by Lisa Kleypas
Closing her eyes in relief, Garrett slid her arms around him.
The next evening, Ethan walked along the footway of Blackfriars Bridge, a structure that was cinched across the lowest banks of the Thames like a buckled luggage strap. Five wrought-iron spans set on enormous red-granite river piers supported the bridge’s steep gradient. No matter which direction vehicles or pedestrians came from, it was a long dead pull to get to the other side.
Although the light was fading, the air was still thick with the growls and hisses of factories, the commotion of dockyards, and the bone-jarring clamor of a nearby railway bridge.
Ethan passed a series of pulpit-shaped niches filled by sleeping vagrants covered with tattered newspapers. None of them stirred or made a sound as he walked by. Finding a place to stand at the railing, he proceeded to eat the dinner he’d bought at a fish shop on the Southwark side. For a penny, a customer could have a meal as fine as any wealthy toff in London: a fillet of fresh haddock or cod dredged in bread crumbs and fried over a coal fire in an iron cauldron of boiling fat. When the inside was firm and white, and the outside crust a sizzling deep brown, the fillet was wrapped in parchment along with a hot lemon wedge and a few sprigs of parsley fried into salted green crisps.
Leaning against the curved railing, Ethan ate slowly and considered his situation. He had kept moving throughout the day, wandering inconspicuously among crossing-sweeps and dustmen, sandwich men wearing billboards front and back, shoeblacks, horse-holders, piemen, and pickpockets. He was weary to the bone, but he felt safer out in the streets than trapped in the confines of his flat.
Crumbling the bit of parchment into a ball, Ethan dropped it over the bridge railing and watched it descend more than forty feet until it hit the smeary black water. Despite ongoing efforts—stricter legislation, new sewer lines and pumping stations—to reduce the foul substances released into the Thames, the water’s oxygen levels were too low to support fish or marine mammals.
The little ball vanished slowly beneath the opaque surface.
Ethan’s gaze lifted to the dome of St. Paul’s, the tallest structure in London. Beyond it, a ragged veil of clouds glowed with milky luminescence, flashes of pink and orange piercing through a few places like veins pulsing with light.
He thought of Garrett, as he always did during quiet moments. At this time of day, she was usually at home. Not far from here, slightly less than three miles. Some part of his brain was always calculating her probable location, the distance between them. The thought of her soothed and pleasured him, made him aware of his humanity as nothing else could.
A thunderous sound heralded a train crossing along the railway between Blackfriars and Southwark bridges. Although Ethan was well accustomed to railway noise, he flinched at the violent rattling of metal plate girders, ironwork rail supports, and rolling stock couplings. Continuous earsplitting puffs of steam were punctuated regularly by the combustive roar of the firebox. Turning from the water, Ethan began to resume his walk along the footpath.
He was stunned by a tremendous wallop to his chest, as if someone had struck him with a cudgel. He was thrown backward onto his arse, the breath knocked out of him. Wheezing and choking, he worked to pull air back into his lungs. A strange buzzing feeling circled through his insides.
It took all his strength to rise to his feet. His limbs weren’t working properly, muscles quivering and bunching in response to the confused signals of his brain. The buzzing turned into something searing and terrible, hotter than fire. It didn’t seem possible that human flesh could harbor so much pain. Unable to identify the cause, Ethan looked down at himself in bewilderment. A flooding dark stain spread over the front of his shirt.
He’d been shot.
His numb gaze lifted to behold William Gamble walking toward him, a short-gripped bulldog revolver in hand.
The deafening roar of the train went on and on, while Ethan backed up to the bridge railing and leaned against it to keep from collapsing.
“Counting on Felbrigg’s honor, were you?” Gamble asked when the noise had faded. “He’s a bureaucrat at heart. He’ll always defer to the next man up the chain. Tatham and Jenkyn convinced him their plans were all for the greater good.”
Ethan stared at him dumbly. Christ Jesus. The commissioner of police was going to allow scores of innocent people, including women and children, to be maimed and murdered . . . all for the sake of political advantage.
“. . . robbing Tatham’s safe on my watch, you bastard,” Gamble was saying irritably. “The only reason Jenkyn hasn’t put a bullet in my head is because he was the one who made a hash of it by inviting Dr. Gibson to the soiree in the first place.” He approached Ethan slowly. “I didn’t want to finish you off like this. I wanted it to be a fair fight.”
“’Twas fair enough,” Ethan managed to say. “Should’ve . . . seen you coming.” There was a salty liquid rattle in his throat. He coughed and saw blood spatter on the ground. As he leaned over, he glanced through the stone balustrades at the expanse of dark water below. Lifting himself up, he braced heavily against the railing.
There was no way to win. No path to survival.
“You should have,” Gamble agreed. “But you’ve been distracted for weeks, thinking of nothing but that green-eyed bitch. She’s brought you to this.”
Garrett.
She wouldn’t know he’d been thinking of her at the last moment. She would never know what she’d meant to him. It would make dying so much easier if only he’d told her. But she would do well without him, just as she had before. She was a strong, resilient woman, a force of nature.
He only worried that no one would bring her flowers.
How strange that as his life was spinning down to its end, there was no anger or fear, only soul-scorching love. He was dissolving in it. There was nothing left but the way she’d made him feel.
“Was she worth it?” Gamble jeered.
Gripping the railing behind him, Ethan smiled faintly. “Aye.”
In the next moment, he tipped back and let the momentum bring his legs up, his body rolling into a backward flip before heading into the water feet first. During the dizzying plummet, he was vaguely aware of more shots being fired. Holding his breath, he braced for the impact.
The world exploded into foul, freezing blackness, like hell after all the fire and brimstone had been extinguished. Liquid death. He struggled feebly, unable to see or breathe. Finally he had reached the level of damage his body could not endure.
He was pulled downward into a cold, insistent silence where there was no time, no light, no self. He vanished beneath the great river and the city of millions and its inscrutable sky, his body nothing but mites and motes of fleeting mortality. The throbs of his failing heart echoed the rhythm of one name . . . Garrett . . . Garrett. She was somewhere. Not far. He clung to that thought as he was pulled by the ancient current to his fate.
Chapter 15
“Eliza,” Garrett said wearily, rubbing her eyes, “just because my father wants something doesn’t mean you have to give it to him.”
The cookmaid faced her defensively as they stood in the kitchen, where the heavy, ripe sweetness of mincemeat pie hung thickly in the air. “I gave ’im the thinnest sliver, no wider than your finger—look, I’ll show the pie to ye—”
“I don’t want to see the pie. I want you to follow the weekly menu I gave you.”
“’E can’t abide eatin’ like an invalid.”
“He is an invalid.”
After working long hours at the clinic, Garrett had returned home to discover that Eliza had taken it upon herself to make one of her father’s favorite dishes, an enormous mincemeat pie that was too heavy and rich for his sensitive digestive system. It was also frightfully expensive, made with six pounds of currants and raisins, three pounds of apples, three pounds of suet, two pounds of sugar, two pounds of beef, a pint each of wine and brandy, and a variety of spices, all loaded into a flour crust and baked into a dark, sticky mass.
Half defiant, half apologetic, Eliza retorted, “Mr. Gibson used to eat it every Sunday. Now ’e’s never allowed a single bite. What pleasures ’as he got left? No wife, no sweets, can’t ’ardly walk, eyes too poor for readin’ . . . just sits in his room and counts the days until ’is next game of draw poker. I say let ’im have a midge o’ joy now and then.”
An impatient reply hovered on Garrett’s lips, but she bit it back as she considered Eliza’s words.
The cookmaid had a point. Stanley Gibson, once a vigorous and active man—a constable with a London beat—now spent most of his days in a quiet room. A cheerful, comfortable room, but even so, there must be times when it felt like a prison. What harm would it do to allow him a little indulgence now and then? In Garrett’s concern over doing everything she could to preserve what remained of his physical health, she mustn’t deny him the small enjoyments that made life tolerable.
“You’re right,” she said reluctantly.
Eliza’s mouth sagged open. “I am?”
“I agree that everyone deserves a midge of joy now and then.”
“It’s right fair-minded of ye to say so, Doctor.”
“However, if this particular ‘midge’ keeps him up half the night with a bellyache, you’re going to help me with him.”
The cookmaid’s lax mouth stretched into a satisfied grin. “Yes, Doctor.”
After going upstairs to visit her father, who had looked vastly pleased with himself and stoutly insisted the mincemeat pie would cause him no troubles whatsoever, Garrett went down to the front receiving room. She sat at the escritoire desk and sorted through correspondence, and picked at the slice of mincemeat pie Eliza had brought her. She could only manage a bite or two. She’d never been fond of sweet-and-savory dishes, and she’d certainly never shared her father’s fondness for this one. In her opinion, mincemeat pie was a jumble of ingredients that had never been meant to unite in one crust. It was a heavy, overpowering dish, entirely resistant to digestive enzymes.
Even before the pie, her stomach had felt unsettled. She had worried all day, knowing that by now Ethan had taken the incriminating information to Scotland Yard. The machinery of justice had been set in motion, and both Lord Tatham and Sir Jasper would surely be on the defensive, trying to save their own necks. She reassured herself with the thought that Ethan was familiar with every inch of London, and he was as sharp and surefooted as any man alive. He could take care of himself.
In a few days, when the conspirators were safely behind bars, Ethan would call on her. It cheered Garrett to think about him at her doorstep, big and handsome, perhaps a bit nervous as she invited him inside. They would discuss the future . . . their future . . . and she would convince him that despite his concerns, they would be happier together than apart. And if Ethan couldn’t bring himself to propose to her, Garrett would simply have to do it herself.
How did one go about proposing marriage?
In the novels, a couple emerged after a moonlight stroll with the engagement as a fait accompli, leaving the reader to imagine the scene. Garrett had heard that the suitor went down on one knee, which she certainly wasn’t going to do for anyone unless she were helping to load him onto an ambulance stretcher.
Since lilting romantic phrases were hardly Garrett’s forte, it really would be better if Ethan were the one to propose. He would say something lovely and poetic in that beguiling Irish accent. Yes, she would find a way to make him do it.
Was she really considering marriage to a man she knew so little? Had another woman been in this situation, Garrett would have advised her to wait and find out more about the prospective husband. There were more ways for it to all go wrong than there were ways for it to go right.
But I’ve had to wait for so many things in my life, she thought. She’d spent years studying and working while other young women were being courted. Becoming a doctor had been her dream and her calling. She had never trusted that in the future she would find a stable and loving partner who would take care of her. She hadn’t wanted to depend on someone out of necessity.
Garrett had no regrets: This was the life she had wanted. At the same time . . . she was tired of being cautious and responsible. She yearned to fling herself headlong into the experience of being loved, desired, possessing, and possessed. And Ethan Ransom was the only man who’d ever made her want to take the risk of true intimacy, not only physically, but also emotionally. It would be safe to allow him inside her most private thoughts and feelings—he would never mock or hurt her, or take more than he gave. At the same time, he would be a demanding lover who wouldn’t let her hide or withhold anything, and that was as frightening as it was exciting.
A sharp rapping of the lion’s-head knocker jarred Garrett from her reflections. It was well past calling or delivery hours. Before five seconds had passed, another burst of percussion resounded through the air.
Eliza sped to the entranceway, exclaiming beneath her breath about people knocking fit to wake the dead. “Evenin’,” Garrett heard the cookmaid say. “What business are you about?”
A muffled conversation ensued.
Unable to make out what was being said, Garrett frowned and half turned in her chair to look at the sitting-room doorway.
Eliza came into view, holding a folded card. She frowned and chewed at her lips before saying, “It’s one of Lord Trenear’s footmen, Doctor. He bid me to give you this while he waits.”
Garrett extended her hand for the note. Breaking the wax seal, she saw a few lines written in a hasty forward slant, the t’s crossed to the right of the stems, the dot of one of the i’s missing. It was from Kathleen, Lady Trenear, the earl’s wife.
Dr. Gibson,
If you are able, I beg you to come to Ravenel House with all possible haste. There has been an accident involving a guest. As the matter is sensitive, I ask your discretion in keeping this matter entirely private. Thank you, my friend.
—K
Garrett stood up so abruptly that her chair nearly toppled backward. “Someone’s been injured,” she said. “I’m off to Ravenel House. Make certain the surgical kit is in my bag, and fetch my coat and hat.”
Eliza, bless her, wasted no time with questions, and scampered off. She had helped Garrett on many occasions when speed was of the essence in seeing to a patient.
Although Garrett was Lady Helen’s doctor as well as Pandora’s, the rest of the Ravenels usually relied on the services of a trusted family physician. Why hadn’t they sent for him? Was he unavailable, or had they decided Garrett was better equipped to deal with the situation?
The footman, a tall, fair-haired fellow, obeyed instantly as she gestured for him to follow her to the surgery.
“Who’s been injured?” Garrett asked briskly.
“Afraid I don’t know, miss . . . er, ma’am. Doctor. A stranger.”
“Male or female?”
“Male.”
“What happened to him?” At his hesitation, Garrett said impatiently, “I must know the nature of the injury so I can bring the right supplies.”
“It was an accident with a firearm.”
“Right,” she said briskly, snatching up a wire basket filled with odds and ends, and dumped it out on the floor. Hurrying to a supply shelf, she began selecting bottles and putting them in the basket. Chloroform, ether, carbolic acid, iodoform, collodion, bismuth solution, cotton lint, gauze, rolled bandages, glycerin, catgut ligatures, isopropyl alcohol, metallic salts . . . “Carry this,” she said, shoving the basket at the footman. “And this.” She hefted a large jug of sterilized water and gave it to him. He curved his free arm around it, staggering slightly. “Come,” she said, striding to the entranceway, where
Eliza was waiting with her hat and walking coat.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be away,” Garrett said to the cookmaid, tugging on the coat. “If my father complains about his stomach, give him a dose of the digestive tonic in his bedroom cabinet.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Eliza handed her the heavy leather doctor’s bag and cane.
The footman hurried to the front door and struggled to open it with both arms full, until Eliza darted forward to do it for him.
Garrett stopped at the threshold as she saw the plain black carriage with no identifiable insignias or designs. Glancing at the footman suspiciously, she asked, “Why is it unmarked? The Ravenel carriage has the family crest lacquered on the side.”
“It was Lord Trenear’s decision. It’s a private matter, he told me.”
Garrett didn’t move. “What are the names of the family dogs?”
The footman looked slightly affronted. “Napoleon and Josephine. Little black spaniels.”
“Tell me one of Lady Pandora’s words.”
Pandora, one of the twins, often used made-up words such as frustraging or flopulous, when the ordinary ones didn’t suit her. Despite her attempts to curb the habit, they still slipped out from time to time.
The footman thought for a moment. “Lambnesia?” he ventured, as if hoping that would satisfy her. “She said it when Lady Trenear misplaced her basket of wool knitting yarn.”
That sounded like Pandora. Garrett gave him a decisive nod. “Let’s proceed.”
The drive from King’s Cross to Ravenel House, on South Audley, was approximately three and a half miles, but it felt like three hundred. Garrett simmered with impatience as she held her doctor’s bag on her lap and kept a hand on the basket of rattling, sloshing bottles beside her. She was eager to do whatever she could for the Ravenels, who had always been gracious and kind, and had never put on airs despite their elevated social status.