Honorable Doctor, Improper Arrangement

by Mary Nichols

  He gave a cracked laugh. ‘How can you? You were not there. Please, Kate, my dearest Kate, leave me to my fate.’

  She stared at him, her heart pumping wildly. Had he really said those words? Had he called her dearest? What did that tell her? Was she dear to him? As dear as he was to her? It was better not to know. Seeing the shocked expression cross her sweet face, he gave her a wry smile. ‘I have given myself away, have I not? Now you know how much I care for you. I love you.’

  ‘But you can’t…’ She was confused, afraid. Not of him, never of him, but of herself, of where this conversation was leading. ‘I am…’

  ‘To wed another man, I know that. I also know perfectly well that such a declaration on my part is reprehensible and I should never have made it. Of late, I seem to be blundering from one indiscretion to another. Please forgive me.’

  ‘There is nothing to forgive.’ She stood up suddenly. ‘I must go.’ If she stayed any longer, she would find herself confessing what had been staring her in the face for weeks, that she loved Simon Redfern, loved him with all her heart, had done almost from the beginning. He was all in all to her. She loved him so much she would do anything for him, but she realized, almost in the same moment, that bringing it out into the open would not help.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you must.’ He stood beside her, so close she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. ‘Kate, I wish you happy. With all my heart, I wish you happy. Forget me. I am not worth your tears.’ He rang a bell on the table; when Harvey arrived, Simon instructed him to fetch a cab. While they waited for it, he paced the room, and she stood with her back to him and stared out of the window on to the busy street. Everyone was going about their business, walking, riding, driving carts and carriages, just as if nothing momentous had happened, just as if the world had not stopped turning and her life had not been turned upside down.

  She saw the cab stop outside the door and Harvey emerge from it. She turned to Simon. ‘It is here.’ It was an effort not to sound as if she were about to cry.

  He turned towards her, saw the bright tears on her lashes, and strode across the room to her, taking her shoulders in his hands. ‘For the first and last time,’ he murmured, and kissed her.

  It was a gentle kiss, a sweet kiss, not openly passionate, and yet the passion was there, carefully restrained. It was a kiss that promised much and yet nothing at all.

  She fled down the stairs and out to the cab, climbed in and was driven home through thick traffic, none of which she noticed, being almost blinded by tears. Not wanting anyone to see her in that state, she pulled herself together and dried her eyes; by the time the coach drew up in Holles Street, she was outwardly in command of herself. Inside was another matter entirely.

  The rumours about Simon continued to fly about. Few questioned why a man of impeccable breeding, an educated man, dedicated to healing the sick, would want to make love to a woman so far beneath him. If it was a wife he wanted, he could have the pick of almost any débutante on the social scene, or he could have done before this dreadful scandal overtook him. And if it were anything else, why, there were ladies of easy virtue in plenty who could oblige him. Kate’s heart ached for him—would, she told herself sternly, have ached for any man in his position.

  She wondered what he was doing. Was he hiding away in his rooms, afraid to venture forth? Had he gone home to Grove Hall? What was his family making of it all? Surely his uncle and aunt would not turn their backs on him? She could not go to him again, could not even speak of him, for fear of giving herself away. She could not forget his kiss. It had put her emotions into such a turmoil, that she could hardly contain them, awakening something in her she had thought long dead. Desire. The desire for a man. After Edward’s death, she had not expected to fall in love again, had been prepared to accept fondness as a substitute, but it was not enough.

  Robert did not love her, he wanted a wife to satisfy his superiors in the Foreign Office and have a mother for his girls. Not that she was going to be allowed to do much mothering of them with Mrs Withersfield in charge. But she had to go through with the marriage, had to stand at the altar and vow to love, honour and obey and all the time her heart would be elsewhere, with the man she loved who did not deserve the ignominy being heaped upon him. She could not make it worse for him.

  And there was Joe, still with her. Poor little boy. What was to become of him? Lady Eleanor had not visited again, so Kate did not know what fate lay in store for him.

  Even Robert was staying away. He was busy, she knew that; there was so much to be done before he could take up his appointment in Austria, arrangements about the upkeep of his country estate and his London home to be made, which of the servants he would take with him, which should remain, which should be let go, financial matters to arrange, his investments to be gone through and any that might seem to be inappropriate sold off, his daughters’ education decided on with his sister. All this he had explained to Kate. ‘All that, besides shopping for clothes and supervising the packing,’ he had told her the last time he called. ‘I hope you have your own packing in hand. The chests and trunks will be fetched two days before the wedding. You need to take on board only what you need for the journey.’

  She had assured him it was all in hand and Joan, who had been looking after Joe, had agreed to accompany her as her maid. He had been surprised that she had not taken on a trained lady’s maid, but she had said she wanted someone she knew and who knew her, when she was starting a new life among strangers. She still had not told him about Annie attending her, nor that she had no idea when Joe would be leaving her. Simon had been forbidden to do his work, so who would look after the little boy? Oh, it was all such a dreadful, heartbreaking muddle and her head was spinning.

  Simon knew nothing could be done until the inquiry had either condemned or exonerated him and he was left kicking his heels, unable to do the work he loved. He knew he was the subject of the most salacious scandal; his aunt kept him informed through her cousin Emmeline, who was also known to Captain Feltwell. And no doubt it had been passed on to Viscount Cranford too.

  The latest on dit was that he had taken the child away from his family in order to have his way with Mrs Barber, who was young and inexperienced in the ways of the world. Alf Barber was known to be a violent man, but he had never harmed his son, whom he loved; even the accident, which had set off the train of events that led to Dr Redfern taking the child away, was only because he got in the way when Mr Barber was chastising his wife. And there was no law to say a man could not beat his wife if he chose.

  Simon admitted to himself and to Lady Eleanor he should not have stayed with Janet when he realised Alf was not at home, nor should he have taken the boy back to Mrs Meredith, though strangely the newspapers seemed not to be interested in the child’s present whereabouts. How long before they began asking questions about that? His biggest worry was what effect the gossip would have on Kate and her future prospects. Kate, whom he loved to distraction. How could he avoid her becoming involved? He had loved her enough to let her go before all this happened; it was doubly important he should do so now.

  He paced about, unable to sit still. He had to be on the move; thinking of Kate as he constantly did reminded him that he had promised to try to find her diamond necklace. That was something he could do while he waited.

  He dressed himself in the shabbiest garments he could find, crammed a round hat on his head, put a small pistol into the pocket of his baggy coat, together with a bag of sovereigns, and left his rooms on foot. He had not shaved for several days and had a fine growth of beard, which helped to disguise him. His footsteps took him to the rookeries of London, the haunt of thieves and footpads and receivers of stolen goods.

  He strolled down the streets, keeping a sharp look about him, conscious of the money he had in his pocket. Men had been knifed to death for less than he carried. But he needed it because he would undoubtedly have to pay for information, and probably the necklace when and if he found it. He needed h
elp and it came to him in the shape of Harry Tomkins, a ne’er-do-well, who had once been a good soldier, but now made his living in any way he could, both honest and dishonest. Harry recognised him from his army days and hailed him. ‘If it isn’t the old sawbones from the 53rd, I’ll eat my hat,’ he said. ‘You come down in the world, Doc?’

  Simon grinned. ‘How did you recognise me?’

  ‘Last time I saw you, you was in the medical tent after the battle of Vimiero, dressing my wounds and looking just as you do now, worn out with taking the world’s ills on your own shoulders.’

  ‘I hadn’t shaved then, either. Come and have a quart of ale with me. I need your help.’

  He guided the man to the nearest tavern and, over a tankard of ale, explained about the missing necklace.

  ‘Don’t seem like your or’ nary mill ken to me,’ Harry said. ‘A professional housebreaker would have took the lot. I reckon you should be looking closer to home, servants, perhaps, other people in the household, someone with a grudge…’

  ‘The servants have been declared innocent, though there were foster children in the house at the time, a boy of four, a girl of seven, another of ten and a young cub of twelve. We questioned him and I’ll stake my oath he did not take it.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘The girls?’

  ‘Why not? Girls make good thieves too, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but they would have had no opportunity to dispose of the necklace. I took Sarah back to the Hartingdon Home and you can be sure her belongings would have been gone over thoroughly when they were unpacked. As for Annie, she came from a good honest home and her parents would surely have found it and handed it back.’

  ‘Sometimes temptation is ’ard to resist. If I was you, I’d look in that direction.’

  Simon was loath to do that, but then he remembered something Kate had said about Annie commenting on the necklace. It was worth pursuing. He thanked Tomkins for his advice, gave him two guineas and left him.

  Once home he washed, shaved and changed into the plain but respectable clothes he usually wore for visits to his charges and set off for Annie’s home, knowing he was disobeying his instructions not to go anywhere near any children the charity had placed. He was banking on the fact that Mr and Mrs Smith would not have heard rumours that circulated only in the ton, and did not read newspapers.

  He interviewed the child in their presence. It was a ticklish situation; he knew if the child was innocent and they made a public fuss, he would be in even worse trouble. ‘Annie,’ he said gently, ‘Mrs Kate is very worried that she is going to be in trouble with Viscount Cranford. You know who he is, don’t you? He is the man Mrs Kate is going to marry. You are to be one of her attendants. You are looking forward to that, are you not?’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t like him. I told her she oughta marry you instead.’

  He laughed and looked at her parents, who stood beside her chair looking bewildered. It was not amusing, not amusing at all. He returned his attention to the child. ‘Did you do anything you should not have done while you were staying at Mrs Kate’s, Annie?’

  ‘Don’t know what you mean.’ It was said sullenly and he felt she knew only too well what he meant.

  ‘Look here,’ Mr Smith said, ‘What are you accusing Annie of?’

  Simon ignored him. ‘Annie, did you take Mrs Kate’s necklace?’

  ‘Now, I ain’t havin’ any o’ this,’ her father put in. ‘Annie’s not a thief. You can search the house if you like. I’ll swear she brought nothing home she shouldn’t have.’

  Annie began to sob. Simon squatted down beside her. ‘Tell me what happened, Annie. If you tell the truth and give it back, you won’t be in trouble.’

  ‘Can’t give it back. Ain’t got it.’

  ‘What did you do with it?’

  ‘Hid it, then Mrs Kate wouldn’t have to wear it and then she wouldn’t marry the nasty man.’ It was said with several sniffs, deep breaths and the knuckling of her eyes.

  He sat back on his heels and laughed aloud. ‘Oh, Annie, that’s priceless. But where did you hide it?’

  ‘Under a rock at the bottom of the garden. In the corner under the tree with the purple flowers.’

  He ruffled her hair. ‘Thank you, Annie. Now we know where to look, nothing more need be said.’

  ‘Are you going to tell Mrs Kate it was me?’

  ‘I am afraid I will have to, but I am sure she will not be angry when she has her property back safe and sound, so you just pray no one else has found it first, eh?’

  He reassured Mr and Mrs Smith and left them. Kate would be relieved to know her jewels had not been stolen, but how was he to tell her when he could not even see her? For one very short moment, he was tempted to let the matter lie, to see what Cranford would do about it, but swiftly banished the thought because it would be Kate who suffered. He went back to his lodgings and wrote to the Reverend Morland.

  ‘It’s here,’ Kate said to her father, as she knelt under the lilac tree in front of a large stone she had just removed. Underneath it, lightly buried, was the box the necklace had been kept in. She picked it up, dusted off the soil and opened it and there it lay, sparkling in its icy hardness.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ the Reverend commented.

  ‘And thank Dr Redfern,’ she added. ‘We would never have found it otherwise.’ She scrambled to her feet. ‘I am so pleased it was never stolen. Now Robert need know nothing of its disappearance.’

  She was amazed that, in the middle of all his troubles, Simon should remember about the necklace and his promise to help find it, especially when she had all but forgotten it herself, or at least pushed it to the back of her mind. She had had so much else to think of: Robert and her feelings for him, or, to be more accurate, her lack of feeling, the wedding and the prospect of years and years of being married to him, knowing he was the wrong man for her.

  ‘I must go and see Annie,’ she told her father after they had returned to the house and the necklace, along with all her valuables, had been locked in a secure cupboard in the library where he kept his own jewellery and important papers. ‘May I use the carriage this afternoon?’

  He gave his permission and she went to see Annie where she heard the tale exactly as it had been told to Simon. Having scolded the girl and then hugged her, she left and directed Daniels to take her to Lady Woodham’s House in Duke Street.

  ‘You will have to go abroad,’ Lady Redfern told Simon. The house in Duke Street was one of the few to which he was still admitted, though he did not go when Lady Woodham was holding one of her interminable gatherings because he would undoubtedly come across someone who knew him and he did not want to embarrass her. ‘Live quietly in France until all the fuss has died down.’

  ‘I cannot do that. There is to be an inquiry. It would be dishonourable and an admission of guilt if I absent myself from that. I have done no wrong and will not hang my head in shame. Go back to Grove Hall, Aunt, then you do not need to listen to the tattle. Take Isobel with you.’

  ‘Perhaps I will, for wherever I go, I feel the whispers behind my back, though no one dare say anything to my face. I do not believe them, of course, but mud sticks.’

  ‘That is why I think you should go home. You will not hear them there.’

  When she left town, he would be entirely alone, without friends of any sort. Except Kate. But Kate’s friendship was denied to him, not by her, but by those around her. He wondered if she had found her necklace. Almost as if to answer his silent question, Kate was announced.

  She came into the room, rehearsing what she wanted to say, curtsied to both ladies, then stopped suddenly when she saw Simon there, standing with his back to the window. His bruises had faded, but he looked exhausted and his grey eyes, dark-rimmed with sleeplessness, had lost their sparkle. One blond curl flopped over his forehead, as if he had been running his fingers through his hair. Even so he smiled at the sight of her and hurried forward to greet her and make her known
to his aunt and Lady Woodham.

  ‘Aunt Matilda, Lady Woodham, may I present Mrs Meredith. You remember, I spoke of her.’

  They inclined their heads and Kate, recovering a little, curtsied again. ‘I am sorry to disturb you, ladies. I could not think of what else to do…’ She faltered because Simon’s expression was unnerving her. If ever a man was conveying love in a look, he was doing it. His grey eyes, his mouth, his brow, his firm chin, all silently repeated, ‘I love you.’ She took a deep breath and made herself go on. ‘I owe Dr Redfern a great debt for retrieving my lost property and I wanted to thank him. I hoped you might convey my gratitude to him. I had no idea he would be here…’ Her voice tailed off, her racing heartbeat loud in her own ears.

  ‘You owe me nothing,’ he said gently. ‘The shoe is quite on the other foot.’ He turned to his aunt. ‘Apart from yourself and Cousin Emmeline, Mrs Meredith is the only person in this great metropolis who believes in my innocence.’

  ‘I am sure I am not the only one and the truth will soon be out and you will be exonerated and everything will go on as before,’ Kate said.

  ‘Not quite as before,’ he murmured. ‘Nothing will ever be the same again.’

  She knew that was true. Even if he was found innocent, he would not be trusted with children again, which was a terrible pity, when he was so good with them. No child, high or low, rich or poor, would ever be at risk with him. He would make a wonderful papa, so very different from the usual aristocratic father, who saw his children hardly at all in their first few years and then they were sent away to school to be seen infrequently during the holidays. If they were boys, he might teach them to ride and hunt, but it was more likely that task would devolve upon one of the grooms. If they were girls, he might allow them into the drawing room to show them off occasionally until the time came to marry them off. Simon, she knew, would not be like that; he would become closely involved with the upbringing of his children. She could just picture him, on all fours on the floor, playing with them as he had played with the charity children staying with her. His wife would be lucky indeed. The thought made her insides ache so much she felt the tears welling in her eyes and it was an effort of will to contain them.