A Debutante in Disguise

by Eleanor Webster

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cedric was in pain. What would you have me do?’ Letty repeated.

  ‘Send a servant for a doctor who is qualified,’ he said. ‘Helping when you don’t know what you’re doing merely does more harm. Good intentions count for nothing—’

  ‘Do it!’ the boy had said. ‘Get it out of me!’

  The blood had gone everywhere, a red fountain.

  Within a second, the boy had died.

  One moment he had been conscious, talking, and in the next his eyes had glazed with the blank look of death.

  ‘Except I do know what I am doing.’ Letty said, her clear tones again pulling his thoughts back. ‘That is what you don’t understand.’

  ‘I understand that you want to help. I know that you have read articles and likely talked to midwives, perhaps you even observed their work. But that does not mean that you know more than someone who has trained. It is not the same—’

  ‘I know more because of this.’ She bent down again, pulling out the contents of the opened drawer and piling the bundle of papers on to the desk. ‘And this!’

  She yanked open the bottom drawer with such force that it hit the floor, disgorging its contents. Bundles of papers, neatly tied with black ribbon, scattered. She grabbed one, picking it up and banging it on the desk. A flurry of dust sparkles danced upwards, visible within the sunbeam.

  ‘And this!’ She opened another drawer. Again it hit the ground, its contents spreading across the floor in a riot of paper.

  ‘And, these also!’

  ‘Stop! Stop! What is all this?’ Tony said.

  She thrust a bundle at him. ‘Take it.’

  He folded his fingers around the thick package. He looked down. Tightly written lines and diagrams filled every page. Sandwiched between the text, he saw illustrations. There was a hand and an ankle, meticulous in its every detail.

  ‘My notes,’ she said.

  ‘You drew these? And wrote these?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From the books?’

  ‘No, from my anatomy lab actually,’ she said.

  The words hung in the room.

  ‘You attended an anatomy lab?’

  ‘Several. It was at Guy’s and led by Mr Harting. The notes are here.’ She tapped one of the bundles on the desk. ‘And these were taken during a chemistry class with Professor Lindenburgh. And here are some additional notes on anatomy. Please forgive the messiness. They were written during an autopsy and might be marked with blood.’

  He stared at the pages. The words swam before him. ‘How long were you there?’

  ‘Eighteen months.’

  ‘You went to Guy’s for eighteen months.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But how? Where did you live?’

  ‘I lived with Flo. I attended boring soirées to make my mother happy as Miss Barton. As few as possible, naturally. Then I studied as Dr Hatfield. I had to miss a few lectures, but generally I managed quite well.’

  He stared as she stood there in her ludicrous outfit. At least, she’d discarded the wig, although her hair was so rumpled that it now framed her face like a rat’s nest. Her jaw was thrust out. Anger had made her cheeks flush and her green eyes sparkled behind the thick lenses.

  ‘What do you think this proves? What am I to do with these notes? Why would you subject yourself to such hardship, to illness and death when you could have a good life?’

  She said nothing and he felt a confused mix of anger, admiration and hurt. He felt tricked. The level of subterfuge astounded. No wonder she had wanted no part of his proposal.

  He turned away with a final angry look at the notes and papers strewn across the desk. ‘This proves nothing. It proves nothing except that you are not just eccentric, but bloody crazy.’

  * * *

  Tony strode from the house. The door slammed behind him. His ribs hurt and his head thumped.

  ‘Arnold!’ he shouted.

  The man appeared. Tony took his horse from the servant, swinging himself awkwardly on to the animal and wincing at the pain. He needed to leave. He needed to think. Spurring his horse forward, he rode through the gate and back on to the lane.

  The farmer, cart, horse and injured boy were still there. He stared in surprise. It seemed a strangely long time since he’d entered the house and he’d thought they would be long gone.

  ‘Jamison!’ Tony pulled to a halt in front of the farmer.

  The man stood at the back of the cart, apparently checking that the gate was secure. The boy lay in it, reclining on a hay bale. Mr Jamison looked up, touching his cap. ‘Yes, sir. My lord.’

  ‘I don’t know what you heard before, but you will not speak of this to anyone.’

  ‘I am not one to gossip, my lord,’ Mr Jamison said, with surprising dignity. He rubbed his hand over his forehead to wipe clean the beads of sweat. ‘But I’ll say this much, my lord, Dr Hatfield helped my son. And the wife, too, when she had our last child.’

  ‘I am sure Dr Hatfield will keep you in mind if requiring a character reference,’ Tony said, then immediately felt remorse that he had spoken unkindly.

  ‘He’s a good doctor,’ Jamison said with a certain mulishness.

  ‘Good or not, he will not be practising in the future. How is the boy?’ Tony asked, nodding his head towards the lad. His colour had returned.

  ‘Much better, my lord.’

  ‘Send a message to Beauchamp, if he needs anything.’

  Without waiting for an answer, Tony turned his horse around, moving as swiftly as he could, given the rutted ground and his own injuries.

  * * *

  That evening Tony drank most of an expensive bottle of brandy. Elsie was still in bed so he had his dinner served in the library and glared with animosity at the empty hearth.

  The memory of the injured soldier on the battlefield seemed particularly clear, more vivid than hearth or books as though to compensate for the months he had forgotten. Truthfully, the recollection seemed both old and new, as though the image had always been there...waiting...lurking just beyond the fringes of consciousness.

  He wished he could tell Letty.

  The thought came without warning. He had never wanted to speak of his experiences with anyone. And why Miss Barton? He hardly knew the woman and what he knew was hardly conducive to trust. But it seemed as he sat within the still dim room that he would like to talk to her. She would not be shocked. She would not look away as though by even mentioning such things he was breaching some rule of etiquette. And that social norms and manners were more important than the boy with a bayonet in his gut.

  Of course, Miss Barton would hardly want to talk to him. He glared with further enmity at the hearth, studying the uneven pattern of the blackened bricks. As he remembered his last words to her, he felt discomfort and then irritation at his own discomfort.

  You are not just eccentric, but bloody crazy.

  He had not meant to be cruel. Indeed, Miss Barton’s masquerade had not been sensible.

  It was not sane or safe for a woman to work for eighteen months through the rough district around Guy’s. Her disguise was hardly foolproof and, male or not, she hardly looked capable of winning a fist fight.

  And what if she continued in this charade? What if she moved to a different county or back to the city? And what of disease? By the very nature of her occupation, she was putting herself in harm’s way.

  His hand tightened against the arm of the chair. The thought of something happening to Letty hurt with a deep pain, stealing his breath. She had such vitality, strength and single-minded determination. What would it be like to feel such drive and purpose?

  He stood. The room rocked unpleasantly. He put down his brandy snifter, reaching for the bottle. He picked it up, holding it up to the flickering sconce to study its contents.


  ‘Almost empty,’ he said to no one.

  Grabbing the empty brandy snifter, he lurched unsteadily towards the door while still gripping the bottle. He went to the bedroom, placing the bottle on the side table while sitting in the chair and stretching out his long legs. The candles had been lit. Mason was waiting.

  ‘Go away,’ he muttered, with a wave of the snifter.

  ‘I was going to get you ready for the night.’

  ‘Can do that myself,’ he said. ‘Go find me another bottle.’

  ‘There is some in this bottle here. Will that suffice?’ Mason poured out a small measure into the snifter.

  Tony peered at it suspiciously. ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘Did you wish me to shave you, my lord, or light a fire?’

  ‘No. You can go. Will ring you when I need you.’ He waved the snifter towards Mason and the door.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ his man said.

  The door closed. Tony stared about the bedchamber. Sometimes he delayed going to bed. At times he wondered if he was afraid to sleep, afraid of the nightmares. But his dreams had decreased recently. In fact, he had not had a bad one since that night when Letty had come in.

  Her image flickered before his eyes, the voluminous nightgown which was so short that he could see her feet and ankles and draped in such a way that he was aware of the comely shape of her long legs. He remembered the feel of the silk ties as he pulled them, pushing the cloth past her shoulders and then tumbling her on to the bed. He could picture her with the nightgown draped about her waist, the white skin gleaming in the candlelight and the red hair spread about her in a fiery halo.

  As he had kissed her, all the numbness had dissipated. There was lust, of course. And desire...but integral to the physical attraction there had been something else: hope, joy, rebirth and new beginnings.

  And even though she had refused his offer of marriage, the hope that she would form some part of his life had persisted. A portion of his mind had recognised that the feelings she engendered were special and could not be ignored. There had been a connection, both physical and emotional. He had liked her wit, her bluntness and her intelligence. He’d liked the way that, despite his scars and his nightmares, she had not looked at him as though he was an oddity.

  He had felt a man again.

  And when he’d learned about her double life, it seemed as though fate laughed at him. He’d actually felt something for another human being, only to find he’d loved a mirage.

  Loved?

  No, it was not love. He could not love someone he didn’t know. Besides, he didn’t even think he was capable of the emotion. He should push Miss Barton—or Dr Hatfield—from his mind. There was no reason for him or his family to have anything more to do with the woman.

  But he couldn’t. The image of green eyes fringed with long dark lashes lingered as his mind swung like a pendulum. On one hand she must be mad to take such risks to work with death and illness and the worst of human life.

  On the other she demonstrated more determination and purpose than he’d ever witnessed before.

  What would it be like to feel such purpose?

  He would like to see her again. Despite the masquerade, he’d like to see her. There was something about her; she angered him, frustrated him, confused him, but she had accepted him.

  He took another sip of the harsh liquid so that it burned his throat. She had accepted him.

  A thought came with sudden clarity, darting through his brain, almost visual like print upon the page.

  She had accepted him—but he could not say the same.

  * * *

  The brandy made him sleep late and it was past noon when he woke, stumbling out of bed and staring blearily at the painful brightness outside. He rang for Mason.

  ‘Make me as decent as you can,’ he muttered, touching the twisting line of his scar. ‘Don’t want to scare her ladyship or give the child nightmares.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Would you be wanting something to eat, sir?’

  ‘Later in the library.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And don’t look so damned disapproving. If you are not careful your face might set that way. One needs to eat.’

  ‘Indeed, my lord, and we highly encourage eating. However, eating later in the library usually involves drinking. And might I say, sir, that you are not yet without the effects of the last bottle.’

  ‘You forget yourself.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And who is this “we”? You are not the bloody King of England.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I have no need for a wife or a nursemaid. And I already have a mother. Though not a father, dropped dead, you know. Dropped dead when he heard about Edgar.’

  * * *

  Elsie was sleeping when Tony tiptoed in. She looked pale and he noted the dark shadows circling her eyes. However, the maid and Nanny reported that there had been no sign of fits or fever.

  Theodore George Edgar lay in his cradle beside her. His face looked less red, but still wizened and oddly wise for one so newly arrived. Tony smiled, reaching forward to touch the tiny hand.

  ‘Hello, Theodore George Edgar,’ he murmured, as the fragile perfect fingers clutched his own.

  ‘I am going to call him Teddy for short,’ Elsie murmured sleepily.

  ‘Sorry to wake you.’

  ‘I was just dozing. But, Tony?’ She raised herself on one elbow, a frown puckering her forehead.

  ‘What is it?’ He knew his sister well enough and could see the anxiety lurking in her eyes and furrowed forehead. ‘You are well?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Teddy seems well.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why do you appear so apprehensive?’ He sat in the chair between the bed and cradle, placing his hand against his sister’s forehead. It felt quite cool, particularly given the room’s stuffy heat.

  ‘Teddy was a little fussy last night, but I suppose babies are like that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’ Tony eyed the infant as it lay in the cradle, one hand reaching upwards as though conducting some silent unknown orchestra.

  ‘Does he feel warm to you? Elsie asked.

  He reached into the cradle, touching the boy’s forehead. ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Good, I thought he did.’

  ‘Likely because it is hot as Hades in here and stuffy.’

  ‘That is Nanny. She insists that the windows and curtains are closed so that we keep out bad spirits.’

  ‘Likely it will keep out anyone who needs to breathe. George’s Nanny is as old as Methuselah. Indeed, she already seemed ancient when I put the frog on her desk,’ Tony said.

  ‘You did? I don’t remember.’

  ‘Likely you were too young. She didn’t bat an eye, but I got a dreadful lecture.’

  ‘Father was always rather good with lectures.’ Elsie smiled. ‘He wanted us all to be like Edgar.’

  ‘Edgar was a rather hard act to follow.’

  ‘I suppose. Easier for me because I was youngest and a girl. Must have been hard for you. Father always thought Edgar was so perfect. Mother always wanted me to be clever and to be a good singer. I am neither.’

  ‘I’d say you’re clever enough and you can thump out a decent tune on the piano.’

  ‘Only due to diligent practice. It used to bother me, but then I fell in love with George. And George loved me,’ she said somewhat drowsily. ‘He loved me just for being me. I’ll always have that. You should fall in love.’

  ‘The latter seems very unlikely,’ he said.

  ‘And I do know how to dress people. I am good at that. Really, I must invite Miss Barton over again.’

  ‘Miss Barton? You must?’ He heard his voice lift. He felt a ludicrous pulse of happiness.

  ‘Indeed, I thought I
could lend her more dresses. Didn’t she look lovely in that gold one?’

  ‘I suppose,’ he said, shifting. The memory of that golden, glittering dress flickered before him.

  Just then Teddy coughed or hiccoughed. Elsie sat up, any drowsiness forgotten. She leaned over the child, touching his head.

  Again, he saw her apprehension, her gaze worried and the shadows under her eyes deepening.

  ‘Tony, I really think he feels warm. There is whooping cough going about the village. Indeed, one of our servants has come down with it, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t. But if you are worried, fetch Jeffers. Let him take a look. I don’t want you worrying.’

  ‘What about Dr Hatfield?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  He saw a confused frown flicker across her face, but she did not push the point, again touching Teddy’s forehead.

  ‘Perhaps I am fussing or imagining a fever. I mean babies do cough and hiccough. It is just that he is such a miracle. Sometimes, I love him so much, I feel scared. I sit and look at him even when I should be sleeping.’

  Just then Nanny entered. She always wore her grey hair pulled into a bun and a frown of disapproval. She had looked after George and his father and while she looked old, there was also a timelessness about her. Indeed, she had aged little from when he was a young fellow. Rather it was as though she was born old and had failed to age during the intervening years.

  ‘Now don’t you be disturbing her ladyship. She needs her rest,’ she said, making a tsking sound.

  This was accompanied by a shooing gesture with her hands so that Tony rather felt like an obstreperous fowl being chased into the hen house. He left and started towards the library as was his habit.

  But some impulse made him stop. Slowly, he turned, walking instead to the study. He halted. He placed his hand on the door handle and then slowly twisted. The hinges creaked as he pushed open the door, stepping inside.

  He had not been here since George’s death.

  He’d walked past the room often enough. His hand had even rested on the knob, but he had always turned away.

  Tony stood on the threshold. The room was exactly as it had been during his childhood and more recently when he had visited George after his marriage to Elsie. Tony stepped further into the room, allowing the door to close behind him, as he sat on the familiar armchair. The cushioning wheezed under his weight. They’d often played cards, chess or discussed politics. Like George, the study had a quiet, strong, unpretentious comfort. The furnishings were shabby but cosy and pleasantly moulded to one’s frame. The view looked on to the green vista of the park and a collection of paintings covered the walls. Generally, they were of stiff animals planted in the centre of a pastoral landscape. George had had a better eye for animals than art.