by Jaima Fixsen
“You can try. It’s difficult when you haven’t an appointment.”
She showed him to the sitting room. Neil waited in an empty chair, trying to read the spines of the books in a shelf across the room, chosen to impress upon the doctor’s patients the depth and breadth of his medical knowledge. Anatomy of the Heart and Circulation, The Lymphatic System…nothing by Signor Bellini. Those volumes must be saved for the library. After a quarter hour the anxious looking gentleman on the opposite sofa was summoned, and after that the elderly man in the rusty black suit.
“He’ll see you now,” the housemaid said, and Neil snapped upright, suddenly paying attention.
The consulting room was impressive. Except for the Latin parchments on the walls and the black bag sitting on a chair by the door, it might have been any gentleman’s study. A generous fire burned in the hearth banishing even the thought of winter.
Dr. Buchanan waved him into a chair. “Mr. Murray? I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”
“No. It’s been some time since I’ve consulted a doctor.”
“Why don’t you begin by telling me your current trouble?” The stern eyes warned Neil to be cautious. It would take time to lead the doctor where he wanted.
“I can’t feel my left toes.” Borrowing symptoms from the foreman at work, Neil added, “It’s especially bad after sitting for an hour.”
“Any pain?” the doctor asked.
“Occasionally. Starts in my back and spreads down my left leg.”
Doctor Buchanan added to his notes. “Any troubles urinating? Or—forgive me—any other failures of that organ?”
Impotence? Neil flushed. The foreman hadn’t mentioned that. “No trouble there,” Neil said, then blushed deeper as the doctor frowned at his ringless left hand.
“Any weakness—of your foot?” the doctor asked. Moral laxity was heavily implied. “Do you tire when walking or have trouble climbing stairs?”
“Once in awhile,” Neil said, more positively than he felt. He should have thought this out better. What else had that foreman mentioned?
“And your occupation?”
“I’m an engineer. With Rennie and Sons.”
Dr. Buchanan didn’t ask him about the bridge. He stood and rubbed his palms together. Warming his hands, Neil realized.
“My sister complains of the same thing occasionally. Does this kind of thing run in families?” If he could divert the doctor with conversation, he might not have to take off his coat and trousers.
“Among men of your age, lumbago usually afflicts the working class. Labourers. Coachmen. Have you had any injuries? Falls?”
“No, but my sister has,” Neil invented. “Terrific rider. Absolutely fearless. Made my father grey before his time.” His friendly smile faltered at the doctor’s stony reception, but Neil forced a chuckle and went on. “You must have a daughter or two of your own, I see.”
“I went grey prematurely.” The doctor smiled thinly. “Before I met my wife.”
“Nothing to do with a daughter, then.” Neil laughed weakly. “The rigours of your career, I suppose. You have my sympathy. I thought this bridge would be the end of me.”
“You’ve been working more than usual?”
“Problems arise. They need to be dealt with and they usually can’t wait.” Neil tried another tack. “I’ve been considering going away to recover my health. Is there any place you recommend? Ramsgate? Bath?”
The doctor refused the bait. “Both would be fine, certainly. If you could—”
“You see, if I go, I thought I might take my sister. It might help her too. Since we both have lumbago.”
“We don’t know that you have it yet,” the doctor said impatiently. “I’d like to examine—”
“Yes, yes, of course!” Neil rose from the chair but retreated a step. “But if you could advise me on the best place to take a troublesome young lady? My sister’s spirits have been much affected.”
“By the pain in her back?” the doctor asked.
Neil nodded. There was no help for it. He peeled out of his jacket, hoping it would be enough.
“You’re very fit, Mr. Murray. For an engineer.”
“My people come from the highlands,” Neil said. “Sturdy stock.”
The doctor didn’t smile. “I’ll need you to remove your waistcoat.”
Neil attacked the buttons, but that too was insufficient. Dr. Buchanan wanted the trousers off as well. Neil wished he’d invented a problem with his thumb.
“Bend.”
Standing in his shirt, Neil complied.
“Now straighten. And bend again, this time at the knees. Any pain?”
Only to his pride. “It isn’t very bad today.”
The doctor frowned. “Then I’ll need a closer look.”
He seemed to take Neil’s chattering questions as a sign of nervousness, for though he was plainly irritated and inattentive with his answers, he didn’t ask Neil to stop. Neil invented a recurring rash, which, though not presently troubling him, was most unpleasant. Dr. Buchanan said little, just prodded and pinched and wrote out a prescription for lineament.
“And should I go away for a rest?” Neil asked.
“You’re in sound health. The lineament and a little more care with your habits should be sufficient, but you certainly wouldn’t go wrong with a recuperative spell at a place like Bath.”
“And for my sister? I haven’t been there before.”
“I couldn’t really say, not having examined her. But it’s a suitable place.” He hesitated. “My own daughter is there just now with my sister.”
Eureka! Neil kept his voice bland. “Can you recommend a hotel?”
“They have rooms at Canning’s. I found the place pleasant and efficient.” Dr. Buchanan gave a tolerant smile. “Don’t believe all the claims of the curative power of the waters. You’ll find the air is clean, the pace restful, and the society unexceptional.”
Neil thanked him and hurried back into his clothes. “It sounds the very thing.”
She was still in Bath. The question was, for how long? He’d rather put that question to Mary than to her father.
Twenty-Five
Bath would have delighted Mary a year ago. Novelty would have satisfied her then.
Canning’s was an excellent hotel with the hushed atmosphere only a good deal of money can buy. Aunt Yates, ruthless in counting shillings and pence at home, gasped once, then accepted the admonitions of Mary’s papa not to worry about costs.
“Cheaper than the alternative,” he warned.
“Can we afford this?” Mary asked dubiously, reduced to an awed whisper by the plush furnishings and the brigade of silent servants.
Her father stiffened. “I do not spend more than I can afford.”
Mary’s question so offended him and Aunt Yates that it took two hours to wheedle an explanation. Papa hadn’t consented to speak to her yet, but Aunt Yates reported stiffly that thanks to her father’s reputation and industry, and her own frugal management, he had accumulated an impressive fortune. “He’s not one to flaunt wealth, and he’s never made such capital outlays as this before.” She sniffed, just in case Mary missed the fact this was her fault.
Papa set them up in a suite of rooms, bought them subscriptions to the Abbey concerts and the Pump Room, and returned to London, all with an assurance that convinced Mary that Papa had a good deal more money than she had ever supposed. Their first morning alone, when Mary expected they would sally forth to drink the waters, Aunt Yates postponed the expedition and took Mary shopping instead. “Your father says you are to have one or two new dresses and to spare no expense,” she said waspishly. Mary liked the dresses, but thought the pain of parting with so many guineas would leave her aunt with an ulcer. It didn’t stop Mary, however, from buying a green velvet bonnet.
“You should get one,” Mary said, pointing to a similar bonnet in grey with black silk ribbons.
“I don’t require frippery,” Aunt Yates told her, b
ut her eyes went back to the bonnet as if drawn by a string.
“I’m sure Papa didn’t intend us to spend only for me,” Mary told her. “What’s the use if we don’t look well together?”
Aunt Yates bought a bonnet, three chemisettes, and a fringed shawl. “You’re right,” she said as they left the shop with a boy weighed down with boxes trudging behind them. “No point being shabby.”
Mary would have enjoyed it more if she weren’t suspicious. No one cared what she’d looked like before. Bath was lovely, even in winter, but new sights and acquaintances couldn’t make her forget she was being punished.
Every day, tricked out in their new fashions, Mary and Aunt Yates trekked to the Pump Room to sip glasses of the famous waters (Mary only pretended). Aunt Yates forgot her poetry and came alive comparing unsuccessful cures with gouty gentleman and gossiping with fussy matrons and their daughters. They met a pair of ringleted sisters and their mother, Mrs. Shaw; a retired clergyman; and a tall gentleman, Mr. Daviess, who wore a pince-nez and was visiting Bath with his mother. He was exceedingly correct in everything he did, and Aunt Yates twittered any time he was within their radius.
The initial excitement got Mary through the first days of fevered worrying. After that it got worse. There’d been no time to tell Samuel she’d been sent away or lay hands on any money, so she couldn’t send him a letter. He must have missed her by now—she’d been away more than a week. Without newspapers she couldn’t follow the progress of the bill or Samuel’s articles. Everything that made her life interesting and purposeful was cut away. The hotel kept a well-stocked reading room, but every time she tried to slip inside and glance over the papers, Aunt Yates took her away to visit with the Shaw ladies or walk with Mr. Daviess.
“Your father and I don’t believe reading the paper is becoming in a girl your age.”
The only news Mary had was what she could coax out of the boot boy. He didn’t purse his lips and frown at her through a pince-nez when she talked about elections. Mary wouldn’t have minded walking with him.
“How many votes?” she asked breathlessly, desperate to learn the fate of the new bill in the House of Commons.
“Passed by a majority of one hundred and sixty-two.” He grinned. “In London and Manchester they’ll celebrate with fireworks.”
Mary’s elation faded a trifle. She wouldn’t be there to see them, but Samuel would, probably with Mr. Murray and his other friends. She liked to think he missed her, or her work at least, but it was hard to imagine when she couldn’t explain to him what had gone wrong. Papa had probably confronted him after returning to London. Every time she imagined the resulting scene she winced. It was humiliating to picture her father hurling accusations of dishonour and lechery when she doubted any such thoughts had crossed Samuel’s mind. Faced with such a tirade, he’d have to assume she’d admitted to some kind of innocent romance on her side, which would surely embarrass him. She wondered if he’d decided to go along with her father and fade gracefully from her life or admit the truth. Papa would have something to say to her, she was sure, if he knew she’d been drawing cartoons, and Aunt Yates had already received one letter from him but hadn’t shared any of the contents. Mary could hunt it down and read it, but it would be difficult now Aunt Yates had given up napping.
“I don’t suppose,” Mary said to the boot boy, “there will be any illuminations in Bath.”
“Afraid not. It’s a quiet place.”
That it was.
Mary returned to their rooms. Aunt Yates was reading, but Mary couldn’t settle. Her fidgeting earned a frown.
“If you are so excessively energetic, I don’t see why you wouldn’t go walking with that nice Mr. Daviess,” Aunt Yates said. It was becoming clear to Mary they’d brought her here to marry her off. A year ago she’d have been glad of the chance, but now it cut to know they cared so little for her they’d shunt her off to a stranger like Mr. Daviess.
“I don’t like pince-nez,” Mary said from the couch.
Aunt Yates paused in turning over a page. “I would watch that mouth if I were you.”
Mary glanced at the window.
“You could go visit the Shaw girls. Invite them to go sketching,” Aunt Yates suggested.
“No, thank you.” Mary didn’t feel like drawing, which was just as well. She was in a nasty mood and the Shaw girls didn’t deserve to be lampooned in her sketchbook. They lacked opinions but were perfectly friendly.
“I saw that nice clergyman, Mr. Lewis. He asked after you.”
“I’m not going to marry a clergyman,” Mary said. She’d held no such resolve a minute ago, but now it was absolute.
“I wouldn’t be so confident he’d even ask.” Aunt Yates closed her book.
This was impossible. They’d end up snarling like dogs if they kept this up, and it was hours until suppertime and the dubious relief of this evening’s musical concert. “May I go out?” begged Mary.
“You know you can’t.” Aunt looked as weary as Mary felt. “I suppose we could go down to the reading room.”
“Thank you.” It was enough of a concession that Mary felt grateful. She went for her sketchbook. She had nothing to read and knew Aunt Yates would want her to at least make the pretence of doing something, even if she only watched the other guests come and go.
The reading room was large, discreet, and lavish like the waistcoat of a financier. Wood gleamed, tufted and fringed upholstery beckoned. It looked softer than it was. Even the velvet settee was slippery. Here the potted palms were not so impressive as Mrs. Chin’s, but they were large enough that if Mary sat on one side and her aunt on the other, it felt like they were escaping each other’s company. Aunt Yates took the one nearest the main hall. Mary, used by now to being closely guarded, took the quieter side and disposed herself in the chair. There was a folded newspaper lying on the arm and she didn’t think Aunt Yates had seen it. She held up her sketchbook to hide it from view and glanced over the headlines. It was The Caledonian Mercury and not the Times, but better than no news at all. Mary read in bits, glancing every few seconds at Aunt Yates, afraid she would notice Mary’s pencil wasn’t moving. Mrs. Shaw walked past and came over to speak to her aunt, but spared Mary only a glance, so she read on, listening with half an ear. Mrs. Shaw reported that she’d just consulted Dr. Hogarth and taken treatment with his patented magnetic tractors. It was early to say, but her rheumatism was better, much better. In fact she dared to hope with a few more treatments she might be completely cured.
“The success of the treatment made me think of you, and I decided I must tell you about it,” Mrs. Shaw said to Aunt Yates.
Mary smiled as Aunt Yates sighed and started to explain. She was a complex case with difficult, intractable symptoms. She didn’t like to complain, but even her brother, a very respected physician…
It was safe. Mary submerged herself in print.
“Ahem.”
Mary started. There were boots in front of her. Collecting herself, Mary glanced left to confirm that Mrs. Shaw still occupied Aunt Yates. They were comparing symptoms; the boots had not registered with them.
“For goodness’ sake. You didn’t even look up for that fellow with the poodle! What does a man have to do? Sing?”
Blushing, Mary smiled at Neil Murray standing before her with his thumbs hooked in his pockets. “I know it’s you. I recognized your boots.” She tilted her head in the direction of her aunt, trying to explain her lack of greeting.
“I feared as much.” The smile left his face as he studied her. “How are you keeping?”
Mary returned her eyes to the newspaper, which might as well have been written in Greek. Neil was here! Had Samuel sent him? Or come along? “Well enough. I would have left a message explaining if there had been any time, but Papa—” The agonizing scenes she’d imagined between her father and Samuel replayed in her mind and she lost the ability to speak.
“I heard he called Samuel a vile seducer. What stories have you been telling?”<
br />
His smile almost set her at ease. She wasn’t afraid anymore, though her heart insisted on rapid fluttering. “You wouldn’t understand, but believe me, it was better for Papa to think that than the truth. I told him only that we’d been writing letters. Over and over I said nothing untoward had happened, but he doesn’t believe me.”
“So here you are in disgrace.”
Mary waited, sure he had some cutting remark. Foolish girls like her had no business falling in love with men like Samuel Brown, and they shouldn’t let their fathers think they had secret understandings with him either. With a sick lurch, she realized her actions probably looked like some kind of entrapment. Neil said nothing, so Mary dared another look at him and was surprised to find warmth still in his eyes. If she didn’t know better, she’d have said he was glad to see her. “Aunt is—” Her gaze flicked to Aunt Yates through the screen of palm leaves. Mary lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m not allowed out. Or away from her.” Unless she had Mr. Daviess as escort.
“I figured as much. Let me take care of her.” With a wink, he walked to the other side of the foliage.
“Excuse me.”
Aunt Yates stopped speaking. Both she and Mrs. Shaw looked up. With a smooth urbanity she’d never associated with him before, Mr. Murray bowed and begged her aunt to forgive his intrusion. He was a patient of Dr. Buchanan’s and had recognized her niece. “I’ve seen her when I’ve been round to consult the doctor, and when I saw your name on the hotel register…”
“So kind of you,” Aunt Yates said, extending her hand. “Have you come to take the waters?”
“Yes. A recuperative visit. I’ve become a trifle worn down with the demands of my profession. Your brother recommended Bath to me, and this hotel in particular.”
Aunt Yates introduced him to Mrs. Shaw and the next moment they were conversing with the ease of long acquaintance. Mr. Murray listened to Mrs. Shaw extol the virtues of magnetism, and Aunt Yates's resolution to try the Russian-style vapour bath.
“I experienced something similar in Turkey. I’d love to see what they have here,” he said.