Chapter 12
Burton arrived not an hour later, his bag in hand, his face already set for duty. He paused in the doorway, bowing lightly, but his eyes went at once to the child in Kitty’s lap.
“The burn must be dressed at once,” he said.
Kitty shook her head. No testing. Not until Mrs Ecclestone arrives.
“Very well. No tests. Only treatment.” He set his instruments on the low table, his hands plain before him.
Fitzwilliam laid a hand on Kitty’s shoulder. “Allow him to bind it.”
Kitty searched Burton’s face for the faintest flicker of deceit. There was none. With a slow breath, she loosened her hold just enough for him to see the child’s leg.
Burton worked with the speed of habit. Cool water, clean cloth, a salve of lavender and lard. Lydia’s skin blistered beneath his touch, but she lay silent, staring at the ceiling beams. Not a whimper. Not a sound.
Kitty wanted to seize the surgeon’s wrist, to cry out that he must stop—that even silence was pain enough. But she saw his careful hands, the way he steadied each movement with a soldier’s precision and forced herself still.
Burton’s hands halted for the briefest moment. He tied the bandage and looked at Fitzwilliam.
“She bears it as you once did.”
Kitty’s hands flew. Enough. She is not a science experiment. She is my child.
“With constant care, the scar will be minimal.”
“Will it affect her gait?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“Not in the least,” Burton replied.
Kitty gathered Lydia back into her arms. Then she will walk under Mrs Ecclestone’s care. Not yours.
* * *
Mrs Ecclestone arrived mid-afternoon the following week, her carriage wheels crunching up the long drive.
Kitty waited in the withdrawing room with Lady Matlock, Lydia in her arms, the child drowsing without fuss.
Kitty had thought to administer a draught for pain, but Fitzwilliam declared it needless.
Now, as she felt the soft weight of her daughter’s body, she was both amazed and horrified to know he had been correct.
Clarke opened the door. “Mrs Ecclestone.”
The Bennet governess entered as Kitty remembered her—austere, grey-eyed, taking in the room before she curtseyed.
Fitzwilliam had scarce time to note her composure before Kitty thrust Lydia into Lady Matlock’s arms and flew across the carpet.
All form was cast aside; she clung to Mrs Ecclestone as though no years had parted them.
Lady Matlock steadied the child against her shoulder, a smile softening her features. “So much for ceremony. I am delighted to finally meet the formidable Mrs Ecclestone.”
Mrs Ecclestone spoke over Kitty’s shoulder. “My lady.”
“We are not quite strangers, I think. You have kin in Rochester?” Lady Matlock inquired.
“My cousin is Bishop there,” Mrs Ecclestone replied. “He writes that the Chapter still quarrels more than it prays.”
Lady Matlock gave a low laugh. “As does mine in Leeds. The cloth makes no saints of men, though I suppose we ought to pretend it does.”
The brief civility completed, Mrs Ecclestone took charge. “Come then. We must speak of Lady Lydia.”
Ask your questions.
“Has the child stirred?”
Yes, she carries on as if nothing is amiss.
“Does she cry out?”
No, she rarely does.
“Can she be roused by touch?”
She easily is.
“Where is the medico?”
“Mr Burton awaits us in the nursery,” Lady Matlock said.
Kitty, on Mrs Ecclestone’s arm, led the way.
Burton was already there, his instruments laid out with grim precision. He looked up, expectant, but said nothing. Mrs Ecclestone stepped forward.
“I will observe the examination. Please speak your findings aloud, no more, no less.”
Burton inclined his head. “As you wish.” He lifted a small case, glinting with steel. “Two needles. One to scratch, one to pierce. A child should flinch at both. A scratch raises the skin; a deep prick rouses the nerves.”
Mrs Ecclestone’s gaze sharpened. “And yet no suspicion was raised in her earliest years?”
“In the viscount it was plain only in hindsight. As a babe, he grew thin, for he bit through his tongue and would not feed. It was his nurse who saw the truth, not I. The family sent for a dozen physicians before I was called, and even then, the matter was guessed at more than known. Once the nature of it was laid bare, the signs were clear. Before that, not so.”
“So her sex has served as a cloak?”
Burton inclined his head. “Indeed. A boy restless and wounded without tears is a terror. A girl bearing her bruises in silence is praised for gentleness. What condemns a son excuses a daughter.”
Mrs Ecclestone turned to Kitty. “Then we may forgive the delay. It is easy to understand a malady once it is named.”
Burton gave the faintest nod. “Quite right. I have seen soldiers struck in the skull who felt little after, though their flesh was torn. In them, it was called wound or curse. In her, it passed for virtue.”
Kitty stiffened. Her hands moved, sharp as blades. You mistook peril for grace.
Burton did not look away. “I did. As would many.”
Mrs Ecclestone regarded the instruments in silence, her eyes unreadable. Then she extended her wrist. “You may first test me.”
Burton’s brows rose. “Madam—”
“You will have your control,” she said evenly.
He hesitated, then bent. The first needle scraped across her inner wrist. A pink line bloomed against her pale skin. Her jaw tightened, lips drawn, but she did not look away.
“Shall I go on?” he asked.
“Yes, doctor.”
He took up the second needle and pricked the pad of her forefinger. She gasped—soft but audible.
Kitty flinched as if the pin had entered her own flesh. She had forgotten the sounds of pain, how sharp and sudden it could be. For the space of a heartbeat, she envied the gasp—envied the proof of being ordinary.
“Shall I continue?”
Mrs Ecclestone rubbed the pad of her forefinger against her thumb. “You may.”
Burton grasped her hand firmly, drove the point deeper into her thumb until her whole hand jerked. She pulled it back with a sharp breath.
“May I?” she asked. And before Kitty could move, Mrs Ecclestone raised her thumb high, the pin still embedded, as though it were a standard carried in battle. Then she extended it towards him. He eased it out.
She wiped the bead of blood away herself.
“Now, the patient,” Burton said gently.
Kitty’s breath came fast as her arms tightened around her daughter. She felt herself drowning, as if the walls were closing in. When Burton stepped forward, needle gleaming, she recoiled into Lady Matlock, who steadied her with both hands.
“It will be as I did,” Mrs Ecclestone said gently, her thumb still stained. “No more. No less.”
Kitty forced herself to look down. Lydia lay quiet in her lap, violet eyes wide and unblinking, lips parted as though curious at all the faces turned her way.
Burton knelt. His voice stayed calm, professional. “I will begin with the scratch.” He raised the gown, carefully moved her bandaged leg away from the other, and brushed the finer needle across the child’s calf.
Nothing. Not a flinch.
Kitty felt her throat tighten.
Burton shifted to the second needle. “Now the deeper test.” He pressed the point into the heel, firm enough that Kitty saw the skin dimple, then break. A bead of blood rose.
Lydia watched her, calm, almost detached, her violet eyes alight with wonder.
Kitty watched Burton push the needle into her heel deeper. Lydia pursed her lips; her eyes filled.
“Pull it out!” Lady Matlock demanded.
Burton withdrew the needle. “Minimal reaction,” he said aloud. His voice carried into the doorway, to Fitzwilliam and the earl.
Kitty’s hands trembled so violently she could scarcely keep hold of her daughter. Lady Matlock’s arm tightened around her shoulders. Mrs Ecclestone placed her wounded thumb gently atop Kitty’s fist, as if to anchor her.
“She feels something,” Burton added, subdued now. “But not enough. What should compel a cry, does not.”
Kitty closed her eyes. The words struck like a hammer against her ribs.
Lydia laid her small hand against her mother’s cheek. “Mama.”
Kitty turned her face into Lady Matlock’s shoulder and wept.