by Lisa Kleypas
“You’re daft as a rock if you think Jenkyn will like you better for turning into a snitch.” Seeing Gamble’s defensive posture, his muscles tensed to fend off an attack, Ethan said sardonically, “If I were going to kill you, I’d have done it already.”
“You should have.”
“I’m not the enemy,” Ethan said in exasperation. “Why in God’s name are you wasting time and effort fighting me?”
“Eliminate a rival without mercy,” Gamble quoted, “or one day he’ll try to replace you.”
Ethan snorted, unimpressed. “Parroting Jenkyn makes you sound like more of a lackwit than you already are.”
“As long as I’ve known Jenkyn, he’s never been wrong about anything. Before we left for India, he predicted that someday one of us would kill the other. I told him I would be the last man standing.”
Ethan smiled without humor. “He said the same thing to me. I told him to kiss my arse. Jenkyn’s a manipulative bastard. Why should you and I turn into a pair of dancing monkeys every time he winds up the barrel organ?”
“Because that’s the job.”
Ethan shook his head slowly. “No, Gamble,” he said, his voice pure acid. “Because we each want to be his favorite. He chose us because he knew we would do anything, no matter how vile, to win his approval. But I’ve had enough of it. ’Tis not a job, but a deal with the devil. I’m not a well-read man, but I have the impression those never turn out well.”
It had been a dreadful week. Garrett had gone through each day in a mechanical fashion, feeling bleak and empty. Food had no flavor. Flowers had no scent. Her eyes were itchy and sore from lack of sleep. She couldn’t pay attention to anyone or anything. It seemed the rest of her life would be an infinity of monotonous days.
The lowest moment had occurred on Tuesday evening, when Garrett had gone on her usual visit to the Clerkenwell workhouse, and afterward had dared to blow a short, hopeful little summons on her silver whistle.
There had been no response.
Even if Ethan were somewhere nearby, keeping an eye on her . . . he wasn’t going to come to her.
The realization that she would probably never see him again had plunged her into a sullen void.
Her father hadn’t understood the reason for her low spirits, but he had assured her that everyone had a fit of the doldrums sooner or later. The best cure, he’d said, was to spend time with cheerful people.
“Is there a second choice?” Garrett had asked dully. “Because at the moment, the only thing I’d like to do with cheerful people is push them into the path of an oncoming carriage.”
However, the following morning, Garrett was finally able to feel something other than gloom. It was during an appointment with one of the clinic’s new patients, a watchmaker’s wife named Mrs. Notley, who had given birth eight months earlier and feared she might be with child again. After examining her, Garrett gave her the welcome news that she was not expecting. “None of the various evidences of pregnancy are there,” she told Mrs. Notley. “Although your worry is understandable, it’s not uncommon for a woman’s monthly courses to be irregular while her infant is still nursing.”
Mrs. Notley was overcome with relief. “Praise God,” she exclaimed, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “My husband and I didn’t know what we were going to do. We have four little ones already, and can’t afford another so soon. We live in constant dread of when the next baby might come.”
“What method of prevention do you use?”
The woman blushed and looked uncomfortable at Garrett’s frankness. “We count the days after my monthly turn.”
“Does your husband practice withdrawal?”
“Oh, no, doctor. Our pastor says it’s a sin for a man to do that outside his wife’s body.”
“Have you considered contraception such as douches or sponges?” Garrett asked.
Mrs. Notley looked aghast. “That’s against Nature.”
A wave of impatience swept over Garrett, but she managed to keep her expression pleasant. “Nature must occasionally be prevented from having its way, or we should have no inventions such as running water or lace-up shoes. As modern women, we need not produce more offspring than we can adequately feed, clothe, and raise to be satisfactory adults. Let me tell you about some safe options that will reduce the chances of unwanted pregnancy.”
“No, thank you.”
Garrett’s brows drew together. “May I ask why not?”
“Our pastor says a large family is a blessing, and we mustn’t refuse gifts from God.”
On any other day, in any other mood, Garrett might have tried to coax her into viewing the issue from a different perspective. Instead, she found herself saying curtly, “I suggest you tell your pastor that it’s none of his business how many children you have, unless he offers to help pay for them. One rather doubts the Good Lord wishes for you and your entire family to end up in the poorhouse.”
Surprised and offended, Mrs. Notley stood from her chair, still clutching the tear-dampened handkerchief. “I should have expected blasphemy from a female doctor,” she snapped, and stormed out of the consultation room.
Garrett lowered her forehead to her desk, stewing in frustration and guilt. “Suffering savior,” she muttered.
Before five minutes had passed, Dr. Havelock came to stand at the doorway. Before he even spoke, Garrett saw from his expression that he’d heard about what had happened.
“I shouldn’t have to remind you that our patients are not mechanical creatures,” he said matter-of-factly. “They come to us with physical and spiritual concerns. You have an obligation to treat their opinions—and feelings—with courtesy.”
“Why is Mrs. Notley’s pastor dispensing medical advice?” Garrett asked defensively. “He should stick to his line of work, and leave me to mine. I don’t go to his church to deliver sermons, do I?”
“A fact for which his congregation is profoundly grateful,” Havelock assured her.
Garrett dropped her gaze and rubbed her face wearily. “My own mother died in childbirth because she didn’t receive adequate medical attention. I would like my female patients to know how to protect and care for themselves. At the very least, they should understand how their own reproductive systems work.”
Havelock’s gravelly voice softened. “As you’re well aware, girls are taught from early childhood that any interest in the workings of their own bodies is shameful. A young woman is praised and admired for her ignorance of sexual matters until her wedding night, when she’s finally introduced to intimacy with pain and confusion. Some of my female patients are so reluctant to discuss their own anatomy that they have to point to an area on a doll to tell me where it hurts. I can scarcely imagine how difficult it must be for a woman to take responsibility for her physical health when she’s always been told she hasn’t the moral or legal right to do so. What I do know is that it is neither up to you, nor me, to judge her. When you speak to a patient like Mrs. Notley, keep in mind that women receive more than enough condescension and arrogance from male doctors—they don’t need it from you as well.”
Humbled and contrite, Garrett mumbled, “I’ll write her a letter of apology.”
“That would be appropriate.” There was a long pause. “You’ve been ill-tempered all week. Whatever your personal problems are, they have no place at work. Go on holiday if necessary.”
Go on holiday? Where in heaven’s name did he think she would go? What was there for her to do?
Havelock regarded her dourly. “In light of your current disposition, I hesitate to mention it . . . but I would like you to accompany me to a soiree at the Home Secretary’s private residence, at the behest of a colleague I’ve known for many years. Dr. George Salter.”
“No, thank you.” Garrett lowered her forehead to the desk again.
“Dr. George Salter,” Havelock repeated. “The name has no significance to you?”
“Not really,” came her muffled voice.
“He was recently
appointed as the chief medical officer of the Privy Council. Having learned of the report you’re writing on workhouse conditions, Salter asked me to bring you to the soiree.”
“I would rather set myself on fire.”
“Good God, woman, Salter is an advisor to the queen! He helps to shape public health legislation and administration for the entire British Empire. He would like to include a female perspective on these issues, especially as they pertain to women and children. There’s no woman more qualified than you to provide him with informed opinions and recommendations. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”
Garrett knew she should be excited. But the thought of dressing up to attend a formal event and mingle with a crowd of political people filled her with gloom. She raised her head to look at him dully. “I’d rather not meet him on some frivolous occasion. Why can’t I visit his office instead? One can’t exactly project an air of gravitas while prancing through a polka.”
Havelock’s bushy white brows rushed downward. “You have more than enough gravitas. Try for charm instead.”
“One of the reasons I entered the medical profession is so I would never have to be charming.”
“A goal you’ve achieved with great success,” Havelock informed her sourly. “However, I insist that you come with me to the soiree, and try to be amiable.”
“Is Mrs. Havelock coming with us?”
“No, she’s away visiting her sister in Norwich.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and extended it to her.
“I don’t need that,” Garrett said irritably.
“Yes, you do.”
“I’m not weeping.”
“No. But you have pencil shavings on your forehead.” Although Havelock’s face was expressionless, he couldn’t quite keep the hint of satisfaction from his tone.
Chapter 10
No fairy godmother could have been more efficient than Lady Helen Winterborne, who had thrown herself enthusiastically into the project of making Garrett ready for the soiree. She had enlisted the store’s chief dressmaker, Mrs. Allenby, to alter a new dress she hadn’t yet worn, and refused to allow Garrett to pay for it. “You’ve done so much for me and my family,” Helen had insisted. “Don’t deprive me of the enjoyment of doing something for you in return. I intend to outfit you in a dress that does you justice.”
Now, on the evening of the event, Garrett sat at the vanity in Helen’s spacious dressing room. Helen had asked her own lady’s maid to arrange Garrett’s hair.
Unlike many lady’s maids who affected gallic names and accents to please their employers, Pauline was actually French. She was an attractive woman of middling height—broomstick thin, with the keen, world-weary eyes of someone who had, at an earlier time in her life, endured hard experience. As Garrett conversed with her in French, Pauline relayed that as a girl she had been a Parisian seamstress, and had nearly starved to death while working eighteen-hour days sewing slop-shirts. A small bequest from a deceased cousin had enabled her to move to London and find work as a housemaid, and eventually become trained for the position of lady’s maid.
To Pauline, the preparations for an evening out were a serious undertaking. After scrutinizing Garrett thoroughly, she picked up a pair of tweezers, used two fingers to stretch the skin of Garrett’s brow, and began to pluck.
Garrett flinched at each little sting of uprooted hair. “Is this necessary?”
“Oui.” Pauline continued to pluck.
“Aren’t they thin enough already?”
“They’re caterpillars,” Pauline replied, wielding the tweezers mercilessly.
Helen intervened in a soothing tone. “Pauline is only removing a few stray hairs, Garrett. She does the same for me.”
Regarding Helen’s sleek, fine brows, the tips ending in precise points, Garrett subsided uneasily. When the unruly brows had been deemed sufficiently tamed, Pauline used a soft-bristled brush to dust a fine veil of pearl powder over her face, giving it a satiny, even finish.
Garrett frowned as she watched Pauline set a pair of curling tongs over a spirit lamp in a wrought-iron base. “What are you planning to do with those? I can’t wear my hair in curls. I’m a doctor.”
Ignoring her, Pauline divided her hair into pinned-up sections, brushed out a long lock, and folded a curling paper around it. A waft of steam rose as she skillfully wrapped the hair around the tongs. Garrett held deathly still, fearing any sudden movement might result in scorch marks on her forehead. After approximately ten seconds, Pauline slid out the tongs and removed the paper.
Garrett blanched as she beheld the long corkscrew-shaped curl. “Dear God. You’re going to make me look like Marie Antoinette.”
“I think I’ll ring for some wine,” Helen said brightly, and hurried to the bellpull.
Pauline proceeded to turn every lock of hair on Garrett’s head into a bouncy spiral, while Helen distracted her with conversation. As the clock struck eight, Helen’s little half-sister Carys came into the room. The six-year-old was dressed in a ruffled white nightgown, her fine blond hair twirled around strips of calico that had been tied into little bundles on her head.
Reaching out with careful fingers to touch one of the long curls, Carys asked, “Are you going to a ball?”
“A soiree, actually.”
“What is that?”
“A formal evening with music and refreshments.”
Carys moved to sit on her older sister’s knee. “Helen,” she asked earnestly, “do Prince Charmings go to soirees?”
Sliding her arms around the child, Helen cuddled her close. “Sometimes they do, darling. Why do you ask?”
“Because Dr. Gibson hasn’t caught a husband yet.”
Garrett laughed. “Carys, I would rather catch a cold than a husband. I have no wish to marry anyone.”
Carys gave her a wise glance. “You will when you’re older.”
Helen buried a smile amid the little rag-curl bundles on the child’s head.
Pauline turned Garrett’s chair to face away from the vanity mirror, and began to pin her hair up section by section. She used a fine-toothed comb to tease and texture the roots of each curl before twisting and pinning it into place. “C’est finie,” she finally pronounced, and handed Garrett a hand mirror so she could view both the front and back.
To Garrett’s pleased surprise, the coiffure was lovely. The front had been left in gentle waves, with a few loose tendrils at the hairline. The rest had been formed into a soft coronet of loops and curls at the top of her head, leaving her neck and ears exposed. As a finishing touch, Pauline had inserted a few hairpins tipped with clear glass beads that glittered among the upswept locks.
“Not Marie Antoinette?” Pauline asked, looking smug.
“No, indeed,” Garrett said with an abashed grin. “Merci, Pauline. You’ve done a magnificent job. Tu es artiste.”
With great care, the lady’s maid helped Garrett into an elegant dress of pale blue-green silk with a transparent shimmering overlay. The gown needed little ornamentation other than a “fraise” trim, a thin froth of ruffle at the neckline. The skirts were drawn back to reveal the shape of her waist and hips, with the excess folds and draperies flowing gracefully to the floor. It concerned Garrett that the bodice was cut so low, although both Helen and Pauline assured her that it was by no means improper. The sleeves were little more than gauzy puffs through which her shoulders and arms could easily be seen. Carefully lifting the hem of the skirts, she stepped into heeled evening slippers covered in blue silk and sewn with glittering crystal beads.
Garrett went to the full-length looking glass, and her eyes widened as she beheld this new version of herself. How odd it felt to be dressed in something light, glimmering, and luxurious, the skin of her throat and chest and arms exposed. Was she making a mistake, going out like this?
“Do I look foolish?” she asked uncertainly. “Is this unseemly?”
“My goodness, no,” Helen said earnestly. “I’ve never seen you look so beautiful. You’
re . . . prose that’s turned into poetry. Why would you worry about appearing foolish?”
“When I’m dressed like this, people will say I don’t look like a doctor.” Garrett paused before continuing wryly. “On the other hand, they already say that, even when I’m wearing a surgeon’s cap and gown.”
Carys, who was playing with the left-over glass beads on the vanity table, volunteered innocently, “You’ve always looked like a doctor to me.”
Helen smiled at her little sister. “Did you know, Carys, that Dr. Gibson is the only lady doctor in England?”
Carys shook her head, regarding Garrett with round-eyed interest. “Why aren’t there others?”
Garrett smiled. “Many people believe women aren’t suited to work in the medical profession.”
“But women can be nurses,” Carys said with a child’s clear-eyed logic. “Why can’t they be doctors?”
“They are many female doctors, as a matter of fact, in countries such as America and France. Unfortunately, women aren’t allowed to earn a medical degree here. Yet.”
“But that’s not fair.”
Garrett smiled down into the girl’s upturned face. “There will always be people who say your dreams are impossible. But they can’t stop you, unless you agree with them.”
After arriving at the Winterborne residence, Dr. Havelock looked her over with approval, pronounced her “quite presentable,” and collected her in his private carriage. Their destination was the Home Secretary’s private residence on Grafton Street, at the northern end of Albemarle. Many of the neighborhood’s grand homes were inhabited by government officials who insisted it was essential for them to live as men of high social position at taxpayers’ expense. “The drawing-room work,” it was claimed, “is but a part of the office work,” and therefore lavish social entertainments such as this were ultimately for the public benefit. Perhaps that was true, Garrett thought, but it had all the appearance of indulging in the sweets of high office.
They were welcomed into the opulently decorated house, its rooms filled with fine art and massive swags of flowers, the walls covered in silk or hand-painted paper. It immediately became apparent that at least four hundred guests had been invited to an event that could only have comfortably accommodated half that number. The crush of bodies made the atmosphere stifling and hot, causing ladies to perspire in their silks and satins, and gentlemen to stew in their black evening coats. Servants moved through the gauntlet of shoulders and elbows with trays of iced champagne and chilled sherbet.