Читать книгу Healing the Soldier's Heart - Lily George - Страница 13

Chapter Five

Thank goodness she had sent for the physician. His mere presence was enough to calm Lucy’s nerves. Her heart slowed to a normal beat as he took Louisa’s pulse, his brow furrowed with concentration. Dr. Phillips was the best doctor in Bath, and his word on any illness could be considered the best diagnosis one could hope for. When Louisa awoke this morning with flushed cheeks and a damp brow, it was time enough to send for the good doctor. And in this, Lord Bradbury assured her, he was in complete accord.

His lordship’s connections could be most reassuring. And the care he always showed for his two daughters was heartening. She took a deep breath and said a silent prayer for Louisa’s health.

Dr. Phillips placed Louisa’s wrist gently back onto the counterpane and turned to Lucy. “I really think it’s only a cold, Miss Williams. Keep giving her the chicken broth, and add some weak tea. Perhaps a few crusts of toast when she begins to improve. She should be quite well within a matter of days.”

“Matter of days?” Louisa lamented hoarsely, turning her head on her pillow. “But I shall miss Amelia’s debut.”

“Well, we shan’t be going in any event, sick or well,” Lucy reminded her crisply. Dr. Phillips’s advice was so welcome that she snapped back from her worry without even missing a beat. “After all, you aren’t old enough to attend such an event. But thank goodness you aren’t seriously ill. You must learn to count your blessings, Louisa.” She used her best governess tone of voice, for it covered how very shaken she’d been. She was so certain Louisa was on the brink of a dreadful illness.

Louisa grumbled and turned away from them both, burying her head in her pillow. Ah, she was already beginning to improve, then. Wanting to have her own way. When Louisa grew passive, that’s when you knew she was sick.

“Well, Dr. Phillips, I do appreciate your coming on such short notice.” Lucy helped him collect his things from the little birch wood bench at the foot of Louisa’s bed. “With so many guests expected so soon, I wanted to make sure we weren’t dealing with a gravely sick little girl.”

“Not at all. I am always glad to come and see to our Louisa.” Dr. Phillips straightened and shot Louisa a merry look from under his brows. “Mind you, listen to what Miss Williams says. I’ll be back to check on you in a matter of days.” He wagged a warning finger at her and turned to go.

Louisa sat up, casting her pillow onto the floor. “Dr. Phillips, I wanted to ask you a question. If a man is in battle and later has trouble speaking, could you cure him?”

Dr. Phillips turned from the doorway and looked over at Louisa, his brows beetled in confusion.

Lucy gasped. “Louisa—surely the doctor has no time—” Oh, the doctor would think them most assuredly too forward. And if James ever knew they’d spoken of him...oh, dear. He was such a proud man. He would not like it in the least.

“Nonsense. It would be an interesting case for him, wouldn’t it, Dr. Phillips?” Louisa replied in her most wheedling tone.

Dr. Phillips cocked his head to one side, as though considering the matter. “A soldier? Not one of your beaus, I should think, Miss Louisa?” His expression was both kindly and skeptical. “How do you know of such a young man?”

“Oh, he’s not my beau. He’s Lucy’s beau.” Louisa beamed up at the doctor, ignoring Lucy’s pained gasp.

“He’s not—” Lucy began. Oh, this was dreadful. A governess with a beau was as good as sacked in Lord Bradbury’s home. She shot a look that was half pleading, half threatening in Louisa’s direction. Her charge merely widened her already large brown eyes and gave a small, noncommittal shrug at her governess’s distress.

Dr. Phillips turned to Lucy, overriding her small protest and ignoring their obvious—if silent—disagreement. “Well, Miss Williams, what do you know of his injury? Was his throat injured, or did he sustain any kind of head wound?”

Lucy sighed. She’d deal with Louisa’s brazen behavior later. As for now—well, in for a penny, in for a pound. Dr. Phillips’s opinion could actually be quite helpful, given how highly regarded he was in Bath. And as his fee was so expensive, neither she nor James could consult him on their own. “No. As far as I know, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be able to speak. He can, in fact, speak to some people. His brothers in arms, for example. He’s spoken to me a bit—small phrases, you understand, and with a noted stammer.”

“Hmm.” The doctor drummed his fingers on his worn leather bag. “I imagine, then, that his injury has less to do with the physical and more to do with the mental distress he underwent in battle.” He straightened and fetched his bag from a nearby mahogany chair. “I’d have to see him, though, to make any kind of informed diagnosis.”

“Well, could you?” Louisa flicked her long braid over one shoulder. “When you come back to see me later this week. Lucy could bring him here.”

“Absolutely not,” Lucy broke in, her mouth agape. “Forgive us, Dr. Phillips. We’ve intruded too long on your good nature.” She gestured toward the bedroom door, fixing Louisa with her best governess-in-charge look.

“Well, why not?” Louisa wailed, her tone belying how very feverish and miserable she must be feeling. “After all, I am sure Dr. Phillips can help more than all those dreadful books in Papa’s library.”

Dr. Phillips held up one hand, silencing them both. “Miss Louisa, I understand your desire to help. But you must realize that the young man may be offended or hurt if Miss Williams dragged him here—to his lordship’s home—for me to poke and prod at him. But—” he turned to Lucy, a kind expression lighting his eyes “—you can let the young man know that I would be happy to see him. He’s part of the veterans’ group, is he not?”

Lucy nodded. The feeling that she had somehow betrayed Rowland welled in her throat, making speech impossible.

“Well, then, I would be delighted to see him at no charge. I do quite a bit of work for the veterans’ group, as Lieutenant Cantrill will attest. You may tell him I said so, or you might find it easier to have the lieutenant reassure him. I don’t want the lad to think I am seeing him out of charity. Rather, it’s my way of thanking those lads for all they’ve done for our country.” He nodded at them both and wagged a warning finger at Louisa. “Now, listen to what Miss Williams says. I expect to see you hale and hearty when I return later.”

Lucy walked with him to the bedroom door and ushered him out. Then she turned to Louisa, who sat, sniffling, her eyes red, her pallor dull.

“Don’t be mad, Lucy,” Louisa pleaded. “I want to help, and Dr. Phillips will be of assistance—I hope.” She plucked uncertainly at the coverlet, her flushed cheeks and sweaty brow betraying her illness.

Lucy sighed, sinking onto the foot of the bed. She could never stay mad at Louisa long, especially when she obviously felt so poorly. “I’m not angry with you, Louisa. And you’re right—Dr. Phillips can help a good deal more than any old Latin text we’ll find in your father’s library. But—the ensign is very proud. He might not like that we’ve spoken about him to Dr. Phillips without his consent. I shall have to handle this matter very carefully if I am not to offend him.”

Louisa gave a mighty sneeze, wiping her reddened nose on her embroidered handkerchief. “Oh, I’m sure you can find a way, Lucy. You’re so clever.”

Clever? Hardly. She gave a rueful inward chuckle. The only way she had managed her life thus far was to move into unfamiliar situations with wariness and crouch there until she became entirely comfortable. But this—this was different than trying to do well at the orphanage, or seeking a position as a governess. This meant meddling in another man’s life.

There was no guarantee that Ensign James Rowland would like or appreciate her interference, however good her intentions might be. He might be ashamed of her for discussing his impediment without his permission. Or he might be offended that Dr. Phillips was offering his services free of charge. The doctor’s offer might smack of charity to the ensign. And as a proud man, he might not be willing to accept it.

Or he could be angry on both counts.

She twirled a lock of her dark hair, staring out the window. Only one thing was certain. She must proceed with infinite caution.

* * *

“What ho, Rowland, it’s good to see you,” Cantrill said in a hearty tone of voice as he opened the door to his flat. “Come in, come in. My place is in a bit of uproar, pardon the mess. Mrs. Pierce is tidying up for my mother’s impending visit.”

Rowland stepped over the threshold, his hat in hand. Indeed, Cantrill’s flat—normally as neat and spare as a soldier would have it—was a welter of dusters, brooms, and carpet-beaters. Rowland shrugged and allowed Cantrill to lead him, zigzagging through the mess to the relative peace of the little parlor.

“What can I bring you? Tea? We’ll have to make it ourselves—Mrs. Pierce is far too busy at the moment to bother with refreshments, I’m afraid.” Cantrill motioned Rowland to a small chair near the hearth.

“Nothing...for me.” James cleared his throat and took a deep breath. He could speak to the lieutenant, it was true—but that didn’t mean his speech was free-flowing and unfettered. He must get to the heart of the matter. There was always the lurking fear that speech would elude him entirely if he took too long to come to the point.

Cantrill sat across from James, his normally pleasant face reflecting, perhaps, some of the confusion and exhaustion that his mother’s impending visit was causing in his flat. Funny, mothers could cause such mixed emotions. After all, James loved his mother and wanted to support her. But what if she were on her way to Bath right now to see him? He shuddered at the mere thought. No. He had definite sympathy for Cantrill today.

“I’ve come...about a job.” James cleared his throat again. “I must have—some occupation.”

Cantrill sat back in his chair and rubbed his hand across his brow. “Are you quite sure you’re ready for work, old fellow?”

The old anger and self-hatred began welling under the surface, causing James to swallow convulsively. “I’m not injured,” he muttered after an eternity.

“No, no of course not. But many of the other veterans, you know, are having a difficult time making this transition to civilian life. Some of them have elected to refrain from work for several months until they feel equal to the task of going to work every day.” Cantrill furrowed his brow, gazing over at him with a piercing gaze. “No need to rush things, you know.”

“I—I—I’m not.” James breathed deeply, calming the anger as it began bubbling over. Cantrill wasn’t meaning to condescend, after all. “Long p-p-past due. N-n-need to be useful for s-something.”

A flicker crossed Cantrill’s expression, as though he finally understood how very positive James was about seeking a position. “Very well,” he responded in a genial tone of voice. “What can you do?”

He paused. Not very much, he must admit. He’d been educated in the little country village with Mother bewailing their lost chances at Eton. But he liked the village and liked learning and had no desire to run off to boarding school with a lot of tony chaps who’d look at him as a charity case. And then he’d lied about his age and gone to war. He had very little to show for his life. But still, one had to say something.

“I—I—I don’t know, really,” he finally responded, his voice sounding sheepish even to his own ears. “S-something that doesn’t require s-speech, I imagine.”

Cantrill gave a rueful chuckle. “I should think some occupation with your hands would work well. Would you have any objection to working with a carpenter? There’s a fine one here in Bath, Henry Felton, who does quite a bit of cabinetry and the like. He was apprenticed during John Wood the Younger’s days and knows more about woodworking than anyone in the country, I wager.”

Working with his hands? Mother would perish at the thought, but the idea was strangely appealing. He’d only ever whittled a few things as a hobby, but the idea of building fine, strong furniture and cabinets—well, that gave a fellow something to do. And it would never matter whether he could utter a single syllable.

“I-I-Is F-Felton hiring?” A glimmer of hope welled in his chest.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, he came by the veterans’ group meeting about a fortnight ago, seeking to apprentice someone in his new shop. Felton had an assistant, but the fellow married and moved to Brighton. So he’s in need of someone to help—and quickly, too.” Cantrill glanced at the little mantel clock. “I’d step ’round there today, if I were you. Tell him you are one of the veterans. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to have you.”

“I—I—I’ll go n-now.” James rose, knocking his chair backward a few feet in his haste. “Apologies, L-L-Lieutenant.”

“Not at all. It matches the higgledy-piggledy nature of my entire flat.” Cantrill held out his hand with a grin. “Felton’s shop is located on Bennett, near the Assembly Rooms. Best of luck to you, Rowland. Though I am sure you won’t need it.”

James thanked the lieutenant and saw himself out of the flat. ’Twas midmorning, and the weather was fine enough for a walk. In a mere quarter of an hour, he would change his life.

As he strolled up Broad Street, his nervousness grew. Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to speak at all once he arrived. What then? Would he just stammer like an idiot?

He could turn back now. Head back to his comfortable life in the humble flat on Beau Street. He’d been such a failure that no one expected anything of him, besides Mother—and even her hopes were vague and rapidly dying. Cantrill had all but turned him away from seeking employment at first. That’s how very little everyone thought of him.

He paused, grasping the cool iron of a nearby fence rail until his knuckles whitened. He’d been a coward before. He’d never be one again. Even if he couldn’t utter a word to Felton, he’d find some way to communicate. Hand gestures. Writing on foolscap. Scratching words in the dirt. Anything to finally overcome this impediment and get on with his life.

He released the fence post, his palm smarting from the pressure. Good. Pain, strangely, kept him calm. It gave him something to focus upon. As he drew closer to George Street, the sight of the walled-off garden on one side street brought Miss Williams sharply back to mind. It was here that she had asked him if he wanted to be well. It was here that she had offered to help him.

What would Miss Williams think of this plan? Would she approve? She, who earned her bread through her own work, surely would. He wanted her approval. Why? ’Twas hard to say. She was just, well, the kind of girl who any man would want to be friends with. She seemed to have such a tremendous sense of spirit. If he got the position, then he’d have good news for her the next time they met—news that would bring a light to those lovely, velvety brown eyes of hers.

He hastened his steps, fear melting away as he imagined her quick, slanted gaze, the freckles dusting the tip of her nose. It would be nice to have something good to tell her. To show her that he was becoming more of a man.

And there was Bennett Street. The Assembly Rooms loomed ahead, gracious and aloof. And there, with a handsome wooden sign bolted sturdily to a pole, was Felton’s shop.

He poked his head in the door, breathing deeply of the fresh, exhilarating scent of newly shaved wood. He stepped inside, his boots scratching against the sawdust that littered the floor. The shop was strangely hushed, as though not a living soul were present. James scanned the room with a nervous eye. What if they were all gone? He needed to speak with Felton now. He needed to go through with the matter now that he’d finally screwed his courage to the sticking-place.

He scuffed his boots across the floor. The sound echoed through the building. He strained his ears to hear any scrap of sound. And then he caught the faintest tsk-tsk-tsk of metal scraping against wood and strode toward the sound.

A tall, graying man was bent over a workbench, using a chisel of sorts to carve an intricate scroll onto a piece of fine, unblemished mahogany. Without thinking, James let out a cheerful whistle of appreciation. Startled, the man dropped his chisel and turned an affronted gaze toward Rowland.

“Well then, who might you be?” He challenged, a glint of either mirth or annoyance in his faded blue eyes.

’Twas now or never. “Rowland. I—I—I’m a veteran. Cantrill sent me here to see about a position.”