A Perfect Weakness

by Jennifer A. Davids

  He hoped so. Yes, he could have quietly removed himself from the Philadelphia Medical Society, but what good would it have done? The Society was a nicety, a glorified club, not a legal entity. They couldn’t bar him from practicing medicine. Laying bare his sins to the whole world by letting the vultures of the press pick apart his reputation was the only way to keep another innocent soul from falling into his grasp.

  He set his cup and saucer on a marble-topped side table and walked to the fireplace. “Don’t worry. I never mentioned your name.” As he studied the intricate scrollwork of the clock resting on the mantelpiece, he could feel Robert’s eyes on the back of his head.

  “Do you really think I care whether or not my name was mentioned?”

  “You should. You and Sarah have done enough for me. I won’t have your reputations damaged now that this is coming out.” And that would be soon. The evening editions would be on the streets in a matter of hours.

  “Neither of us care. You are more important than all that.” Robert squeezed his shoulder, and he jerked. The numbness had begun to bleed away. “You made a mistake.”

  “I attended to a patient while I was drunk!” His words ricocheted against the parlor’s walls and flew back at him. They found their mark, and he winced. “And not just any patient. The woman I was going to marry trusted me with the life of her sister. And I betrayed that trust. A young woman is dead because I couldn’t lift myself out from the bottom of a bottle.”

  Robert’s hand dropped away, and John took the chance to move to the window. The grayness of the day gave the glass a mirror-like quality. His brown hair and eyes looked black as if a skull stared back at him. How appropriate.

  “You have to appeal the ruling. I have connections with one of the reporters I saw, perhaps—”

  “No, Robert.”

  “John, please reconsider.”

  “It’s time for me to go. I packed before the Medical Society meeting this morning and had my bag sent to my old office.” Defeat dulled Robert’s gaze, so John softened his tone. “I want to thank you and Sarah for taking me in.”

  “You don’t need to thank us.” Robert dropped into a chair. “You were ill.”

  “Ill? Ah, yes. I forgot that’s what you told everyone. If being too drunk to see your patients qualifies as ill.”

  “I said that because as far as I was concerned, it was the truth. You were and still are ill. Your body may be free from alcohol, but your soul is still sick.”

  Robert didn’t understand. Did the man even have any demons? He hadn’t seen what John had seen, heard what he’d heard, and— thankfully—done what he’d done both during and after the War of the Rebellion. Unlike John, he’d served in Washington, in a recovery hospital. After the war, he went on to develop a successful practice and marry the woman of his dreams. But he was right about one thing. Sickness had invaded John. He was sick of thinking himself worthy of being called doctor.

  “You know you’re welcome to stay,” Robert said.

  “I know, but I can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Both. I’ll let you know how I’m doing.” He strode toward the parlor door.

  “Where will you go?”

  “I’m not sure,” John replied. He paused. Robert’s fingers were steepled, forefingers resting lightly against his lips, eyes focused elsewhere. Apparently, he had an idea. He had never been one to give up without a fight.

  “What?” John regretted the edge in his voice. After all, Robert was only trying to help.

  “You could go out west. Start over.”

  Something about the notion stilled John’s rejection. The idea had merit. Though not in the way Robert was thinking. He wanted him to go and doctor there, where no one knew him. Completely out of the question, the doctoring part anyway. But why couldn’t he go west? Grow cows or corn or something? How hard could it be?

  Robert joined him at the doorway. “Sarah has an old family friend in the Colorado Territory. She had a letter from him that mentioned they need a doctor.”

  “Let me think about it. Don’t do anything yet, please.”

  “You need to take this chance. Don’t throw it away.”

  “I’ll let you know.” He tried to push a note of hopefulness into his voice. He failed.

  Robert reacted to his attempt by shuttering his emotions like a statue.

  “Well,” he said, holding out a marble hand. John barely touched it before he withdrew it. His voice was a dull echo as it followed him to the window on the other side of the room. “Goodbye then.”

  “Goodbye, Robert.”

  The gray sky was turning slate by the time John arrived at his former office. He had taken the horse trolley from Robert’s Chestnut Street home as far as Fourth Street. From there he walked to his neighborhood close to the docks and to the door of his tiny trinity house. He fished out his key and let himself in. His carpet bag sat just inside the door, the only object in the room not covered with dust. Not that there were many. Without Robert and Sarah’s knowledge, he’d sold or donated his equipment. The only items left in the room were a desk and chair and a small washstand.

  He pulled off his coat and vest, laying them across the desk before sinking into the chair. He dragged a hand over his face and dug fingers into his temple. The narrow, curved stairway in the corner invited him to climb to his bedroom and sleep. But sleep rarely helped anymore. Some nights he slept soundly, only to wake, strangled by guilt for being able to do so. Other nights … Well, other nights the dreams came. Guilt had choked his mornings of late, so he was due for a bout of nightmares.

  No, he’d sit here for a while, perhaps think about this business of going west. Leaning back, he let his head rest against the wall. He could disappear out there. A number of veterans from the war were doing it, so the papers said.

  Yes. Right. What a good idea. He could see it now. He’d move out there and run into one of those veterans. And it would turn out that particular veteran would be a fellow he’d treated—butchered, to be accurate.

  Eventually, his back ached. Night had fallen. Time to see what tortures his mind had in store for him. He rummaged through the drawers for a match to light the oil lamp he could just make out on the desk. Pulling out the large lower drawer, he reached in—and stiffened as he brushed his fingers against supple leather.

  He slammed the drawer shut, found a match in the next one, and lit the lamp. The chair skidded in protest as he stood. He flung his coat and vest over his arm and grasped the lamp. He took a few steps. He didn’t need to see it. What good would it do? It was just a thing, and it meant nothing. Less than nothing.

  But his heart dragged him back to the desk.

  Fine. But seeing it wouldn’t change his mind.

  He threw down his things, yanked open the drawer, and withdrew his medical bag. He set it on the desk and took a step back, cupping his hands over his mouth.

  Engraved on the brass placard below the handle, his name flickered and gleamed as the lamplight played across it. He hadn’t been able to sell the bag with the rest of his medical equipment because of that placard. It was attached in such a way that its removal would ruin the bag. He released the clasp, revealing the tools of his trade. He’d forgotten to tell someone to sell the contents. The warm, rich scent of leather hadn’t diminished despite its many years of use.

  You could go out west. Start over.

  Start over. Could he? Could Robert be right?

  His heart pounded so hard, his hands shook as he reached into the bag. A shingle with his name on it. No, not his name, his mother’s. It could work. And he could re-grow his beard. He would be careful. Keep to himself. He could make things right.

  He touched an instrument at the exact moment someone knocked on the door.

  He jerked his hand back and curled his fingers into a fist. What had he been thinking? Who was he to think he could have a chance start over, much less deserve it?

  As the knock came again, he snapped the bag shut
, gathered his garments, and picked up the lamp.

  “I’m not seeing patients,” he said through the door, but he made it only a few steps more before the knocking resumed. Scowling, he spoke louder. “I said I’m not seeing patients!”

  A muffled voice answered back. “I have no need of a doctor. I’m looking for a Dr. John Turner on a matter of business.”

  The heat of anger rapidly cooled. “Business” could only mean one thing. There would be charges after all. Stumbling over to the door, he opened it with wooden fingers.

  At the threshold stood a man only a year or so younger than he. “Dr. John Turner?”

  John raised his brow at the man’s cultured English accent. “Yes,” he replied.

  The stranger touched the brim of his hat. “My name is Miles Warner. I’m a solicitor with Smith and Stewart in London.”

  “You’re here at the request of Lord Renshaw?” Such a weight settled over him he barely had the breath to speak the words. How had William found out?

  Mr. Warner’s countenance sobered. “Not exactly. I’m very sorry to inform you that Lord Renshaw passed several weeks ago. I’ve come on behalf of his estate.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Penelope sat in the cart on the side of the road by herself as she cradled her injured hand in her lap. Of all the days for this to happen, it would have to be the day of the new lord’s arrival at the Hall. Her horse shook its head.

  “I won’t say it’s all your fault, Bessie,” she said. “But throwing a shoe did not help.”

  The animal snuffed and stretched her head in reply.

  Thank the Lord for Hannah. If her housekeeper had not been with her, she’d still be at the Castle, and there would now be no one to go for aid.

  All that business at the Castle with her failed rescue attempt. A kitten had gotten stuck inside one of the towers, and she managed to reach it, but when it wriggled out of her arms, she had fallen on the wet stones, muddied her dress, and sprained her wrist. The cat, in turn, had run off. She agreed with Hannah. It had been silly of her to try to rescue it in the first place. But how could she have ignored those tiny mewlings? Especially when they at first sounded like the cries of a babe.

  She shouldn’t have stopped at the ruins, especially with Hannah. But the pull to go was too great. They were early returning from their errand, and she had only meant to steal a glance at her angel as they took a quick turn along the wall. She needed to stop these sentimental visits and just forget. If she didn’t, someone would put two and two together.

  Bessie shifted. The cart shook, and Penelope grabbed the seat. Poor girl. She must be uncomfortable. She climbed out, careful to guard her injured hand. Hannah had told her to stay put in the cart, but the horse’s behavior spoke of more than just a thrown shoe.

  Penelope walked to her head and soothed her, then stepped back to see if she could assess the problem. There was the bare hoof, the right rear leg. Had she lamed it too? Bessie shifted again, and the cart lurched. No, it wouldn’t be safe to check and risk spooking her. She planted herself at the horse’s head. “There now, girl, don’t fret,” she soothed.

  The clop of hooves directed her attention to the road. A coach drew near. And not just any coach. It was from the Hall. The new lord? Oh dear. She had planned to meet him at the Hall with her brother. Not standing along the side of the road with a lame horse. Perhaps he wouldn’t stop.

  No such luck. The coach came to a halt right next to her.

  At least she wore Hannah’s cloak over her muddy dress. And her bonnet shaded her face. If the conversation went quickly, perhaps there would be no need for introductions.

  Before either coachman could alight, the door swung open, and a man climbed out. She gripped Bessie’s harness. How could this be the new baron? He was younger than she’d imagined, Thomas’ age perhaps. And far too handsome.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. Curious toffee-brown eyes regarded her. “Are you all right?”

  An American accent. It had to be him. “Good afternoon. I’m fine, sir. But poor Bessie has thrown a shoe, and I fear she is lame as well.”

  “Do you live close by? I could take you home.” He gestured toward one of the coachmen. “One of these fellows here could stay and watch your horse until you send someone.”

  “That is very kind, but I could not think of leaving Bessie in such a state.” Nor could she contemplate a coach ride of any length with him. Give her wounded animals or distressed children to deal with any day. Handsome men turned her insides into putty. He could at least have the decency to wear a proper mustache and mutton chops, not those short sideburns which just reached his jaw.

  He smiled, and her insides pooled liked melted wax. “That’s kindhearted of you, but I can’t just leave you here on the side of the road.”

  Kindhearted. As if being handsome weren’t bad enough, he had to have a silver tongue as well? No. Enough of that. The last time a man made a favorable first impression, the results had been disastrous.

  “I will not be alone for long, I assure you,” she said. “My traveling companion has gone for help. She should be back at any moment.”

  He hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  Voices drifted from farther ahead on the road. Hannah and Mr. Briggs, no doubt. “There, I hear her now with one of our farmers. It was very kind of you to stop.”

  He glanced up the lane. Mr. Briggs and Hannah rounded the corner. His face relaxed. “All right. I guess I can leave now with a clear conscience.”

  “Yes, indeed. Thank you again for stopping.”

  “My pleasure.” He touched the brim of his hat and climbed back in the coach. As soon as he closed the door, the coach moved on.

  She released her stranglehold on Bessie’s harness. Not the sort of man she expected, but at least he hadn’t asked her name. By the grace of God, he wouldn’t recall any of this, and they would have a proper introduction.

  John hadn’t asked her name. But what business did he have asking for a woman’s name? None. He’d come to England as his cousin’s heir to settle down quietly and mind his own business. And he intended to do just that. This village of Woodley might be small, but if all went as planned, he probably wouldn’t ever see her again.

  Now if only everything would go as planned.

  He hadn’t anticipated a stay in London to settle legal matters, nor had he expected a final letter from William. You will soon learn of the opportunities I have arranged for you. I know your heart is in medicine, and I would not have your new station in life completely wrench that from your capable grasp.

  Opportunities. They’d come clothed as chairmen of several of London’s most prestigious hospitals. All offered the same thing, an invitation to be a consulting physician when he was in London for the Season. And all were turned away disappointed. The new baron’s time in London was temporary. He would reside permanently at his country estate in Hampshire.

  The coach flew over another bump, and John grabbed the coach strap. Again. The constant shuffle and vibration were draining. London cab rides were smoother than these country roads. The coach turned and ceased its pitching. At last. He peered out the window. Pea gravel. This had to be it, the road to Ashford Hall.

  He wiped his hands on his pant legs. Mr. Smith’s description of the place gave him the idea it was something of a monstrosity. When the white Palladian mansion drew into view, his suspicions were proved correct. He’d left America to keep to himself. From what he’d seen, he would have plenty of room to do it in. Granted, it was beautiful, but why did it have to be so large?

  The coach pulled to a stop, and the door opened before he could grasp the handle. He alighted, and a man in a dark morning coat, vest, and tie came forward.

  “Welcome to Ashford Hall, Lord Turner.”

  Something about the man struck him as familiar. He was the same height as he, but several years older, with carefully combed black hair and a slender, hawkish face. John knew this man from somewhere.

  The man glanced bac
k at the rest of the servants and then back to him. “Is there something amiss, my lord?”

  “No, not at all. My apologies.”

  “No need, my lord. I am Parker, the butler.”

  Even the name sounded familiar.

  Parker gestured toward a woman at the head of the line. “Mrs. Lynch, the housekeeper.”

  The housekeeper? She was younger than he was. The housekeeper at Ashford House had been old enough to be his mother.

  Parker sensed his confusion. “Mrs. Lynch is new to Ashford Hall, my lord.”

  “I see. And does Mr. Lynch work here too?” John asked her.

  She gave him a shallow curtsy and a bare dip of the head. Her frosty manner lent a slight chill to the air. “‘Mrs.’ is a title of courtesy, Lord Turner. I am not married.”

  “I see. I’m sorry.”

  “Again, apologies are not necessary, my lord.” Parker’s words thawed the moment, and he motioned to the man standing next to Mrs. Lynch. “This is George Avery, your valet.”

  George stood at attention with a brave, determined look plastered on his face. Like any good soldier, he wouldn’t look John in the eye. Was he the valet, or was John back in the Union Army? John sought to reassure him.

  “Hello, George.” John should call him “Mr. Avery,” but he seemed far too young for the title to stick comfortably. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a valet, but I’m sure we’ll get along fine.”

  A grin appeared until Parker cleared his throat. John hadn’t meant to get him into trouble.

  So he was back to having a valet. While he had trained in London, one of Lord Renshaw’s footmen had served him. William had even offered to send the man to Edinburgh with him but—

  That’s who he is. John gave Parker a quick glance. He was older now but definitely the same man who valeted for him all those years ago. Did he remember him?

  Parker introduced the rest of those assembled, with the exception of the cook and her staff, who were preparing dinner. Once he’d introduced the last housemaid and John had thanked them for welcoming him to the Hall, they walked away along the outside of the house, save a footman who strode up the front steps and waited by the door.