A Perfect Weakness

by Jennifer A. Davids

  A pause ensued, and the older woman took the poor reverend to task. “Well, Gregory, are we to wait all day to be introduced?”

  If she meant to fluster the reverend, she missed the mark. “My apologies, Mrs. Baines, I was not aware that you had not yet been introduced,” he replied. “My Lord Turner, may I present Sir James Abbott, his daughter Miss Isabella Abbott, and his sister, Mrs. Dorothea Baines.”

  John bowed his head, which Sir James returned as the two ladies curtsied. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “Thank you, Lord Turner. The pleasure is ours.”

  So as to not block those exiting, the four stepped farther into the churchyard where other groups of people had gathered to chat. It had rained for the past day and a half, and everyone was eager to enjoy the fine weather. They passed a group of the Hall’s tenants, who immediately paused their conversation to acknowledge John’s presence with bows and curtsies.

  A little girl peeked up at him with wide eyes from behind her mother’s skirts. What was her name? He and Thomas had visited their farm. Instead of curtsying, she smiled and waved. What a relief. He returned the smile, but the mother noticed her daughter’s lack of decorum and scolded her.

  “Lily Elizabeth Smyth! That’s Lord Turner. You do what’s proper, now.” But to her mother’s horror, the child merely giggled and waved again.

  “You appear to have your hands full with that one, Mrs. Smyth,” Mrs. Baines said.

  John fisted his hands. Did she have to sound so acidic?

  The mother refused to meet his eyes. “I’m ever so sorry, m’ lord,” she murmured. “I’ll see it doesn’t happen again.”

  John wove a hand through his hair. “Mrs. Smyth, I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t. In fact—” He raised his voice so those around him could hear. “I ask that you refrain from doing me such honor in the future. I’m just a man.”

  This set off a round of murmurs. Miss Howard and her brother stood nearby. Thomas bit back a grin, and Miss Howard raised her brow at him before continuing her conversation with Mr. Gregory. Mrs. Baines raised her chin. Her large, round eyes had somehow taken on the sharpness of a scalpel, which matched the tone of her voice.

  “Are you sure that’s wise, Lord Turner? Allowing them to be on equal footing with you?”

  John’s mouth twitched. “As an American, I believe that all men are created equal.”

  “In America, perhaps. Here it is a different story. You would do well to remember that.” As she spoke, Miss Howard and Thomas approached and diverted her attention. “Ah, good morning.”

  The two greeted her, then Miss Howard drew up next to John. “I’m sure Lord Turner does not mean to start a revolution, do you, my lord?”

  “No, of course not.” He straightened the cuffs of his coat. “We’ve already won one of those.”

  Thomas coughed into his fist while Mrs. Baines took on the demeanor of a bottle brush.

  He hadn’t meant to say that quite so loud. Or maybe he did. Sir James either hadn’t heard him or decided to ignore it.

  “I understand you arrived in Woodley just this week, Lord Turner,” Sir James said.

  “Yes, I’ve been getting to know the Hall and the tenants, thanks to Mr. Howard. He and Miss Howard do an excellent job keeping up with everything.”

  “Yes, Miss Howard does keep busy.” Mrs. Baines gave the ground a tap of her cane.

  Of course. It was Mrs. Baines who disapproved of Miss Howard’s charitable endeavors. “My tenants have nothing but praise for her, as do I. They couldn’t do without her.”

  “I see.” She arched her brow. “This is your first time in England, I presume.”

  “No, I was here several years ago.”

  “Oh?”

  John squared his shoulders. “Yes, I stayed with Lord Renshaw in London.”

  “And what was your business there?”

  “Perhaps this is not the time or place,” Sir James interjected. “My sister and I are planning a ball in a week’s time, to welcome you. We hope you can attend.”

  He saw right through the invitation. This was not for his benefit, but for Miss Abbott’s. She stood there and watched them like a disinterested cat. He wanted to refuse on those grounds alone. But like church, this dance was not something he could exclude himself from.

  “Thank you, Sir James. I would be happy to come.” He turned to Thomas. “I hope you enjoy dancing.”

  Sir James and Mrs. Baines glanced at each other.

  “Well then, I will be sure to send invitations to the Hall and Fairview.” She took her niece by the elbow. “Come along, Isabella. We should be getting back.”

  Miss Abbott caught his eye. Was she attempting to flirt, or was that a hint of amusement in her gaze?

  “What did I do?” John asked once they were out of earshot.

  Miss Howard watched the three climb into their carriage. “We will, of course, decline,” she said, and Thomas voiced his agreement.

  “Why?”

  “My brother and I are not in the same social sphere as you and Sir James,” she replied, her voice calm and firm. But the hint of regret was impossible to miss.

  He shook his head. The same social sphere? What kind of nonsense was that? Especially since it was quite clear she wanted to go. “That’s ridiculous. You’re both going.”

  Miss Howard drew a deep breath. “Lord Turner, it would not be appropriate for us to attend. My brother is your employee. He is not a gentleman.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” He looked at Thomas. Had her comment offended him?

  But he was unperturbed. “She means that I have to work for my keep. You do not. And she’s right. It would be best if we stayed home.”

  John fought back a growl. No wonder his parents had moved to America. “Where I come from being a gentleman has to do with a man’s character, not how he earns his living.”

  “But, my lord, surely even in America the help are not invited to balls or evening parties,” Miss Howard intoned.

  “No, but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t go if they got an invitation,” John shot back.

  An edge rose in her voice. “But they have only invited us because—”

  “I don’t care. Both of you work extremely hard and deserve a chance to get out. You’re going.”

  But Miss Howard had not quite exhausted all her excuses yet. “We don’t have a proper conveyance.”

  “Then I’ll send one.” She opened her mouth, but he raised his hand. “Not one more excuse, Miss Howard. I won’t hear of it.” Before she could form another protest, he strode toward his carriage. It wasn’t until he was a mile or so down the road that he realized what he’d done.

  CHAPTER 11

  For two straight days, irritation and excitement warred with each other. No matter how many times Penelope’s ire rose at being ordered to go, her excitement immediately fired back with the heady prospect of going to a ball. The dancing lessons Mama had given to them would finally be put to good use. But Lord Turner really had no idea what kind of predicament he had put them in.

  Hannah, on the other hand, had been delighted when the invitation came and sang Lord Turner’s praises for engineering the invitation and his insistence they attend. While Penelope stewed over her carefully worded acceptance, Hannah pulled out Mama’s trunk. In short order, she coerced Penelope away from her desk and buttoned her into one of her mother’s old dresses. It fit perfectly but would have to be updated.

  Miraculously armed with a recent copy of The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine and La Follett, Hannah set to work. She was a talented seamstress. The dress would be nothing short of spectacular once she finished with it.

  Now, as Penelope attended to a patient at the cottage hospital, her lips twitched. That she would be dressed so far above her station should not please her so.

  “Why would you be trying to hold back that pretty smile, Miss Penelope?”

  The patient, Mrs. Travers, took her in with rheumy but kind eyes. Penelope let
loose her smile and set the water glass on the bedside table. What honest excuse could she give her?

  The elderly woman winked at her. “It wouldn’t be because you’ll be going to that fancy ball at Hartsbury, now is it?”

  “How did you hear of that?”

  “My neighbor overheard Lord Turner in the churchyard.” Her hands danced over her blanket. “Told me everything, she did, when she visited yesterday.”

  She sought the floor for a hole she could crawl in. Mrs. Travers’ neighbor was Mrs. Brody, the town gossip. If she knew, all of Woodley, along with more than several people in the neighboring villages, knew what had transpired.

  Mrs. Travers patted her hand. “Now don’ you worry. Not a soul feels badly about it.” She looked down at the covers. “But, well, there’s Mr. Davies and the Brown sisters. They feel you’re reachin’ above your station. And Old Mrs. Russell and her niece too. But don’ you worry about them. It’s generally seen as a good thing. You go and find a good man to take care of you instead of you fussin’ over all of us.”

  “Now, Mrs. Travers,” Penelope tidied the woman’s light blanket. “If I don’t, who will?”

  The elderly woman took her hand in both of hers, the lines of her face deepening. “I knew your mother for many years, even before you started visitin’ with her for the late Lady Renshaw. She wanted more than all this for you and would have been that pleased at this chance.”

  Penelope’s role in Woodley was not what her mother would have wanted, but any hope of home and hearth had died along with her child five years ago. “Thank you, Mrs. Travers. I had best see to my duties.”

  The older woman pointed at the water Penelope had just given her. “That’s from the village pump isn’t it?”

  “Yes, why? Was there something wrong with it?” She picked up the glass and examined the contents. Nothing seemed amiss.

  “There’s that new well near Felicity Oliver’s little cottage at the edge of the village,” she said. “My grandson has a farm near there, and he brought me some. Oh, Miss Penelope. It’s so good. Those from the village are abandonin’ the pump to get water clear out there. I was hopin’ Matron Talbot might send for some.”

  The part of Woodley Mrs. Travers spoke of was farther out from the village green. Shortly before he became ill, her uncle had seen the sense in digging another well.

  “As the village pump is so close, I doubt it, Mrs. Travers. But perhaps we can send word for someone to bring you some especially.”

  She smoothed the white apron that covered her black dress as she stepped from the women’s ward to the front hall. Dr. Royston stood there with Miss Felicity Oliver.

  “And I’m telling you it’s the beginnin’ of cholera, Dr. Royston.” The spinster’s querulous voice rose, and Penelope yanked the door shut. It wouldn’t do for Miss Oliver to start another panic. She once sent the entire village into a tizzy because she swore she had the plague. “I was livin’ in London in ’54. I remember the signs.”

  “As I’ve recalled you saying many times, Miss Oliver,” the doctor replied. “But this is a small Hampshire village, not a crowded London neighborhood filled with bad air and the noxious fumes associated with that disease. Perhaps you ate a bit of undercooked meat a day or so ago.”

  “Not likely,” she replied darkly. “Prudence burns everythin’.” She pounced on Penelope who now stood next to the doctor. “You recollect those biscuits she made, don’t you?”

  Indeed she did. The maid-of-all-work’s biscuits had more in common with wood chips than anything edible. “Of course, but I must agree with Dr. Royston. Why don’t I call on you in a few days? To be certain nothing is amiss.”

  The spinster’s face creased. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

  Dr. Royston coughed, and Penelope took the woman’s arm and guided her to the front door. “It will be no bother whatsoever.”

  “But I truly am worried.” Miss Oliver’s face still registered distress.

  She regarded the woman for a moment. She’d never seen Miss Oliver like this, not in all their long acquaintance. It seemed too genuine. But her fears had to be ungrounded. Cholera, even in London, was rare these days. It would take more than she and Dr. Royston to convince her this time. She squeezed the spinster’s arm. “I am very sure when I see you again you will still be the picture of health.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Penelope opened the door for her, assuring her once again she would see her in a day or two. As she walked back toward Dr. Royston, the door to the matron’s office opened.

  “What was she dying of this time?” Matron Talbot walked over to them, bonnet in hand. Miss Oliver possessed the talent of being able to frazzle her considerable patience in a matter of seconds.

  “Cholera,” Penelope replied.

  The woman yanked on her bonnet ribbons as she tied it. “Here? We have some of the cleanest streets in the county. There’s nothing here to foul the air enough to bring on cholera.”

  “Ah, but Matron,” Dr. Royston said, “Miss Oliver is an expert. She was in London during the Soho outbreak in ’54.”

  The matron pulled a face as she put on her bonnet.

  “Her sister just returned to Southampton, Matron,” Penelope said. “You know how she gets when she’s lonely. I’ve promised to visit her in a couple of days.”

  “Thank you, Nurse Howard. And do try to keep her from voicing her worries. We don’t need another panic on our hands.” She checked the watch pinned to her bodice. “I must fly. Can you stay until I return?”

  “Of course. I’ve just checked on the patients, so I’ll finish your filing.”

  “Thank you.” She left, and the doctor excused himself to make his rounds.

  Penelope had finished the filing and was taking it upon herself to answer some correspondence when someone knocked on the door. Lord Turner stood on the other side. While her heart danced, she curtsied. “Lord Turner, what a pleasure.”

  “Miss Howard.” He peered around the room behind her. “So in addition to visiting my tenants, helping run my farm, and the numerous other things you do, you’re also the matron of the cottage hospital?” His mouth curled upward on one side. “You are an amazing woman.”

  Amazing. Another word she would have to deal with. But digging her nails into her palms did not help. “No, sir. Matron Talbot had to step out for a while, and I’m performing some clerical duties in her absence. I’m trained as a nurse, and I volunteer my services here a few days a week.”

  “I see. Where did you receive your training?”

  “St. Thomas’.”

  “I’m an admirer of Miss Nightingale. Very impressive.” Tension feathered across his face. “I came to call on Dr. Royston.”

  “Of course.” She stepped around him into the hall. “He is doing his rounds at the moment. I’m sure he would appreciate you joining him.”

  “Oh.” He tugged on his frock coat. “I wouldn’t want to disturb him.”

  “I cannot see how you could do that. He would most certainly appreciate the help of another doctor.”

  “I still don’t wish to disturb him. I’m only here as the hospital’s patron. Nothing else.”

  Clenched hands and a voice that might snap at any moment. What on earth? “Very well, my lord. If you will come this way.”

  He strode among the beds of the men’s ward, pausing every so often to ask a patient if he was comfortable. He offered his hand to those who were able to greet him but otherwise held both behind his back as if keeping himself from consulting a chart or checking a bandage. And his questions were ones a layman might ask.

  But when he stepped around the screen which separated Peter Fletcher from the rest of the ward, he stopped. He pulled back the sheets to look at the bandage covering the stump that had once been the boy’s left leg. Peter murmured in his sleep. He re-covered the lad and stepped away, motioning for her to follow. “How did this happen?”

  Had his voice shaken? “A cart accident. The axle broke,
and the cart tipped over into the ditch with the boy underneath. The break it caused was clean, but Dr. Royston and the surgeon, Mr. Worth, could not get it to set properly. They felt the best option was to—”

  “Amputate.” He’d all but spat out the word. “What about his family?”

  “He and his father are—were—carters for Fairview.”

  “Carters?”

  “They cart grain to the market or fertilizer to where it’s needed in the fields.”

  “You said were. What happened to the father?”

  “He’s still working for the Home Farm, but Thomas cannot see it lasting much longer. He’s older and getting on in years.” She gestured to the boy. “Peter did a great deal of the loading and unloading.”

  Lord Turner’s eyes turned black as coal. “There’s got to be something else the man can do at Fairview. I will speak to Thomas.” Penelope only just caught him muttering under his breath. “Why?”

  “My lord?” He looked at her, startled that she’d heard him.

  She took a deep breath. “My lord, everything possible was done. As I said, they could not get it to set correctly, and it became gangrenous. There was nothing more they could do.”

  He shook his head and with a light growl brushed past her to the door.

  She’d heard of the forced amputations in the field hospitals during the war in America. Horrors he must have witnessed if not participated in. Was that it? After all the time and effort her uncle had taken to help him become a doctor, was it the war that forced him to keep himself in check? Because that’s how he acted. Like a finely bred horse being held back in a race. Lord, what happened to him? How can I help?

  They had just stepped back into the hall when the front door opened and Matron Talbot entered. Penelope introduced them.

  “A pleasure, Lord Turner.” The matron dipped him a curtsy. “I hope you are finding the hospital satisfactory.”

  “Yes, thank you, Matron. Nurse Howard has been giving me a tour while Dr. Royston makes his rounds.”

  “Oh. I understood you are a doctor as well, sir. You did not wish to join him?”