The Baron and The Enchantress (An Enchantress Novel Book 3)

by Paullett Golden

  Shaking her head, she said, “No. Not as such. And yet, you are both polite; the kind of politeness that is all proper and reserved. Austere, really.”

  This was not the first time she had implied thinking him being formal or stiff. Walter laughed, a shaky and humorless sound to his ears.

  Misconstruing the sound, hearing only Walter’s laugh, not the cause, Roddam looked over at him and winked.

  “Lilith, I’m not austere. I’m me. I am who I am. I’ve never perfected the beau monde’s ennui and have no intentions of doing so, but I do practice politeness. Is there something more, something from today? Did Mama say something that concerned you?”

  “Of course not. She was wonderful, despite convincing me to buy frivolously. It is a good thing she doesn’t live close or I’d spend a year’s pocket money in a single week.”

  Her shift in conversation was not lost on Walter. With a half-smile, he reached absently for the cards and began to shuffle them.

  “Come now, Lilith. Tell me you didn’t spend your own money. Have the shopkeepers send the bills to Roddam. Or, if it wouldn’t be so bold of me to say, I’d be honored if you’d send the bills to me. I’d like to think I had a hand in bringing you happiness.”

  “I could never!” Her eyes widened.

  Had he overstepped his boundaries? It was a bold offer, perhaps too bold. Her frown said as much. Dash it all.

  The butler arrived with tea, then. Roddam rejoined the table, but not before waggling his eyebrows at his sister, a silent tease. Walter did not for a minute miss that the entire family was, at this point, aware of his intentions and, dare he say, as hopeful as he.

  After Lilith poured the tea, Roddam said, “Grab the chips, Lil. Shall we play loo? ‘Ev’n mighty Pam, that Kings and Queens o’erthrew / And mow’d down armies in the fights of Lu.’”

  “What the deuce are you on about, Roddam?” Walter asked, chuckling at the absurdity.

  “Not a fan of Alexander Pope, Collingwood? Pope puts me in the mood to lose at loo.”

  Shaking his head, Walter dealt the cards until Lilith had the Jack. Her deal. She tossed in three chips, and the game began.

  They played without conversation until Roddam made mention of Walter’s estate, all too clearly goading the pair to resume discourse.

  “Is it grand?” she asked, taking the bait.

  He studied his hand, then exchanged a card before answering.

  “Trelowen is far from grand. Modest. Elizabethan. Sixteenth century. Built by the fifth Baron Collingwood, my great-great-great-grandfather.”

  Walter waited for Roddam to pass his turn before adding, “Funnily enough, before he inherited, Godfrey Hobbs was from Cornwall, not Devon. And so, he named the manor a Cornish word meaning ‘happy home.’ And it is. A happy home, that is. Trelowen isn’t as quaint as your cottage by the sea, but it is modest, as far as manors go. You’d like the garden, I daresay. Daffodils, snowdrops, a smallish knot garden, just to name a few horticultural pleasures.”

  “How lovely.” She said with a smirk as she won the hand.

  New cards dealt, new chips added to the pool, Lilith said, “I want to picture you at home in your element. Tell me your favorite part of Trelowen.”

  “Ah, that’s easy. The yew tree. I haven’t the foggiest how old it is. Old. Sprawling branches as wide as turrets and a trunk nearly as tall as the house. I would spend hours climbing it, hiding in it, playing pirate games.”

  “Behavior of late?”

  “Cheeky.” He chuckled.

  “So, when you say modest, what do you mean? How many rooms?” Lilith asked.

  “Twenty-two. A far cry from the Duke of Annick’s Lyonn Manor, I know.”

  “Twenty-two?” She exclaimed more than questioned. “Hardly modest! What a terrible waste of space for only one man.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, it is modest, and it’s not for one man. It’s for my family when I have one, not to mention extended family should they need a place to live, future generations, and even visiting guests. The rooms rarely go unused since Mama enjoys house parties. It’s a cozy home, Lilith, one filled with happy memories of my father.”

  They lapsed into silence until the next round.

  At length, Roddam chimed in as he tossed chips on the table. “Tell her about the cottage. The cottage by the sea.”

  Grimacing, Walter paused his play to hide behind his teacup. He wanted to woo Lilith, not press his advantage so ardently she ran.

  Lilith eyed him from over her cards. “What’s this about a cottage? Have you been holding out on me?”

  Taking another sip of his tea, he swallowed and said, “It’s not mine. It’s Uncle Cuthbert’s. It belonged to my Aunt Elizabeth’s family, her childhood home from before she married Uncle Cuthbert. Before her father passed, Uncle Cuthbert purchased it to ensure his mother-in-law would be well provided for after her husband’s death. Now that she, too, has passed, the cottage sits empty. Uncle and I have talked at length of my purchasing it from him. I stay there from time-to-time to escape. It’s nothing, though. It’s not even mine.” He eyed Roddam askance.

  Lilith exchanged a card, deep in thought.

  In hushed tones, she said, “All my talk of a cottage by the sea, and you never thought to mention your own enjoyment of such a setting.”

  “I, well, it’s not even mine,” he repeated, tugging at his ear in discomfort.

  What was he supposed to say? That he had access to her dream cottage? That she should marry him for a cottage that was not his? That he would purchase the cottage of her dreams on the condition she married him? No, no, no.

  “You have been holding out on me,” she said, her lips curving into a smile.

  By Jove, that smile flirted with him. Here he was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation since he had not mentioned the cottage before, as though hiding it from her, and only mentioned it now as if it were a bartering chip for her hand in marriage, and yet, she smiled at him.

  He returned the smile, the corners of his mouth inching upwards until he grinned like a Cheshire cat. Their gazes held, two smiling fools sharing a secret he did not understand.

  And then Lilith won the pool. Again.

  The door opened as Walter reached for the deck to reshuffle. Mama flitted into the room, a bubbling brook of chatter.

  Lilith tightened the ribbons of her bonnet as the family ascended the steep path to Bamburgh Castle. All in the family were present except Hazel, who wished to stay with Lady Freya and avoid the excessive walking planned for the outing.

  Lilith was delighted to see her sister-in-law looking bright-eyed and vigorous. Lizbeth’s decision to join them was a marked turning point in her healing over the past week and a half, not to mention an improvement in her sleeping schedule since Freya required feeding every few hours throughout the night.

  Today, Sebastian promised them a treat. His grand scheme was while he and Mr. Trethow met with Mr. Granville Sharp about the slavery abolition bill, she, Lizbeth, and Walter would meet with Dr. John Sharp for a tour. Her brother had made the acquaintance of the Sharp brothers some time ago, the castle being naught but thirteen miles from his home at Dunstanburgh Castle, a shorter distance even from their cousin’s estate at Lyonn Manor.

  Walter made his excitement known, insisting this would be inspirational for his orphanage should he wish to have a foundling hospital attached. Lilith was more curious than excited.

  Dr. Sharp, archdeacon of Northumberland, ran a rather unique infirmary and dispensary at Bamburgh Castle. Unlike the usual infirmaries and dispensaries in the country, his was free to the poor, funded exclusively by a charitable trust, and thus no arrogant or prejudicial board or group of subscribers to determine those worthy of being treated and those not. While not a lying-in hospital, such as many foundling hospitals, it was mostly an outpatient facili
ty that did have a few rooms for those needing a brief repose.

  How could Lilith not be curious?

  She held a strong dislike for physicians since so much of her work was correcting what they had done wrong, not to mention their treatment methods always involved bleeding a patient, applying leeches, or sawing off limbs, hardly the treatments of those concerned with healing. And yet, from what all she had heard, Dr. Sharp was of a different ilk.

  While not as windy as the headland of Dunstanburgh Castle, there was undeniably an ambitious gust, chilly at that.

  As though it were the most natural of actions, she stepped closer to Walter. He offered his arm. Placing hers over his, she leaned even closer, absorbing his warmth, strength, and good humor.

  Before them, the keep loomed, an imposingly tall square.

  Dr. Sharp waited for them outside, hunched with age, crow’s feet around his eyes, and a hearty, but tired smile on his lips.

  “Welcome to my little hospital, lords and ladies!” he said, waving them forward.

  They made short work of the introductions before proceeding inside. The tour began in the lower rooms of the castle where surgery was held, followed by a showing of the dispensary, the infirmary, and the apothecary.

  Dr. Sharp ambled, a cane in one hand, the cold stone walls against his other as he used them to propel himself forward. Everything about the man aside from his stooped stature, aged cough, and slow progress revealed a keen figure. His mind was sharp, his wit sharper, and his heart full. He was kindness itself.

  He admitted to staying at the castle with friends and family in the tower apartments during the summer and returning home to Durham during the winter, but he was uncertain he could make the trip for much longer.

  “These stones are as much part of me as I am of them,” Dr. Sharp said. “Every renovation of this pile of rubble was conducted under my command. I was a determined lad, eager to see my dream to fruition. Nearly twenty years, we’ve been together. I grow old, though. I grow old and worry what will become of it when I’m gone.”

  He spoke more to himself than to the group, and so no one thought to answer.

  When they rounded a corner, he opened a wooden door that led to a schoolroom. Walter stopped in his tracks.

  “A schoolroom, Dr. Sharp? In a hospital?” he voiced incredulously.

  “Yes, my lord. It is humble, but the children of the poor have nowhere else to go.”

  “And it has not been too much of an undertaking to run both a school and a hospital?” Walter asked.

  “Not with the right staff, though our patient needs of late have overwhelmed our number of hands. We used to see no more than two hundred patients per year. Now, it exceeds one thousand. As I age, the more useful I become in a schoolroom than by a hospital bed.”

  “You might as well know, Dr. Sharp,” Walter said, “I hope to open an orphanage in Devon. It will serve as a school, as well, and I’m entertaining the idea of a foundling hospital in connection. Your work is an inspiration, as I would be doing this purely out of charity to help the poor.”

  “Ah, you’re a good boy, lad. Don’t spread yourself too thin or overwork your staff. I nearly lost my surgeon from overwork. Start small. Build from there.” Dr. Sharp patted Walter’s shoulder, then led them to another room. “Here, the children receive their smallpox inoculations on their first visit to the schoolroom.”

  “Smallpox inoculations?” Lilith echoed. “And you haven’t encountered criticism?”

  “Oh, indeed, I have. A great deal of criticism. I am invested in supporting the use of inoculations, nonetheless. Other physicians may not laud my efforts and instead call me a quack, but I have saved lives. I’ll have you know, I’ve been inoculating since 1777. Ask me how many of my patients have contracted smallpox. Ask me, and I’ll tell you none.”

  “You’re surprisingly progressive,” Lilith said more to herself than to the doctor who was ingratiating himself to her with each step of the tour.

  She was eager to have a chat with him about herbs. The apothecary reminded her more of her own storehouse at home than any physician’s home ever had. The more he spoke, the more chagrined she felt of her dislike of all physicians. Just as with her initial prejudice against Walter and his mother, she had nearly allowed her past experiences to blind her to the good will of Dr. Sharp and all he had accomplished at Bamburgh Castle.

  They proceeded through the hallway to view more rooms, and along the way met other staff, including a kindly Dr. Cockayne, resident surgeon, who stopped to make pleasantries for as long as he was able.

  After the surgeon moved on, Dr. Sharp said, “I am most fortunate to have Dr. Cockayne. I received applications from across the country, but none so impressive as his.”

  The next area they entered consisted of impressive bathing facilities, boasting a seawater bath, a hot bath with thermometer, and a cold bath with a deep well pump. Everything about the hospital signified to Lilith a place of healing not sickness. No leeches. No sawbones. No scarificators or lancets.

  “Given this is an outpatient facility, doctor, what ailments do you treat?” Lizbeth inquired.

  “Everything, my lady. From cough to hemiplegia. We do have rooms for those who need a lying-in, but we are not staffed to keep them for long. I must gloat, however, that we have the finest medical technologies of any hospital in the country, including an electrical machine for therapies and a bellow apparatus for respiration. Many of our patients suffer from water inhalation after near drowning or shipwreck. My brother, William—a surgeon, you know—gifted us several items, including a carriage and a sedan chair. When the infirm cannot otherwise come to us, we fetch them.”

  The tour at an end, they followed the good doctor to his study where they were to meet his brother, Mr. Granville Sharp. The study was tidy, the décor mostly architectural plans of the castle and renovation diagrams. A window looked out to the ocean, but the desk faced the door.

  Anyone could see this hospital was to be the man’s legacy. Lilith wondered if seeing this would spur Walter into action with his own plans.

  “What makes us successful,” Dr. Sharp explained, “is we have married science with religion. The medical science we practice is nothing more than a tool for His healing, a way for us to act on His behalf.”

  Sebastian leaned to Lizbeth and whispered words all in the room could hear. “I’ll place my wager on science.”

  Dr. Sharp’s grey brows rose, his forehead a rippling wave of wrinkles. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a doubter, Lord Roddam.”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Sebastian said, “Try non-believer, Dr. Sharp.”

  Instead of taking offense, the doctor nodded. Scratching his chin, he said, “You have walked through the trial of fire, then. Only those who have felt the flames speak as you do. You’re young. In time, you’ll learn your survival is due to grace and faith.”

  Sebastian grunted. “With all due respect, you’re mistaken. I saved myself from the fire. If you’d seen what I’ve seen, you’d put your faith in the hands of man, not an unseen entity who leaves children to cruel fates and mothers to die.” Turning to Lilith, his eyes black and penetrating, he said, “It was skill, not God, that brought my daughter into this world and saved my wife from her own mother’s fate.”

  Lilith swallowed against the lump in her throat. Smiling thinly at her brother, she said, “Do you not think it was prayer that guided my hand?”

  Sebastian stared at her, his expression unreadable. With a hand to his arm, Lizbeth leaned in to whisper to him.

  Dr. Sharp turned his attention to the door. Mr. Granville Sharp entered, a man who looked to be in his fifties. His hair was heavily powdered, and his collar starched. His eyes lit on Lilith as he bowed to her first before turning to the others. Despite his age, he was a handsome man, narrow of face with an angular nose and warm eyes. She glanced at Walter to find him
looking curiously at her. Casting him a smile, she wondered at how well Walter would age—would he be as handsome as he was now when he reached fifty? Would he age as well as Mr. Sharp?

  For a heartbreaking moment, she worried she would never find out.

  After Sebastian and Mr. Trethow joined Mr. Sharp for a private meeting, and Dr. Sharp returned to his work, Lizbeth, Walter, and Lilith explored the grounds. Lizbeth admitted to wanting fresh air, finding the hospital impressive but oppressive. They walked together in relative silence, each admiring all within the curtain wall, Lilith on one of Walter’s arms and Lizbeth on the other.

  The eastern edge of the castle grounds featured a low wall overlooking the beach. Squinting, Lilith tried to spy Dunstanburgh Castle to the south. Though she could not make it out, she could spy Lindisfarne to the north.

  Freeing herself from Walter’s arm, Lilith walked a short distance away from her companions to take in the sights and sounds of the castle. She leaned her hip against the stone wall and closed her eyes, feeling the wind tickle her exposed neck.

  All about her, nature reached out to embrace her. She inhaled the salty scent of the air as it kissed her skin. Gooseflesh covered her arms beneath the wooly warmth of her cloak.

  A short distance away, Walter and Lizbeth talked, two cousins at ease with each other. He was telling her a joke, but Lilith could not make out the words above the roar of the wind, only the laughter. Lilith stared at him, admiring. Not for a moment did she understand his interest in her, but it was unmistakable. The whole family knew. The whole family found ways to encourage their solitude, even if that only meant busying themselves on the other side of a room. Why her brother should encourage the match, she was unsure, for he knew as well as she that a union would not be possible, no matter how ardent Walter was.

  And yet, she could not bring herself to tell him the truth. Instead, she hoarded their moments together. No matter the topic, she cherished the time with him. During dinners, the family would turn to each other to talk, leaving the two of them with no one to speak but to each other. And she loved every minute.