30, leaving a swath of trampled grass in her wake.
“Now. Keys. Front pocket? Right,” she muttered as she got behind the wheel again. Apparently even she wasn’t exempt from her own constant stream of commands. “Sorry for the delay, Dr. Bones, but I couldn’t drop him too close to the pub. Wouldn’t that be a terribly ignominious end, flattened by Mr. Foss’s heel?”
“I suppose. But my wife, Penny, would have squashed that bug without a second thought.”
“Wrong. She would have screamed for you to do it.”
Ben chuckled. It was his first genuine laugh in ages. “You knew her?”
“Oh, my dear Dr. Bones.” Those soft brown eyes veered away as the car’s engine roared to life. “Everyone in this village knew Penny.”
“Yes, of course. I should have realized.” Ben groped for something more. Penny had mentioned Birdswing many times; she’d relied on it as a punchline while entertaining their metropolitan friends. Her only fond memory of the village, she’d often said, was watching it shrink into oblivion as the train chugged away. “Were you friends?”
For once, Lady Juliet didn’t soliloquize. She shook her head.
They were probably about the same age, Ben thought. They must have been thrown together constantly, at least at school.
“Did you have a falling out?”
“Oh. Well. You know what they say.” Another sidelong glance, quicker th
is time. “Nothing but good of the dead.” And to Ben’s surprise, she spoke not another word the entire way to Belsham Manor.
* * *
It wasn’t what Ben expected. During his medical training, he’d visited the country homes of wealthy classmates, most of which put him in mind of a Regency romance: square and somewhat austere, with box sash windows, classical columns, and a circular drive out front. Belsham Manor, with its turrets, oriels, pinnacles, gables, and gargoyles, looked like the love child of a Tudor palace and Dracula’s castle. Nothing about it was symmetric, or even to proper scale. The windows were too narrow, the doors too wide, with a long, barracks-style east wing that looked about as graceful as a third arm grafted on a man’s hip. Ben thought it must have been added decades after the original architect gave up, doubtless to seek work for which he was actually suited.
“Don’t stare directly at the manor, you’ll bring on a migraine.” From a quarter mile away, Lady Juliet let the car idle, allowing him time and distance to take it all in. “Looking at our house is rather like observing an eclipse: proceed obliquely or not at all. Still, it’s a grand old monstrosity.” She smiled fondly. “I rather pity those who grow up in tasteful homes. Until I was eight, I assumed we were secretly vampires.”
“It’s certainly, well. Unique. What style of architecture is that?”
“Nouveau-riche.” She winked. “Round about 1840, Mr. Thaddeus Linton, who made his fortune in railroads, was given a hereditary knighthood. Soon after, Sir Thaddeus set about building a country house of his own design, intended to impress the Peerage with its sheer magnificence. It failed to do so, of course, but in the ten years it took to raise it, Crow’s Wing village transformed from a miserable blot to a thriving community called Birdswing. By the time Sir Thaddeus died, he was a great hero in these parts. A man who never forgot his origins, as they say—because the circles above him wouldn’t permit it.”
“And your father is his… great-grandson?”
“Great-great grandson. Dead these ten years. We Lintons tend to be delicate and short-lived, I fear. Well, except me, I’m strong as an ox. Nature’s not-so-little joke on Mother. Now let’s get you up to the house to meet her.” Lady Juliet slipped the clutch into gear so smoothly, Ben’s knee barely felt the acceleration.
The closer they came, Ben found the house progressively less ugly. Belsham Manor’s gardener had been working overtime, it seemed, to mitigate architectural sins with horticultural beauty. Yellow marigolds, Bells of Ireland, and white chrysanthemums—or were those dahlias?—blossomed around what would otherwise have been a gloomy stone porch. White roses climbed the Gothic pillars, softening the entrance’s pinnacle with masses of snowy blooms.
“I overheard you tell Mr. Foss she’s not a well woman. I presume she’s my patient?” he asked as Lady Juliet parked beside the obligatory granite fountain. It did indeed look like the sort of lawn ornament creatures of the night might favor.
“You presume wrong. At least for this visit. I have a troublesome maid and an exasperated housekeeper. But I’ll say no more. I wouldn’t want to prejudice your professional judgment.” Lady Juliet leapt out of the driver’s seat with the energy of a small boy. “But yes, Mother’s been ill since Father died, so I expect you’ll see her from time to time in the course of your duties. Besides, she’s head of the village Council—every matter, great or small, comes before her sooner or later. You’re of high importance to Birdswing, so you might as well be ushered into her presence without delay.”
“Judging by all those flowers and hedges, your gardener’s a capable man,” Ben said. “Might we call upon him to help me down?”
Lady Juliet opened the Crossley’s rear door, pulling out the heavy wheelchair as if it weighed no more than a frilly parasol, then Ben’s black leather doctor’s bag. “Since Thomas was called up for service, I am the gardener. And I’ve no intention of leaving you in the lurch.”
“I don’t think—that is to say, I believe a man would be more capable of—”
Lady Juliet would have none of that. “I told you: strong as an ox. Sing out if I hurt you.”
She didn’t. Ben suffered a moment’s humiliation as Lady Juliet gathered him into her arms—what a smallish weakling he must be, for a female to handle him so—before his bedrock of good sense returned.
It’s not that I’m a featherweight. It’s just that she’s extraordinary.
Settling him gently into the wheelchair, Lady Juliet let out a pant of relief. “You’re a deal heavier than I expected. Was that as appalling as you feared?”
It wasn’t, but surely a bit of gallantry was called for, to reassert himself as a man. “Of course not. I’m simply accustoming to being jostled by Foss. A sweet-smelling woman is quite an improvement. What scent are you wearing?”
“Stick-insect. Or cow manure. Don’t compliment me, Dr. Bones.” Gripping the handles of his wheelchair, Lady Juliet propelled him forward rather more forcefully than necessary. “Nothing ruins my day faster than a man with delusions of charm.”
By clinging to the armrests with both hands, he was able to keep from tumbling forward out of the wheelchair as she maneuvered him up the steps, then over the threshold. His black bag, not so lucky, had to be retrieved and returned to his lap.
“I had it from Mary at the greengrocer’s—cousin to your nurse—that you’ve been asked to practice walking on crutches,” Lady Juliet said as she pushed him through the marble-tiled foyer. “How’s that coming along?”
“Not well.” He’d spent too much time sitting, brooding over things that could never be changed. “Perhaps I should have tried harder.”
“From this moment on, you shall. Mother,” Lady Juliet called as they entered the front parlor. Despite the undersized, diamond-paned windows, the room was surprisingly bright. Lemon yellow paint, wallpaper with a delicate buttercup print, and fresh cut chrysanthemums harmonized well, transforming a low-ceilinged chamber without much natural light into a cheerful, inviting space. “I’ve fetched the doctor as promised.”
Beneath a brass lamp with attached magnifying glass, a blonde woman looked up from her needlework. Putting aside the embroidery hoop, she stood and smoothed her dress, although it was already flawless.
“Dr. Benjamin Bones, I’d like you to meet my mother, Lady Victoria Linton.”
“It’s a pleasure, Lady Victoria,” Ben said, hoping his surprise didn’t show. The hand which accepted his was light, gentle, and perfectly feminine, just like the woman herself. She must have been a great beauty once, or else middle age had been unusually kind. With her high cheekbones, rose petal lips, and dimpled chin, she looked more ingénue than mater, and no kin to Lady Juliet whatsoever.
“No, indeed, the pleasure is all mine,” Lady Victoria said. “I apologize for calling you to duty perhaps ahead of schedule, but Juliet feels the need is great. And if it isn’t too presumptuous”—she flashed a smile—“allow me to welcome you to Birdswing. I know your arrival was marred by the worst possible circumstances. Please accept our condolences for the loss of Penny. She made quite an impression on our village. We shall not see her like again.”
This last was spoken so warmly, and with such evident kindness, Ben almost didn’t realize that neither statement was necessarily positive. Lady Victoria’s brown eyes, paler than Lady Juliet’s but just as soft, glowed with sympathy, but not sadness. Had Penny run afoul of both Lintons during her time in Birdswing?
“Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “I, ah, understand you’re in charge of the Council. Should I mention that Mr. Foss intends to turn me out tomorrow unless he receives compensation for my room and board? I assumed the government might ship me elsewhere to finish convalescing, but Lady Juliet assures me otherwise.”
“Oh, she’s quite right. You’re a hot commodity, Dr. Bones,” Lady Victoria said. “A man over fifteen and under sixty, and a physician, no less. Our village would march on London before it gave you up. As for Mr. Foss, his wish shall be granted. If you don’t mind
a slightly imperfect abode, we’ll move you into Fenton House a few days ahead of schedule.”
“Fenton House?”
“Yes. It’s to be yours while you reside in Birdswing. A lovely cottage just off the high street, and quite modern—completely redone. Ten electric points, a fenced garden out back, and a coke-burning boiler to keep it all toasty. No refrigerator, alas, but a cool larder. And a brand new gas stove.”
“I suppose there are stairs?”
“Yes, of course, but we’ll convert the sitting room into a temporary bedroom until you’re strong enough to manage them.” Lady Victoria was still smiling; in fact, her bright smile was beginning to look a trifle forced. “You might prefer sleeping downstairs, anyway. Get a feel for your new home from the ground up. And being close to the exit means when air raid sirens go off in the dead of night, you can—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mother,” Lady Juliet interrupted. “Tell him why Fenton House is empty. And has a brand new gas stove.”
Lady Victoria’s fine features took on that look of well-bred disapproval: not so much anger as disappointment. “When you divert the conversation so melodramatically, dear, you leave me no graceful way to present the truth. But very well. Dr. Bones, are you a superstitious man?”
“Not particularly.”
“Marvelous,” Lady Juliet said before her mother could reply. “A gas leak killed the previous resident in her bed, and now half the village thinks the house is haunted. There. Didn’t I deliver the news gracefully, Mother? Two sentences, and not a word over three syllables.”
Lady Victoria ignored that. “The ruptured gas line has long since been repaired,” she told Ben. “The stove replaced merely to set folks’ minds at ease. As for this rubbish about ghosts, well. That rumor will fade once you take up residence.”