by Lauren Royal
“There must be something that can be done, James, something we haven’t considered.”
“There’s nothing, Auntie. Would you hand me that box of sugar sticks?”
“Certainly.” She reached to the shelves behind the counter. “But there must be something,” she said, handing him the box. “We need to talk.”
“I’ve got an Institute to run. I don’t have time for talk.”
“We’ll have to talk later, then. I’ve promised to help Lady Juliana sew this afternoon, and then I was planning to stay home and nurse Bedelia this evening. But I suppose I can sneak out and meet you at Almack’s.”
“I won’t be attending Almack’s.” If there was a place in London where the stinking savor was most prevalent, it had to be Almack’s. And why should he have to go, anyway? Abstaining from the marriage mart was the only possible benefit he could derive from this forced marriage, so he meant to take full advantage of it.
Blast it, his impending wedding was the worst thought of all. He wasn’t even really having a discussion, and yet Aurelia was making him think stinking thoughts.
Gritting his teeth, he turned from the counter. “Fifty-two! Follow me, please.” A young mother rose with her three little daughters. Four more talking girls. He led them to a treatment room as quickly as possible.
He walked another set of patients to the door and brought more patients to the room they’d just vacated. He restocked sugar sticks in all three treatment rooms. He unwrapped lancets and other supplies. He scribbled in his account books and revised next week’s schedule. He returned to the reception room to fetch more patients.
“You’re not needed here,” Aurelia said. “You’re not leaving me anything to do.”
“Just keep handing out numbers. And smiling at patients. They appreciate the reassurance.”
“You should go home, James. You’ve got dark circles under your eyes. Before you need a physician yourself, you should go home and rest.”
Home? Where Mother was languishing in her sickbed waiting to discuss things? “I think not.” The door opened, and two people went out past another person waiting to come in. “Here comes another patient. You can give her a number.” In fact, maybe he’d do that himself. Handing out numbers didn’t require one to think. Turning away, he reached over the counter for one of the worn paper squares.
“You’re number sixty-seven,” he said as he turned back. “I’ll call you when…Juliana…”
His voice trailed off, sinking along with his heart.
“James.” Walking closer, she offered him a tentative smile, a sad smile, a smile that made his heart keep sinking until it fell clear down to his toes. “We need to talk.”
Oh, no. “Have you thought of a solution?”
“Not yet. We need to think together. We need to discuss—”
“There’s nothing to discuss. Nothing will come of it, Juliana. What’s the point?” It would make him think. It would make him think stinking thoughts.
“Can we go somewhere private?”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Please, James.” Her eyes were green, deep green, green and pleading. “Please, let’s just go to a treatment room.”
“James,” Aurelia said softly, “your patients are staring. Take her to a treatment room.”
Girls. If only he could avoid girls. “The treatment rooms are all in use.”
“Take her to your office, then,” Aurelia pressed.
“Don’t you think that would be improper?” he asked his aunt, and to Juliana he added, “Don’t you think Lady Frances would disapprove?”
“Bosh,” they said in unison.
“We’ve been together in private before,” Juliana reminded him, no doubt referring to not only a treatment room here at the Institute but also a secluded, lantern-lit pocket garden, a secret hideaway under a staircase, a warm cubby inside a greenhouse. “I didn’t hear you protest then.”
He hadn’t needed to avoid thinking then.
“It’s not as though you’re likely to ravish her,” Aurelia pointed out. “You’re marrying another girl.”
There it was. That word marrying. A stinking thought. And he wasn’t even having a discussion.
He gave up. “Very well,” he said, “but there’s nothing to discuss.”
He hurried Juliana into the back, determined to avoid a discussion. There was only one way he knew of to do that. One way to avoid stinking thoughts.
He led her into his office, shut the door, and yanked her up against him.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a frustrated, disillusioned, furious and pent-up kiss. It was a kiss full of hurt and regret and every bad feeling that had been haunting him.
But Juliana’s arms went around him, and she felt warm and sweet and thrumming with energy. She tasted like chocolate and smelled like sunshine. She was everything that was good and bright. Everything he’d been missing.
He didn’t think; he just felt. He just felt Juliana, and she felt impossibly alive. He wanted her more than he wanted life, needed her more than he needed to breathe.
“Juliana,” he choked out.
She pulled back. “We cannot do this.”
“We cannot not do this.” He brushed silky strands of hair from her troubled eyes.
“You’re right, but it’s wrong,” she said. “We must talk—there must be a way—”
“We cannot change anything. We cannot talk, not without touching, and we cannot touch, because that’s wrong, and—” He swore beneath his breath. “This is why I didn’t want to see you until after Saturday.”
“You were right.” He heard tears in her voice. “I cannot see you again until after you’re—”
“Don’t say it.” He couldn’t stand that word married. After he was married, he’d never kiss her again.
“I’ll go home,” she said, shaking. “I have to make fifty-two more items of baby clothes by the day after tomorrow.” Her voice wobbled. “Your mother is still ill, and so are Lady Balmforth and Rachael and Claire and Elizabeth.” Her tone rose in pitch. “That leaves only Alexandra and Lady Avonleigh to help me, Corinna, and Frances, and of all of us, your aunt is the only decent seamstress.”
“You’re going to kill yourself, Juliana. You cannot sew in the state you’re in. The Foundling Hospital can make do with a few less clothes.”
“I promised. A Chase promise is never broken—have I ever told you that before, James? It’s been our family motto for centuries. I have to make fifty-two items of baby clothes, even though I’ll never get to have a baby.”
“Why would you think that?” He pulled her close and felt her tears dampen his shirt. “You’ll have a baby with someone else.”
“I don’t want a baby with someone else,” she whispered.
“You say that now, but you will.” Someone else would love her. Someone else would make her his.
Those were among the most stinking thoughts he’d ever had, ever.
And now he couldn’t stop thinking them.
FIFTY-TWO
FOR TWO DAYS, Juliana had done little but sew baby clothes morning, noon, and night, but she still needed to complete thirty-three more pieces by the end of the day.
She didn’t know how she was going to do it. Her sisters and Aunt Frances were sewing almost as much as she was, but none of them were very speedy or talented. Lady Avonleigh had helped them all morning, but James had needed her this afternoon at the Institute. And everyone else was still ill. Recovering—and thank heavens for that—but not yet strong enough to spend hours plying a needle.
Her fingers ached. Her vision was blurring. And she didn’t have bad eyes.
“You’re crying,” Alexandra said sympathetically.
“I’m not. I think I must be catching everyone’s sniffles.”
“In your eyes?” Corinna asked.
Alexandra nudged her. “I think Juliana needs chocolate.”
“I’m not hungry.” Juliana hadn’t felt much like eating the past coup
le of days, not even chocolate. “There are still cups of chocolate cream left, if you want some,” she said, and that was when she remembered. “Oh, drat.”
Aunt Frances looked up. “What’s wrong, dear?”
Other than a dearth of baby clothes and the love of her life marrying another girl tomorrow? “I promised Emily I’d bring her chocolate cream. Three days ago.”
“Take her some, then,” Aunt Frances said. “The fresh air will do you good.”
She couldn’t spare the time. Could she? “Maybe I will,” she decided. It would take but a few minutes. She set down her sewing, fetched two cups from the kitchen, and walked next door to knock on the Nevilles’ door.
Their gaunt butler answered. “Yes?”
“I’ve come to call on Miss Neville.”
“I fear Miss Neville isn’t available.”
“Is she playing with the Lambourne girls?” The fresh air did feel wonderful. Maybe she’d fetch three more cups and walk across the square to introduce herself. It would take only a few more minutes—a few more minutes she wouldn’t have to be sewing.
“I’m afraid not, Lady Juliana.” The old butler looked mournful. “The poor child is in bed.”
“In bed?” It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and Emily wasn’t one for napping. “Is she ill?”
“Not yet, but she will be. The Lambourne girls came down with smallpox today.”
“Smallpox!” Her heart suddenly beat double time. “Has Miss Neville not been vaccinated?”
He shrugged his thin shoulders. “I’m only the butler, my lady.”
“I’d like to visit with her, if you please.”
The butler, who was pock-scarred himself, eyed her smooth, unmarked skin. “She may be contag—”
“I’ve been variolated, so I cannot catch smallpox. Please show me to Miss Neville.”
Juliana heard Emily’s sobs before she even entered the room. In her bed, the little girl was buried beneath a mountain of blankets. A fire blazed on the hearth, and the windows were closed and draped, making the chamber dim and stiflingly hot. The air smelled slightly of vomit.
And a man held Emily’s arm over a small bowl with her blood dripping into it.
Juliana gulped convulsively. Her mouth felt dry, her breath came short, and her stomach clenched, making her fear she might vomit next. It was silly, and it was stupid, but she couldn’t help herself.
Forcing herself to focus on Emily’s tear-streaked face, she moved closer. “Faith, what is going on here?”
“The doctor is hurting me!” Emily wailed. “I want Herman!”
Her heart pounding, Juliana set the chocolate cream on the bedside table and smoothed Emily’s hair back from her brow, seeing no sign of pocks. “Surely she hasn’t fallen ill already?”
“Not yet,” the doctor said. “I’m preparing her for the disease.”
“Preparing her? I think not.”
“She must be purged and bled and blistered. The procedures will help her body withstand the infection.”
“They will not!” James didn’t believe such things. “They will only weaken her.” Juliana’s gaze jerked back to the bowl of red fluid, and her head swam. She quickly looked away, but not before noticing the doctor’s hands appeared none too clean. James wouldn’t approve of that, either. He thought cleanliness helped prevent infection. “Please leave. Bandage Miss Neville’s arm and—”
“Lord Neville sent for me—”
“Well, I’m sending you away!” Where was Lord Neville, anyway? Did he have any idea what this man was doing to his daughter?
“You have no authority—”
“I have every authority,” Juliana lied. She squared her shoulders. “I’m Lady Neville, and I order you to unhand my stepdaughter and leave at once.”
She could hardly believe those words had come out of her mouth. And even more than that, she could hardly believe the doctor believed her.
But he did.
“Pardon me, my lady. My apologies.” He set down the bowl and dug in his bag, removing a cloth. “I assumed you were naught but a visitor,” he explained hurriedly as he pressed it to the cut he’d made in Emily’s arm.
“That will teach you to make assumptions,” Juliana said haughtily, moving to hold the cloth in place. “Hush, Emily,” she soothed. “You’re going to be fine.” At least she hoped Emily would be fine. She had no idea whether the girl might come down with smallpox, but she was certain this doctor’s services weren’t helping. “You may send a bill to Lord Neville,” she instructed him, “but I’ll thank you to leave now.”
She kept herself busy tying the bandage while the doctor quickly gathered his things and left.
“I want Herman,” Emily said as soon as he cleared the door. She struggled up to a sitting position and motioned toward a terrarium in the corner. “G-get me Herman. P-please.”
Juliana walked over to the glass box, sighing as she reached in to lift the snake. She’d never actually touched him before. But Herman felt drier and warmer than she’d expected, and she smiled to see the child relax as he settled around her neck.
“Th-thank you,” Emily breathed. Her sobs had diminished to shuddering sniffles. “I c-cannot believe that doctor be-believed you were my mother.”
“Stepmother,” Juliana said dryly. “And I cannot believe it, either.”
“I don’t want to get smallpox, Lady Juliana.”
“Of course not, sweetheart,” Juliana said soothingly, squeezing Emily’s good hand. “We’re going to get you a better doctor, one who knows how to make you well without hurting you.”
She had no idea if there was any way to make Emily well—but she wasn’t about to mention that to the terrified little girl. Juliana had an awful feeling there was nothing to be done other than pray. But there was someone who would know for sure. Someone who knew more about smallpox than anyone else in London.
“I’m going to send for Lord Stafford,” she said, rising from the bed. They’d agreed not to see each other until after tomorrow, but really, she had no choice. Emily’s health was at stake—maybe even Emily’s life. “Wait here while I write a note and give it to one of your father’s footmen.” She started out the door. “No, make that one of my brother’s footmen,” she amended. The Neville staff was so old, it would be tomorrow before one of them managed to shuffle to the Institute and back. And besides, she needed to run next door in any case, because they’d be wondering what was keeping her so long.
A few minutes later, she returned and peeled all the blankets off Emily. She banked the fire and drew back the curtains and opened the window. Gritting her teeth, she took the little bowl of blood and dumped it into the bushes outside, then rinsed it with water from Emily’s washstand and dumped that out, too. When all that was finished, her heart calmed a little and her stomach felt much better. She dragged a chair to Emily’s bedside, found a book, and read aloud for more than an hour until James arrived.
When the butler showed him to the room, he paused in the doorway and looked at her. Just looked at her, like he was drinking her in.
“Juliana,” he said softly. He looked tired and disheveled, his hair tousled and his neckcloth askew. He’d probably donned that and his tailcoat in his carriage on the way from the Institute.
Her insides squeezed at the sight of him. “I know we said we wouldn’t…”
She drifted off, noticing his gaze had shifted to Emily. And Herman. A moment ago his heart had been in his eyes, but now those eyes were glazed, and he looked very much like she’d felt when she’d seen Emily’s blood. Like his pulse was thready and his stomach was in knots.
Which was very probably the case.
“Emily,” she said carefully, rising from her chair, “you need to give Herman back to me now. I’m going to put him in his box until Lord Stafford is finished.”
“No!” Emily clutched the olive green reptile. “I want to keep him.”
“Emily—”
“The other doctor took him, and then h
e hurt me. I want to keep Herman!”
“Emily—”
“It’s all right,” James said, looking pale as paper. “She can keep him.” He drew a deep breath and looked back to Juliana. “Your note said she was ailing?” His gaze flicked to Emily’s bandage and back again. “Did she hurt her arm?”
“Not exactly. The other doctor bled her. She’s been exposed to smallpox, and—”
“Where? When?” He didn’t hesitate to approach the bed. But his hand was gripping the handle of his leather bag so tightly his knuckles had turned white. “Tell me what you know.”
“She’s been playing all week with three girls who came down with smallpox today.”
“How do you know it’s smallpox? Do they have spots, or only a fever?”
“Spots,” Emily said. “But Susan told me she was hot the day before.”
He nodded. On the opposite side of the bed from Juliana, he set his bag down on Emily’s night table. “Do you feel hot?”
“No. Not now. I did before, but Lady Juliana took all the blankets off of me.”
“The other doctor had her under seven of the things,” Juliana explained disgustedly.
“Idiot.” James leaned closer to Emily and reached toward her, flinching before he placed a hand on her forehead. “No fever,” he reported, quickly pulling back from the girl and her snake. “That’s a good sign. Smallpox usually isn’t contagious for the first week or two after exposure, but one can never be certain.”
“If it’s a good sign,” Juliana said cautiously, “does that mean you can do something to prevent her getting it?”
“Maybe.” He opened his bag and drew out items she’d seen at the Institute. “Very possibly. Vaccination within three days of exposure will usually completely prevent it. Between four and seven days, vaccination still offers a chance of protection, and at the very least should modify the severity of the disease. Has she already been vaccinated?”
“I don’t know,” Juliana said. “The butler doesn’t know, and Lord Neville isn’t here.”
“The doctor sent him to the apothecary,” Emily said. “To get more purg—purg—”