“I? Her upbringing has been entirely in your own hands, as is only fitting with a daughter.”
“And whenever I’ve tried to check her in anything, she has at once wheedled you into persuading me to permit it,” retorted his wife. “I tell you what it is — she can always bring you around her thumb, and well she knows it.”
“This is a fruitless discussion,” said Lord Lydney, taking out his watch and glancing at it. “At this hour, I think it would best be abandoned. Was there anything further you wished to say to me before we retire?”
“Yes, indeed there was. What is to be done about Henry?”
“Henry?” Lord Lydney raised his eyebrows. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
“You surely must have noticed that he’s been dangling after the Somerby girl for the past month?”
“My dear Sophia,” replied Lydney, wearily, “I cannot be expected to endure the tedium of keeping under observation all the females whom my son chooses to honour with his transitory attentions.”
“That’s just it. They always have been transitory up to now, but I’m not at all sure that this one is in the same category. He’s for ever at her side — driving in the Park, dancing at private balls and at Almack’s—”
“Oh, my God! The boy’s five and twenty, and must go on in his own way.”
“But not if it’s to lead him into marriage with Helen Somerby! I sincerely hope he can do better for himself than that!”
“Marriage? I shall own myself surprised if he has any such thought in his head,” said Lord Lydney, scornfully.
“But she may have, and it’s not difficult for a determined girl to attach a young man who begins only by flirting.”
“There I think you do the chit an injustice,” said her husband, thoughtfully. “I’ve seen nothing in her behaviour to suggest that she’s at all a calculating female, out for a good catch. If that were the case, you know, she would surely set her cap at Shaldon.”
“Oh, no! I believe they’ve been too much used to regard each other as brother and sister. I have no fears on that score.”
“And, believe me, you need have none on Henry’s account. Moreover” — his tone was dismissive — “I refuse positively to meddle in my son’s amatory concerns, and I advise you strongly to avoid falling into that error yourself. Good night, Sophia.”
And with a chilly kiss on her cheek, he quitted his lady’s bedchamber.
Thursday was admissions day at Guy’s Hospital. James Somerby watched as the sad specimens of suffering humanity filed into the Steward’s room to present their petitions for admission, usually signed by the Parish Overseer. After this formality was over, those applicants who were accepted would be directed into the male or female admission room for examination by either the Physician or Surgeon. As the Physician was concerned with internal complaints, his examination of a patient took longer than the Surgeon’s, requiring a close enquiry into symptoms and case history, answers to all of which were set out fully in Latin on a record card. The Surgeon, presented with more obvious evidence of the complaint, made a cursory examination to establish the degree of urgency of each case and to mark the record cards accordingly. Acting on this information, the Steward would then allocate the available beds.
Mrs. Dorston’s bed was now vacant, for she had been discharged a few days since. James himself had paid her subsistence of fourpence a day, and the sum due to the Ward Sister for the washing of body linen. He had also given her some money to help her out until such time as she could resume her normal employment. Mindful of what Helen had said, he asked her if she would like him to try to trace her grandson.
“Lor’ bless you, no, Mr. Somerby, sir,” she replied. “He’ll be too taken up with his own concerns to bother with me. Besides, he went by another name than his own when last I set eyes on him — something grand it was, that the owner of the play booth had chosen for him.” She frowned for a moment, trying to concentrate on this elusive memory. “There, I disremember what t’was. So it is when we grow old, doctor. We forget everything. But thank you kindly, sir, for all you’ve done for an old woman.”
And yet it was little enough, thought James, as he watched the influx of new patients before setting about his duties in the wards.
On that particular day, he was a trifle abstracted because in the evening he was to take yet another excursion into the very different world that his sister had entered for a time. The invitation to Miss Horwood’s ball had come as a surprise; he was himself very little acquainted with the family, and knew it was given because of Helen’s friendship with the young lady. It had stirred up again those feelings which Melissa Chetwode had inspired in him at their last meeting, and the effect was unsettling. Her piquant face with the liquid brown eyes and rich chestnut curls kept coming between himself and his work in a way that was so far novel in his experience, and not entirely welcome. It would not do at all for a man in his position to begin daydreaming over a female. One day he would wish to marry; that went without saying — one day some time ahead, when he had obtained a firm footing in his chosen occupation. He had first to complete his training and then present himself before the examiners of the Society of Apothecaries to obtain their licence to practise medicine; afterwards, if successful, he was to be taken into partnership with Dr. Gillies, and might expect to acquire the practice himself when the older man retired. But all this was in the future; what had he to offer any young lady at present?
Not that an offer from a medical man, however well qualified, would be looked upon with much favour by the parents of any young lady of ton. A realist by occupation even if an idealist by temperament, James Somerby had no illusions on this score. A medical practitioner was still considered by persons of Quality more in the light of a tradesman rather than a professional gentleman, with the exception of those select few who were Fellows of the Royal College of Physicians.
The time might come when this attitude would change. The recent Apothecaries Act had brought about a better organisation of medical education in order to satisfy the more stringent requirements of the Society of Apothecaries’ examinations. Higher standards for students must eventually bring greater prestige to the profession as a whole. But such changes took years, not months, thought James impatiently; in the meantime, what Society Mama would consider him to be an eligible match for her daughter, even granted a long-standing friendship between the two families?
True, he was of good birth and in possession of a small private income to add to his professional earnings. He might perhaps look to marry someone such as a country squire’s daughter. But Miss Melissa Chetwode of Cavendish Square, daughter of a Baronet? No, damme, he reflected bitterly; that was too high a flight!
When his hospital duties were over for the day and he returned to his lodging, his thoughts were somewhat diverted by his fellow lodger, John Keats. With a touching mixture of shyness and pride, Mr. Keats showed James a recent copy of Leigh Hunt’s journal, The Examiner, in which one of his poems had been published.
“I wrote it last autumn,” he said, “when I first took up residence here. The contrast between the sweet, rural calm of the village of Edmonton, where I served my apprenticeship, and this beastly place, full of dirt, dark turnings and murky buildings, so obsessed me that I simply had to write about it. You may think it a poor enough thing, Somerby, and indeed I hope to do better in time — but I am pleased to see it in print and venture to hope that you may share in my pleasure.”
James read the sonnet carefully twice through before making any comment. His intelligent praise, when it came, evidently afforded Mr. Keats much gratification.
“You must find your medical studies somewhat of an encumbrance,” he finished, “when you’re in the grip of an urge to compose poetry?”
“I must admit to a feeling of conflict. The other day, for instance, during a lecture, a sunbeam came into the room and I was wafted away to Oberon and Fairyland! I find little emotional commitment to my medical work, and begin to won
der if poetry is not the proper business of my life.”
James nodded. “I’m more fortunate, then, than you, in that I’m certain where my true vocation lies. Ever since I can remember, I’ve wished to be a doctor. My father is a clergyman, so it might have been supposed that I would follow him into the Church. But my inclination was for curing bodies rather than caring for souls. I may not be much good at the one, but I’m convinced that I should fail miserably at the other.”
“You’re become very elusive,” said Henry Lydney accusingly to Helen as he presented himself at her side soon after the dancing commenced at Catherine Horwood’s ball. “I’ve called on you three times this week, and without success.”
“Oh, one is so caught up in engagements, you know,” she replied vaguely.
This was not strictly true, because she had been at home on two of those occasions, but had requested Lady Chetwode to deny her to the caller. It was not that she had the slightest intention of paying any heed to what Shaldon had said, she told herself; but perhaps after all she had been seeing too much of Mr. Lydney. She found his attentions flattering and admitted to herself reluctantly that she might be in some danger of taking them too seriously.
“Oh, quite so. But now that I have been fortunate enough to find you at liberty, may I crave the favour of this dance?”
She had no excuse for refusing, so allowed him to lead her on to the floor; and as she always enjoyed his company, it was not long before they were laughing and chatting away together in a very animated style. This was the sight that met James Somerby’s eyes when he entered the ballroom and began to look about for his sister. It brought a thoughtful frown to his brow, which deepened when he saw how, at the conclusion of the dance, Lydney placed a proprietorial hand under Helen’s gloved elbow to guide her back to her seat. It took some time for James to shake Lydney off so that he could have a few moments in private conversation with his sister. When he at last managed this, he came to the point at once.
“You seem very confidential with that fellow,” he began.
“Mr. Lydney? Oh, we’re on quite easy terms now. After all, I’ve been in Town for over a month, and one meets the same people everywhere, you know.”
“All the same, I don’t care to see him making you the object of his attentions quite so blatantly,” replied James severely. “Perhaps you may not know it, but he has the reputation of being a compulsive flirt.”
“Oh, James, not you as well!” she exclaimed in exasperation.
“What do you mean? Who else has been warning you off — Lady Chetwode?”
“No. I shouldn’t object if she were to say anything, for she has the right to do so. But, of all people, Lord Shaldon has taken it upon himself to read me a lecture!”
“Tony? Well, I’m indebted to him for that.”
“And so am not I! What possible concern can it be of his?”
“Don’t like to see you making a cake of yourself, for old times’ sake, I daresay.”
“Making a cake! Really, James, if you’ve come here only to be insulting and — and beastly to me, I shall wish that Catherine had not persuaded her Mama to ask you!”
“No need to get in a miff,” said her brother, placatingly. “You’re a sensible girl and don’t need to be told anything twice, so I’ll say no more.” He looked about him. “Where is your friend, Miss Chetwode? I was hoping to dance with her.”
“I can’t see her in all this crush, but she won’t be far away. If we return to Lady Chetwode’s side, I daresay she’ll appear there in a moment.”
“I don’t see Tony here,” remarked James, as they strolled towards the alcove where Lady Chetwode was sitting with some of the other chaperones.
“Don’t you? I haven’t had time to notice,” she replied carelessly.
“I can believe that.” There was a hint of acerbity in his tone.
He remembered his promise, though, and quickly changed the subject to an account of his recent doings at the hospital. He told her what had passed between himself and Mrs. Dorston on her discharge, and finished by describing the delight of John Keats on having his first poem published. She listened with interest; but the conversation came to an abrupt end when they reached Lady Chetwode to find a group gathered about her comprising Melissa and her brother, Catherine Horwood, and — yet again — Henry Lydney.
This time, James darted no indignant glances in the latter’s direction. His eyes found Melissa’s and rarely strayed, even though he joined pleasantly enough in the general conversation. It was Helen’s turn to feel a slight pang of concern; she had never seen her brother look at any young lady quite in that way. He solicited for and was granted the pleasure of the next dance with Melissa; while Helen accepted Philip Chetwode as a partner, and Lydney dutifully offered for Miss Horwood.
Melissa and James talked very little as they danced together, perhaps less than any couple on the floor; but an unseen, unheard dialogue was being conducted between them, with only the expression in their eyes to give evidence of it.
By the time the dance was ended, Melissa’s heart was beating so that she thought it must choke her.
“I — I feel faint,” she whispered.
Most young men would have at once hastened to conduct her to her Mama; instead, James drew her arm into his and guided her towards a conservatory which led off the ballroom.
“Come out into the air for a while,” he said.
The air in the conservatory was certainly much cooler, as the doors leading into the garden beyond had been set wide on this warm May evening. One or two couples were already strolling up and down here, away from the heat of the overcrowded ballroom.
“Sit down for a moment,” he suggested, finding her a suitable chair facing the open doors and tenderly placing her in it. “There! Take two or three deep breaths, and it will pass off.”
She did as she was bid, while he sat silent beside her, watching. After a few moments, the thudding heart steadied and she began to feel foolish. He would think her a poor creature indeed, to be overcome by an exercise to which she was so well accustomed. How could he know that it was not the dancing, nor the heat of the ballroom, but suppressed emotion?
“Better now?” He smiled as he asked the question.
She nodded, looking a trifle embarrassed. How gentle he was, she thought, and yet how masterful — and how much she loved him.
“Then shall I take you back to Lady Chetwode?”
He truly intended to do so; but when they both rose and stood for a moment facing each other with the secret of their hearts made plain in their eyes, he acted on instinct. No longer gentle, he crushed her in his arms; and she came willingly, eagerly lifting her face for his kiss.
“Melissa!” he murmured, when at last he drew back to stroke tenderly first her soft cheek and then her hair. “Oh, Melissa — my adorable, lovely girl!”
She wanted much more of this, and offered her lips again. He could not resist. But presently other considerations began to enter his whirling senses, and he gently set a distance between them, still retaining a hold on her hands.
“I shouldn’t have done that — though God knows I wanted to!”
“Why should you not? I wanted it, too,” declared Melissa, brazenly.
“Oh, my love! Then you do love me — you do wish to be my wife?”
“More than anything!” she exclaimed, rapturously, attempting to draw nearer to him again.
Making a strong effort, he still kept her at a distance.
“I’ll not treat you lightly, Melissa, even if my feelings did get the better of me just now. I must first speak to your parents and obtain their consent to our betrothal — if that can be had,” he finished, on a sober note.
A shadow came over the bright glow of happiness in her eyes.
“Do you suppose there’ll be any difficulty?” she asked, haltingly.
“I hope not, with all my heart,” he replied, earnestly. “But there’s no denying that there may be objections to my suit. I’m no
t what is termed a good catch, my love. You could do much better for yourself.”
“That I could not! There’s no one in all the world whom I wish to marry but you!”
He weakened sufficiently to kiss her again, this time gently and more briefly.
“They will say you are very young,” he persisted. “And I haven’t yet completed my training. Even when I have, we shall never be wealthy, my own love. I cannot hope to support you in the style to which you’re accustomed. We shall be tolerably comfortable, of course, but it won’t be the affluence of a town house, an army of servants, carriages, horses, expensive gowns—” He broke off and groaned. “No, I can’t ask you to do it! You would be giving up too much.”
“Nothing I can’t do without!” declared Melissa, valiantly. “But I can’t and I won’t give up you!”
They clung together again for a moment, two young people who saw shoals ahead and felt uncertain of a safe passage. Presently he disengaged himself, placing her hand decorously on his arm.
“We must return now, dearest. Our absence will be remarked, and I’ll not have scandalous tongues maligning your name! I will call and see your father on Saturday — I can’t get away from the hospital before. Tomorrow is operations day and always very busy. Only two more days, then, and we shall know our fate. God willing, it will match our hearts’ desire.”
They exchanged a long, loving look before he escorted her back into the ballroom to her mother’s side.
He came on Saturday, as he had promised, and was closeted for more than an hour with Sir George Chetwode. At the end of this period, Melissa and her mother were summoned to the conference in the library, while Helen waited hopefully in the small drawing room, wondering how matters were proceeding.
She was to be kept in suspense for some time longer, however. She heard the library door opening as someone emerged, and presently James appeared alone in the drawing room, his face rather set.
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