To Love the Brooding Baron

ELEVEN

ELEVEN

“I feel I should apologize once again,” Dr. Stafford said, glancing from where they walked along the back terrace toward the parlor room window behind which Lady Bixbee stood, watching them with the most satisfied grin. “When I told my grandmother I intended to call on you tomorrow because of a previous engagement with a colleague today, I should have foreseen she would press-gang me into her carriage today despite the early hour.”

“Truly, think nothing of it,” Arabella replied as they descended the terrace steps. Last night’s rain had made them slick, forcing her to grip tighter to the young doctor’s arm while her other hand lifted her soft pink skirts.

He immediately slowed his steps and moved with such gentle care, she couldn’t help but smile. She was no delicate flower, which made her think he was this attentive with everyone.

It was a quality any woman would appreciate in a husband. But, despite his good-natured spirit and handsome aquiline nose and soft, light-brown hair that complemented his darker eyes, Dr. Stafford, so far, lacked the one feature she wanted most in a husband.

A spark.

“If there is one thing I have come to know about your grandmother,” Arabella said, as they reached the last step, “it is that she should never be underestimated.”

“As the Royal Gardens is currently discovering,” Dr. Stafford chuckled, and Arabella couldn’t help but do the same.

They’d spent most of the musicale coming up with names the Royal Gardens could bestow upon Lady Bixbee’s rose. Arabella liked “The Rose of Bixbee” best, and its petals would, of course, contain several shades of pink.

As they stepped into the garden, Dr. Stafford guided them along the circular, gravel path lined with green hedges and colorful flowers. Many puddles dotted the walkway, making it necessary for them to separate to avoid them. In some instances, they shared one side of the path.

When they reached the purple plum tree at the center, Arabella was pleased that the stone bench beneath its branches appeared free of any water. They took a seat in direct view of the parlor room window, though Lady Bixbee was absent from her post. Arabella was certain the old matron would be back.

“I must confess,” Dr. Stafford began after a short period of companionable silence, “I am not certain how to go about a situation such as this. I know my grandmother’s expectations ...”

“Perhaps it would be best to set our own expectations,” Arabella replied, grateful and yet nervous that he’d brought up the subject of courtship. Despite the level of enjoyment she’d shared with him at the musicale, she couldn’t ignore the fact that she felt no spark between them. “We could start by simply getting to know one another.”

She was trying to have patience and believe that one day her spark would happen.

Dr. Stafford nodded. “I cannot argue with that plan. And thank you, for speaking your mind. I know it could not be easy with my grandmother pushing our every encounter.”

Arabella smiled, relieved that he didn’t appear to be in as much of a hurry as his grandmother was. “You might come to regret that statement. I have been told by my brother that I give my opinions rather freely.”

He chuckled. “I shall take that under advisement.”

“And what is something I should be forewarned about concerning you?” Arabella asked.

“According to my grandmother, I work too much. Which was something she also accused my father of doing. He was a doctor as well.”

Arabella playfully gasped while putting a hand to her lips. “But a gentleman does not work.”

“This one does,” Dr. Stafford replied, his tone half teasing, half defensive.

“I think it admirable,” she replied.

A memory of her father entered her mind. He’d returned home late one evening, disheveled and covered in dirt. He’d been out all day helping one of their tenant farmers who’d recently been ill and needed to bring in a harvest before it was too late. When she’d asked her father why he had gone, he responded: “A good man works hard to take care of his family, but a better man also works just as hard to care for those around him.”

Her father was the best of men, and she’d be lucky to find her spark with a man as good and hardworking as he was.

“What is it about your work that requires so much of your time?” she asked, wanting to know if Dr. Stafford was a similar kind of man.

“Much.” He let out a heavy breath. “The majority of my time is divided between treating patients and helping our government with the lunacy reform and the construction of the new Bedlam.”

The word “Bedlam” immediately pulled Arabella’s attention, turning her mind to Lord Northcott. Perhaps Dr. Stafford might be able to help her in her efforts to help him. “May I ask you your opinion about something?” she asked before her mind could warn her against it.

“Is that not what we have been doing?” he asked, his lips quirked.

“Yes, but this question is more—” She paused, trying to think of how to explain it without giving either herself or Lord Northcott’s secret away. “It’s about something I recently saw.”

His brow lifted. “You have my attention.”

She took a deep breath. “A lunacy pamphlet recently came into my possession”—more like fell—“and I was somewhat taken aback by what I read.”

Dr. Stafford’s eyes narrowed, and he looked tense. He’d thanked her earlier for speaking her mind, but perhaps he didn’t think lunacy was an appropriate topic for a woman.

“What did it say?” he asked.

Surprised that he was willing to continue the conversation, and feeling nervous about what she was about to ask, Arabella fidgeted with her hands in her lap. “The title of the pamphlet specifically read Mastering the animality after the loss of humanity. Are patients with lunacy truly considered more animal than human?”

Her heart ached all over again for Lord Northcott. She couldn’t imagine reading such a thing and having to think of a family member in such a way.

Dr. Stafford shook his head. “No, and that is a belief I have been trying hard to disprove.” He turned slightly on the bench to face her. “There is much we are still learning about the mind, but I refuse to believe any of that tripe you might have found inside that pamphlet. And I hope you will advise the person you got it from to burn it.”

Arabella nodded, a mixture of feelings coursing through her. On one hand she felt lightened—relieved to hear Dr. Stafford contradict the words written on the pamphlet. But on the other hand, should she even broach such a subject with Lord Northcott? During their last conversation, she’d offered the option for him to talk to her, and he’d not chosen to do so.

Would it not be good to tell him about Dr. Stafford’s opinion? Or would bringing up the matter do more harm than good?

“What do you believe about the cases of insanity?” Arabella asked, wanting to educate herself further.

“I will admit that I used to believe most of the things similar to those published inside that pamphlet. It was what we were taught at the Royal College of Physicians, and I had not yet spent much time around institutionalized patients. But as I studied directly under Dr. Robert Darling Willis—whose father, if you did not know, cured the king after his first bout of madness—I began to see patients differently. Dr. Willis taught me to see beyond the symptoms to the man—a father, a brother, a husband—a person similar to myself, but who had experienced something so traumatic that his mind had retreated so far into shadow that not even his family knew how to reach him.” There was a faint bleakness to his eyes, as if he gave a piece of himself to every life he saved, and Arabella found herself swallowing back a rising lump in her throat.

What pain he must’ve witnessed. What suffering those families must’ve endured while feeling so helpless. She knew how her heart had broken at the loss of her father. What would it be like to have the physical reminder of him be present but to be told that his mind was just as lost to her as if he were dead?

And Lord Northcott had experienced just that—once with his mother and supposedly again with a sister.

Tears slipped down her cheek, and she turned away to wipe them, not wanting Dr. Stafford to sense she had a personal connection to the subject. She wished she knew what she could do to better help Lord Northcott. It couldn’t be easy to fight against a monster you couldn’t even see.

She felt a hand press upon her shoulder and she turned back to Dr. Stafford.

His smile was gentle and soothing. “Your tears are a testament to your heart, Miss Latham. There are many who cannot even conjure up the smallest sympathy. That is why I, and a few of my colleagues, are working tirelessly to gain more support for our way of treatment.”

“What is your way?” Arabella asked, her voice strained.

“We still follow some of the old practices. Blistering, bleeding, and restraints have still proven to show results in the most extreme cases. But what we add is humanity.” He spoke the last word with such fervor, Arabella could feel it down to her soul. “Dr. Francis Willis’s medical journals told of how he encouraged fresh air and exercise to help his patients. He even went so far as to have them be properly dressed, which I am sure was shocking to most people when they saw a man working out in the field in a dress coat and powdered wig.” A corner of his mouth twitched upward, and Arabella found herself pressing her lips together to keep from giggling. It would, indeed, be a baffling sight.

“Those practices yielded the best results,” Dr. Stafford continued. “Dr. Francis Willis’s goal was to encourage his patients to come back to find connection, purpose—even meaning—in the lives they had once known. This is why my colleagues and I pushed so hard for outdoor airing grounds at the new Bedlam hospital. Being trapped in a dark hell, figuratively or imaginatively, is not good for anyone.”

Arabella reached out and squeezed his hand, comforted that he would care so much. “Your devotion to your patients is commendable.”

She anxiously waited for that spark to ignite. Surely this was the moment her heart would call out to another. But it never came, and she grew frustrated with herself.

Time ... thou ceaseless lackey to eternity.

“Unfortunately, it is not enough,” Dr. Stafford said, pulling his hand from beneath hers and rubbing his chin. “If we are going to make real change, we are going to need more than the Church changing its views and saying that madness is no longer a direct punishment from God. And more than Parliament passing its lunacy reform in the wake of the war with Napoleon. What we need is to have doctors—and even members of society—properly educated.”

“Is such a thing possible?” Arabella asked, knowing the heartless way society fed upon the gossip about the insane.

“I hope so,” Dr. Stafford said, though he sounded more frustrated than confident. “Though so far, it has been near impossible to find anyone who wants to discuss such matters with me, even if it involves members of their own family.”

Again, Arabella’s mind went to Lord Northcott, whose own family was well-known for their connection with insanity. Would he be willing to work with Dr. Stafford to bring about such important changes? She had a sinking feeling in her stomach that he wouldn’t, especially after her own much simpler offer to help him had been refused.

“But I will always continue to hope,” Dr. Stafford said with determination. “Why, just this morning I received an invitation to dinner from a family I have been trying to meet with for the past year.”

“I wish you all the luck in the world,” Arabella said, her heart praying for that family to be open and willing to listen.

“Thank you,” he said with a warm smile.

He glanced upward, and Arabella followed his gaze. Her mother and Lady Bixbee were watching them from the parlor room window.

“It would appear our time is up,” Dr. Stafford said. “Shall we return to hear what else my grandmother has planned for us?”

Arabella nodded and took his proffered hand, her mind trying to sift through all she’d learned, and what she should do with that information.