Chapter 7 #2
“It is a work of translation.” Dunning looked uncomfortable and distant; Andrew concentrated on his pudding. She wished he would eat it rather than stir it. He needed to eat. “I have collected fragments of poetry, written in Greek, from the classical era.”
“Which poems, Lady Georgiana?” Dunning’s well-mannered question was forced. Any polite interest would evaporate when dinner was done.
“Those by women.”
“Really? There can’t be very many.” The idea genuinely stunned Dunning.
“You would be surprised, sir.” Her words were for her hostess’s grandson, but she continued to watch Andrew, who had given up pretense of eating. He held his hands flat on the table as if to still them.
“But where are they, I mean to say, how do you find and collect them?” Dunning’s bafflement irritated her.
“They hide in plain sight. They can be found in anthologies. They are quoted in larger works by men. Most are fragmentary, but they are very much there. I believe their contemporaries, or more likely men who came after, didn’t treat their work well.”
A frown creased Dunning’s forehead. “But they can’t be of great importance if they haven’t been studied.”
“That is exactly why I wish to do so!” Georgiana’s temper rose.
The sound of cutlery hitting the floor interrupted them. Andrew lurched forward and knocked his spoon and knife off the table.
Mrs. Potter leapt into action, cleared space, and located a coverlet to put over him. She brought water for him to drink and urged him to keep his head down until the weakness passed.
Andrew refused to allow them to call in a physician. Dunning, to his credit, summoned a chaise, assisted him into his coat, and insisted that he accompany Andrew home.
Georgiana did not help; she could think of none to offer that he would accept. A soft rustle alerted her that Mrs. Potter had come up behind her. The two women watched them leave.
“He will never help me, will he?”
“Oh, my dear, don’t give up hope. He needs you as much as you need him. Our job is to make him understand that.”
Georgiana turned a puzzled gaze on the old woman.
“The work,” Mrs. Potter said. “He needs the work.”
“Your grandson doesn’t see the value. Andrew has Selby, and—”
Mrs. Potter waved the thought away. “Your unique talent is outside Geoff’s experience. Given time, he would come to see the value. But it is young Mr. Mallet you need, not my crusty Latin-scholar grandson.”
Georgiana nodded. She fervently hoped the old woman was right. She swallowed back tears and turned to hide them. She looked back in the direction of the chaise. It was gone.
“He will heal,” said the voice behind her, gruff with age but underpinned with steel.
“Some things will.” She choked. Grief for the young man who would never come back from war washed over her, and she began to shake uncontrollably.
* * *
“Please, I am Mister Peabody. Leave “Doctor” to the University men.”
Richard’s Mr. Peabody claimed greater pride in his training as a surgeon than his status as a physician.
Georgiana found that refreshing after the insufferable London physicians who fawned on her mother’s patronage over the years, pushing powders and flattery down patients’ throats.
A few years younger than Georgiana and a foot shorter, Peabody managed to command respect through common sense and robust good humor.
He examined her person with rigorous thoroughness, more than she dreamed possible.
He went about a process she expected to find mortifying with a complete lack of self-consciousness that somehow conveyed itself to her.
She was at ease with his physical examination, but not with his probing questions.
Questions about what he called her “history” didn’t sit as well. She made jumbled replies.
Undeterred, Peabody began to tell stories about his practice. He stood with his back to her and kept up a stream of steady conversation while she righted her clothing. She knew he was deliberately trying to set her at ease. Buttoning her bodice, she realized it was working.
“You have a clinic for poor women?” she asked in astonishment.
“Whatever brought you to that work? When I think of it, isn’t your focus on women and their unique complaints unusual?
” The failure of her body and the weakness that continually threatened to keep her from life devastated her.
She knew that other women must feel the same. She had never met a man who understood.
“Sisters.” He peeked around and smiled benignly. “Six of them, all older. I watched them grow up, marry, have babies. They always forgot about me when they talked. Female complaints were familiar to me before my teens.”
“Is that why you became a physician?” Georgiana had never heard anything like it.
“Quite! Pleased my father to no end when I became a physician. I would probably still be dispensing physics in Bath to the rich old ladies as my father wished but for some chance events.”
“Would that have been terrible?”
Peabody’s cheerful countenance dimmed. “Perhaps not, but I came to see it wasn’t enough. My oldest sister never recovered from the birth of her fifth child. She wasted away, but they went on having them.”
Others waste away, she thought, but at least Peabody’s sisters had children to show for their womanhood. Georgiana had only her work.
“She and the seventh died the same day,” he continued sadly.
“How horrible!”
“Angered me, I can tell you that. Hated feeling helpless. Soon after, fortune led me to Mr. Forester and the work he does in Edinburgh.”
Georgiana could respect a man possessed by his work; she knew that feeling well. Her work gave her the courage to come here.
Peabody knew his business. He interjected questions into his chatter, and she answered them.
“Are your courses regular?” he asked. “How much bleeding precisely? How long does it last?” She told him with little fuss.
“Have you ever born a child or had relations with a man?” Those questions silenced her. And yet there was no judgment in his voice, only concern.
A voice deep inside her wanted to wail, “No, and I never will!” She looked at him in distress and saw nothing but compassion. Humiliation passed.
“No.” The whisper came from deep inside her. “No husband, no lover, no children.” There never would be. Her failure was complete.
Peabody ignored the dejected droop of her shoulders. He outlined a course of treatment with brisk common sense and warm encouragement. She could improve. She certainly would. He insisted upon it. He buoyed Georgiana along on the waves of his certitude.
Morose thoughts walked with her down the ugly stone stairway, where the smells of dirt, damp, and camphor emanated from the walls. Her face burned hot at the memory of the things she told him, things she had told no one else. No one. Not even Andrew.
She knew it was ridiculous to think of him now. His earnest young face, the face that didn’t come back from Waterloo, danced in her mind. She might have confided in that person, but she could never confide in the man he was now.
She stepped gracefully around one more landing and forgot to breathe.
As if conjured by her thoughts, he stood silhouetted against the sunny entry arch, one foot poised indecisively on the bottom step, an ebony cape across his shoulders.
Beneath disheveled hair, black as the clothes he wore, Mallet stared back through golden rims.
In the depths of her despair, his sudden appearance horrified her. She wailed inwardly. Why does the blasted man have to plague me now?
* * *
Four days of pain laid Andrew in his bed, unable to walk or even stand, after his foolish walk to Green Street and even more idiotic attempt to stand by his promise to Mrs. Potter. Damn Georgiana Hayden anyway.
The pain—and Harley’s impudent badgering—finally forced him to surrender.
He ruffled through the references that Glenaire sent to him via the ever-helpful Jamie Heyworth until he found the only one in Cambridge.
Two days later he waited to be carried to an appointment with Edwin Peabody.
He waited with little patience and less cheer.
“Where is the damn chair?” Andrew disliked the old fashioned display of a sedan chair, but that mode of conveyance damaged his pride less than being lifted into a carriage.
“The damn chair is waiting at the corner.” Harley handed him his staff and hat. Four doors to the corner was agony enough. He faced the sedan with loathing.
“Mind the step,” Harley warned.
“I see the bloody step. I don’t need help.”
Andrew pulled his hand free with a violent yank and half fell into the sedan.
He swallowed pain-induced nausea, sank against the unyielding seat, and grimaced as the chair was lifted unevenly by its four corners.
Travel proceeded slowly but smoothly enough; a carriage from the public livery would have been worse.
After a half hour of teeth-gritting pain, the bearers lowered the chair to the ground with a bump.
“None of yer nonsense. Take my hand.” Harley reached in and pulled him to his feet. He was too weak to object.
“Enough,” he said, leaning on his staff. He closed his eyes and fought back dizziness for several long breaths.
Harley’s hand darted out when he took one step forward, but Andrew shook it off. “Enough,” he repeated.
He mustered his dignity and entered the building under his own steam, determined to walk in upright only to let loose a string of curses.
Everywhere he looked there was a barrier, from the raised threshold to the uneven flagstone floor.
He took two steps before letting loose another colorful string of curses at the realization that Mr. Peabody’s premises were above stairs.
He was faced with the choice between a painful climb and the humiliation of being carried.
Harley’s obvious intention to carry him goaded him forward, and he lifted one foot to the step only to recoil before an even greater problem staring down at him from the landing and smelling of lilacs and honey.
“Damn it to hell.” Georgiana’s eyes burned so intensely he expected them to bore holes in his face. He squeezed his eyes to shut the pity he saw there. It was more than a man should have to bear.
The scent of lilac moved closer on the rustle of soft muslin and a deep, sensual voice said, “You may well wish me to perdition, sir, but surely our relationship hasn’t come to such a pass that you condemn me to that place without some greeting.”
He opened his eyes and blinked twice. Fate played foul jokes with his life and left him helpless.
“I see there is no pretense of not knowing me this time,” she went on without waiting. “We have become dinner companions, if not yet friends.” She held her mouth at a wry angle, her chin high. She expected a response. God, but she is beautiful. His body responded, whether he willed it or not.
Andrew dipped his head in the shadow of a bow. “Lady Georgiana, no.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, “No pretense at all.” He spat the last four words in a staccato rhythm and watched her expression soften. She looked at him as if she cared. He hated that more than her pestering ways.
“As much as I might wish to tarry, I am afraid I have business to conduct just now.” He gestured up the stairs with his eyes and cane.
“Ah, business.” Sadness and amusement moved across her expressive face and fit comfortably together.
“I won’t keep you from it. However—” She paused and looked in his eyes, demanding his full attention.
He had no choice but to give it. “Given your admitted lapse of manners in the past and the abrupt end to Mrs. Potter’s dinner, I think perhaps you owe me some compensation. ”
He could think of no possible response to that.
“Dinner, Mr. Mallet. You appear to be out and about again. You will have dinner with me tomorrow night. The Rose Arbor at the foot of Regent Street isn’t exactly up to the standards of London, but they serve a pleasant dinner.
It sits near Parker’s Piece. Shall we say six o’clock?
” The imperious words came out in a rush.
A slight, but clearly visible, flush that rose from her neck to touch her cheeks belied her confidence.
No lady ordered a gentleman to sup with her, not even a Hayden.
When he hesitated, she snapped, “It is perfectly respectable, and I will be chaperoned. You needn’t fear that you will be compromised for goodness sake! ”
He shook his head to stop a laugh and nodded in surrender. He would dine with her—if he could. He knew that she would try to solicit his help over dinner. He would refuse, and that would be the end of it.
“I will dine with you, Lady Georgiana.”
“Tomorrow night?”
If she believes that to be possible, I must have masked my condition better than I thought. “Certainly.” He nodded. Move on before I collapse, Georgiana. I will deal with you later.
She smiled tightly. “Until then, Mr. Mallet.”
Andrew labored up the first step while she passed. She looked for a moment as if she wanted to assist him, but he glared, without yielding, into her troubled blue eyes. He could see her accept just how unwelcome it would be and pull back.
A moment later she was gone, and his shoulders sagged. “Harley,” he whispered.
“I know. I’ve got ye.”