“Don’t you like it?” she asked in a hurt tone.
“Yes—no…I mean it’s a fine watch, but it’s too good for me.” He’d stood and now ran a hand through his hair, as if uncomfortable with the whole topic.
She pressed her lips together, to keep from crying. He was rejecting her gift. She’d known she was no longer attractive to him. Had all the longing she’d seen in his eyes left forever? She had to know. She gave a gasp and clutched her chest.
He was immediately alert. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” she murmured.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” He’d moved closer at least.
“I feel…palpitations,” she said softly. “I haven’t been sleeping well at night.” At least that much was true.
When he said nothing, nor came closer, she grew desperate, remembering the days when he hadn’t hesitated to examine her. Had she lost all appeal to him that he couldn’t bear to touch her?
“That stick you have…that baton, the listening device.” She struggled for the right word. “Why don’t you use that?”
“The stethoscope…” Even his tone sounded reluctant.
“Yes,” she whispered, desperately playing her last card.
She heard him open his medical case and take out the instrument. She waited quietly, her hands clasped in her lap, her heart thudding till it reverberated in her ears.
He finally approached the settee and sat down beside her, the black baton held loosely in his hands. She turned to face him, making it easier.
When he placed it against her chest, she waited, willing herself to remain still and not reach out and touch his hair.
“What do you hear?” she asked in a low voice.
“Your heartbeat.”
“Do you hear how hard it beats when you come near?” she whispered, her hand no longer able to remain still.
He retreated from the touch of her hand on his and put a space between them on the couch.
She looked deeply into his eyes and found only wariness. “You’ve been so good to me. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.” She glanced down at her hands, trying to remember the words she’d rehearsed during the waking hours of the night. “I haven’t much to offer now.” She swallowed, determined to go on. “But what little I have I want to give you.”
He seemed frozen, staring at her. Thinking he didn’t understand, she went on. “I have only myself to give.”
The silence grew long in the room. Did he still not understand? She put a hand to the neckline of her dress.
This time he came to life, springing away from her and off the settee. He coughed. “You need say no more, Mrs. Neville. As I said, you owe me nothing for my services. If it makes you feel better, I will send around a bill—”
It was her turn to stare. Her worst fear had been realized. He no longer wanted her! As the fact penetrated her numbed brain, she clutched at the cloth of her gown, seeking support.
He was refusing her offer. She had to repeat it to herself to fully grasp the fact. She had truly lost all physical appeal. Of course he no longer wanted her. She felt more than mere wounded vanity. She knew she hadn’t misread the desire in his eyes all those weeks, nay, months, as she’d dangled her attractions before him. No, what stared her in the face now was her future. A woman with no physical appeal had very little future anywhere.
She rose from the settee. “Don’t trouble yourself. I understand perfectly. You are no different than any other man. I’m thin and ugly now, so you can scorn me. I no longer have anything attractive to offer. I have been out of work for longer than I care to think. The public has forgotten me, so I have no allurements left.”
She turned away, bitterness suffocating her. She was finished, her beauty gone, her acting career in ruins.
His words broke the stillness. “You are wrong.”
“I don’t think so,” she said with a short laugh.
“I am not like those other men.”
She wiped at a tear that had begun to fall down her cheek. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d brought her to tears.
“And it has nothing to do with your fame on the stage or lack of it.”
“It’s because I’m ugly now—”
“How little you know. Free of the artifice of the stage, you are as flawless as a diamond. You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”
She could have wept with relief. She swiped at the rouge on her cheeks as she slowly turned to him. Could he be speaking the truth? She needed reassurance. “Am I really?”
It was his turn to expel an impatient laugh. “Can’t you see that I speak the truth, Eleanor?”
His name on her lips was more thrilling than anything she’d imagined. As she stood there, saying nothing, he must have read the lingering doubt in her mind.
Instead of saying anything more, he took a step toward her. That step seemed to activate hers, and without quite knowing how it had happened, she found herself face-to-face with him. He was looking at her so seriously that she almost doubted she had heard his words correctly.
And then he was leaning down toward her, and she leaning up to him. When his lips touched hers, she felt the same sensation she had the day of her fall through the trapdoor on the stage. Suddenly the floor gave way beneath her and she was free-falling. She clutched the lapels of his coat, not wanting the moment ever to end.
He held her lightly by the elbows as she drank of him.
She’d wondered an eternity how those lips would feel against hers. They were warm and slightly full for a man, oddly sensuous for such a serious man. His breath was sweet and spicy like the cardamom seeds he was always chewing on.
The moment was enchantment itself, completely stopped in time. She had never known such a thing. In her experience, men’s kisses were always a prelude she must endure. She, who’d never enjoyed their damp intrusion, now found herself craving more.
Only with William—Lord Eaton—had she come close to letting herself go, and then he’d left her. And she’d vowed never to be vulnerable to someone again.
Now she found herself forgetting the past in the pure touch of Ian’s lips against hers.
Before their bodies could draw closer, he disengaged his lips slightly from hers. “There, you may laugh at my inexpert attempts at kissing you,” he said in a low tone, his breath brushing her.
In reply, she grasped his face in the palms of her hands and brought it down to hers, and began to kiss him deeply, giving herself to him in that kiss, holding back nothing of herself, as she had always done with others.
She could feel his yearning in the way he returned her kiss, in the way his hands came up to embrace her. And then all she felt were the barriers crumbling inside her. Emotions too long pent up behind her defenses began to build and crest until the walls buckled.
Before she had a chance to explore the kaleidoscope of sensations he was producing in her, before she had a chance to do more than rest her hands on his shoulders, before she’d even had a chance to whisper his name, Ian broke the contact of his lips against hers. Gently but firmly, he grasped her by the wrists and set her away from him.
“I cannot!” he whispered.
She was so stunned by the abrupt end to the kiss, she would have fallen forward if he hadn’t been holding her. He returned her to the settee and strode away from her as soon as she was seated.
He reached the window and leaned against the sill.
“I will not give in to this!” The words seemed to burst forth from him. “I haven’t kept myself for so long to give myself to one such as you!” The words spoken in soft vehemence exploded in the silent room, like glass falling against a stone.
They found her with all her defenses down. Not a shred of pride or anger or resentment covered that naked organ of her heart. Tender and defenseless, it lay exposed to the stiletto sharpness of those deadly shards.
She brought her hands to her chest, as if to cover her heart from his words. But it was to
o late! He’d found her laid bare.
“Get thee behind me, Satan,” he ground out, his back still to her.
Satan! He was calling her Satan! The words succeeded in bringing her out of her stupor. No! It wasn’t too late to defend herself.
He turned at last and came toward her. “Please forgive me, Mrs. Neville. My conduct was unforgivable. You have been under my professional care, and I had no right to…touch—” he stumbled over the word “—you in any way like that. I’m sorry. Good day, madam.” Already he was turning away, leaving her destroyed.
How dare he be the one to leave?
She stood as regally as Mrs. Siddons in her last performance.
“You can’t even say the word,” she hissed. “Is it because you daren’t call such an inept, fumbling attempt a kiss? A man who has never been with a woman.” She looked down her nose at him. “At your age—it’s not natural. What kind of a man are you?”
His jaw clenched, and she knew the barb had hit home. She was hurting his manhood, and she took great pleasure in it.
“What did you hope? To bed Eleanor Neville? Not many men have had that privilege, I can promise you that!” She gave a harsh laugh. “I must thank you for your refusal if your moral sensibilities stopped you in time.
“For what could you possibly offer me? A penniless surgeon who squanders all his talent on the miserable rabble of London?”
His throat worked but still he said nothing, and her satisfaction deepened. She was a great actress, and he’d never realize how great.
“Do you honestly imagine all your noble self-sacrifice is doing any good? Have all those years of self-denial pleased your God to any discernible degree?” She looked him up and down with scorn, knowing she must not overplay the scene. “At least my antics on the stage make the poor fools laugh for a few hours, so they can forget their pain and squalor. What do you do but cut them open and cause them more pain? Most of them end up dying anyway, don’t they?
“What have you done for them, in the end?” she taunted him. “Hastened them to their Maker?
“Yes, go ahead and save yourself for some pious evangelical bride—it might be a long wait. I may be Satan’s spawn, but at least I shall have some enjoyment from my short duration upon this stage. What shall you end up with, Mr. Russell? If you don’t shrivel up and grow old waiting, you’ll die prematurely contracting some foul disease from one of your wretched patients.”
When he said nothing, his face pale and set, she smiled. “If you were in the theater, Mr. Russell, you would realize this is your cue to exit the stage.”
As if the words prodded him awake, he bowed formally and said, “Good day, Mrs. Neville. I shall not trouble you further, I promise you.”
“Good day to you, Mr. Russell. You know the way out.”
It wasn’t until she heard the door close behind him that she allowed herself to collapse on the settee.
She felt sick, and she wondered if she would have a relapse of the fever. She leaned forward, her head between her knees, her breath coming in gasps.
She was not acting now. She felt as if she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. Oh, God! she cried to that unseen deity Ian worshipped. Help me!
Gradually the spasms passed and her breathing returned to normal. She lay back against the couch, wondering at the numbness that was already encasing her heart.
She hadn’t thought it would ever be awakened by a man again, not after Lord Eaton had nearly destroyed it.
What a young fool she’d been then, recently arrived in London and landing her first real acting job after that miserable stint with the traveling troupe. Lord Eaton had seen her on the stage and declared himself smitten. She’d been overwhelmed by the handsome young lord. He’d set her up in her town house, lavished her with gifts, promised her the world.
She’d been at his beck and call for four years, until her heart had been caught, and she’d secretly yearned for him to offer marriage. But the day had arrived when he’d tired of her. Oh, he’d been generous enough, making sure she didn’t lack materially. It was shortly after he’d ended things that she’d read in the papers of his engagement to a young lady enjoying her first season. Miss Beatrice Farnsworth. Eleanor had never forgotten the name.
She came back to the present. Why after so many years had she let herself believe in a man’s sincerity? She crossed her arms over her chest, rocking back and forth, despising herself for her gullibility.
She was a mature woman of four-and-twenty who could no longer blame youthful folly. She must look out for herself and her daughter. That’s all she had.
Ian was probably right. He was a good man, and she was tarnished.
But why must it always come down to this: destroy or be destroyed? She had almost been destroyed once before and had sworn it would never happen again.
Ian walked and walked. He had no idea how long or in what direction. All he heard were Eleanor’s words.
What kind of a man are you?
A man who has never been with a woman at your age.
Do you honestly imagine all your noble self-sacrifice is doing any good?
What do you do but cut them open and cause them more pain? Most of them end up dying anyway, don’t they?
What have you done for them, in the end? Hastened them to their Maker?
The accusations swirled round and round through his mind, spreading like poison until they touched and contaminated every hope and dream he’d ever had.
He ended up on Blackfriars Bridge with no recollection of how he’d gotten there. Oblivious of the cold, to the sights and sounds around him on the busy waterway, he stood looking down at the murky green water. The denunciations against his manhood were bad enough, but worse were the ones leveled against his work.
What had he accomplished in all his years of practicing medicine? Eleanor’s mocking tone lashed at him over and over, her scornful eyes belittling him.
“Hey, there, get a move on! Don’t you see we’ve got a dray coming through?”
Ian started at the angry shout, and resumed his aimless walk, crossing the bridge and entering Southwark. He didn’t miss the irony as he found himself across from the theater. The familiar women selling their favors strolled along the pavement in front of it. Others plied the more honest trades of hawking flowers or sweetmeats.
Was Eleanor right? he asked himself as he looked at the brightly-lit theater. Did the brief pleasure these tawdry actors afford the crowds compensate for the audience’s miserably short existence? He stared at the classical facade, already feeling the familiar pressure building inside his head.
Would Eleanor’s words prove prophetic?
You, what shall you end up with? If you don’t shrivel up and grow old waiting, you’ll die prematurely contracting some foul disease from one of your wretched patients.
God, where are You in all this? Had he sinned so grievously in his thoughts that he could no longer hear his Lord’s voice? He remembered the verse about the heaven over his head being brass. He glanced up now at the leaden sky, feeling completely and utterly defeated.
Had his lust for a fallen woman led him to this place…or had it begun earlier? Had he become so wrapped up in his desire to heal the wounds of mankind that he had neglected his Lord? Had he missed the call to preach the gospel?
As he resumed his aimless walk down New Surrey Street, he felt a sudden strange sensation in his legs, as if they no longer belonged to him. He pushed out his arms to keep his balance, but the movements were disjointed.
The next thing he knew he was falling…
When he awoke, Ian had no idea where he was. He could hear a murmur of voices around him and felt the warmth from a fireplace to one side. He was lying on something hard. He put a hand against it and then he remembered the last time he tried to use his limbs how disconnected they had felt.
His eyelids flew open, panic gripping him. He found himself staring at a smoke-and water-stained ceiling lit only by the flickering light of the fire. A
t least his hand was behaving normally now. He seemed to be on a wooden bench.
“You’re awake,” a woman said. Then her face appeared over him, a worn and deeply lined one.
“Where am I?” he asked, his voice coming out a rough whisper.
She gave a deep chortle, revealing crooked teeth, the few that remained. “At my ken. ’Ere, take a sip o’ this. It’ll put you to rights.” Before he could refuse, she lifted his head and brought a tankard to his lips. He drank automatically and almost choked on the gin burning a path down his throat.
That made her laugh the louder. “Not used to max, are ye?”
He struggled to get up, his legs encased in a thin blanket. The woman helped him to a sitting position. He looked around him at the small room, and started when he saw a man sitting nearby on the other side of the fireplace.
Ian nodded his head and the man did the same, saying nothing.
“I—” He cleared his throat and began again. “I’m not sure what happened. How did I get here? What time is it?” He patted his waistcoat for his new pocket watch, but feeling it brought remembrance afresh, and his hand went limp. He didn’t think he could look on that watch face right now and cope with all that it would bring up until he sorted out where and how he was.
“You fell flat on your face,” the woman said, smacking her lips on the remains of the gin in the tankard. “We thought you was jug-bitten. Didn’t we, Abner?” She turned to the man.
The man grunted as he continued to stare at Ian. He looked familiar to Ian, but he couldn’t seem to get his thoughts straightened out enough to remember.
“My Abner ’ere, ’e picked you right up, slung ye over ’is shoulder like a sack o’rye and carried ye right on up ’ere. Ain’t it so?” She had a strong lower jaw, which made her lower lip protrude beyond the top one.
Abner grunted assent.
“I thank you…” Ian spoke the words slowly, still unsure his words would follow his thoughts properly. All he was certain of was he felt exhausted. “How long…have I been here?”
The Healing Season Page 22