Chapter 19

Nineteen

S tephen rode into town in search of Dr. Edward Morris while the modiste was with the ladies upstairs. It was a fine, bright morning — the sun already burning through the brisk air and warming his shoulders as he rode.

The village was bustling with activity today, and Stephen needed no direction to the doctor’s quarters. He found that he was not the only one waiting in line. Two other people stood in the narrow hallway just inside the door — one, an old gentleman with white hair, held a chicken on his lap. The old woman beside him was knitting something.

Stephen took a seat beside them, leaning back tentatively against the bench and waiting until the housekeeper appeared in the doorway.

“Sir,” she asked, surprised to see three people where only two had been a few minutes before, “Are you here to see Dr. Morris?”

“I am,” he said. “I am afraid he is unaware of my presence. I am Lord Darnley — we spoke on a previous occasion about the health of my aunt. I did not send word ahead regarding my coming.”

The housekeeper waved at the other two people and shrugged. “Precious few send word ahead, my Lord.”

“Why hasn’t the doctor sent for me yet?” the old man chirped, stroking his chicken gently.

The housekeeper looked exasperated. “John Evans, I will tell you for the last time, Dr. Morris already saw you this morning. You complained of a sprained ankle and tried to pay him with a chicken.”

The man looked down at his hands in confusion. “Then why am I still here? And why do I have the chicken?”

“Because you had no sprain, and the doctor wants no chicken.” The housekeeper looked at the old woman knitting. “Mrs. Evans, why do you not take your husband home? He is confused. ”

The old woman looked up at last from her knitting. She’d been paying so little attention to the man at her side that Stephen had not even guessed they were husband and wife.

“I won’t have any peace if we go home now,” she said. “He’ll just come up with some other reason to come into the village and I won’t get a thing done.” She held up her knitting. “If he thinks he’s waiting for a doctor visit, he’ll let me get a few rows in at least.”

The housekeeper sighed and disappeared again, reemerging a few moments later and waving to Stephen.

“He’s a bit occupied at present,” she said to Stephen. “He asks if he might ride out to the manor later and meet with you there. He asks — is this in relation to your aunt’s health?”

“Yes,” Stephen said slowly. He didn’t want to betray his aunt’s confidence by springing a surprise doctor visit on her. “It is in relation to my aunt, yes. I believe it would be alright if he rode out to the house later, but please ask him to ring at the front door and wait outside. I will come out to him. I do not want to upset my aunt.”

The housekeeper nodded. “I will tell him. When he is quite finished with the samples he is currently examining, he will ride out that way. I believe it will be sometime in the afternoon.”

Stephen nodded. “That will do well,” he said, taking his leave.

The doctor arrived at the manor later that day, a little earlier than Stephen had expected, and waited patiently outside until Stephen could see him. The old man looked as hale and pleasant as ever, and had settled himself on a bench under a tree outside, his glasses perched on the end of his nose, reading a small book of medicine.

“Thank you for riding out here,” Stephen said, striding over to his side. “I know it seems a little untoward for me to request your aid and then banish you to the outdoors.”

“On a day such as today, the outdoors are not a place of exile — they are a paradise,” the doctor said cheerfully. “If you have the same behavior in the rainy winter, however, we may have to talk.”

Stephen smiled. “Tell me,” he said. “Is John Evans still in your waiting room with a chicken?”

The doctor threw back his head and laughed. “No,” he said. “My housekeeper indulges my affinity for lost causes only as long as I am in the house with her. When I saddled up for a drive out to your house she sent them packing.” He leaned forward, a twinkle in his eye. “Between you and me,” he said, “I saw her pack them sandwiches first.”

He leaned back again and crossed his arms. “No,” he added, John Evans is harmless enough — he’s just grown forgetful with age.” He nodded towards the house. “Which brings us to the matter of your aunt. Was I right in guessing that she is not, in fact, losing her mind? How has companionship helped the situation?”

Stephen raised his eyebrows. “Sometimes I am more certain than others,” he admitted. “But I think in general you are correct. She has days when she seems not only lucid — but witty and kind and compassionate.”

“It is a marked encouragement that she is able to be compassionate,” the doctor pointed out. “Thinking of others and commiserated with their situation shows a level of emotional intelligence that is rare, even amongst those of us who are not mad.”

“There are, of course, times when she seems not herself at all,” Stephen said. “One day she appeared in her old wedding dress and proceeded to wear it for two days’ time, not taking it off even for rest at night. She talked on and on about her wedding as though she had just been married that morning.”

“What finally convinced her to rid herself of the garment?” the doctor asked.

Stephen smiled. “I hired a lady’s companion, as you well know. I believe you met her on your last visit.”

“Yes, Miss Selwyn if I remember correctly.”

“Precisely.” Stephen shrugged. “The answer to any question you might have about my aunt’s improvement will always be ‘Miss Selwyn.’ She convinced her to take off the wedding dress. She convinces her daily to walk; she accompanies her everywhere, and most recently she helped convince her to accompany me to a ball.” He studied the doctor’s reaction carefully. “That is why I wanted to speak with you,” he said. “What do you think about my taking my aunt to a ball? Do you think it too much excitement?”

Dr. Morris took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully.

“We must remember,” he said, “that I have not examined your aunt personally, and therefore I cannot offer a reliable medical opinion on the matter. I can only go off your descriptions of her condition.”

Stephen nodded. “As I said, she seems to be settling, especially in the companionship of Miss Selwyn and myself. I believe she is improving, although I think her past still has a hold on her. You ought to know that she was something of a debutante when she was a young girl — a ball might raise bad memories.”

“Or good ones,” the doctor said with a shrug. “The way I see it, the interaction will be good for your aunt. She will be outside these walls for the first time in a long time — if you are to be believed — and that will offer her chances to connect with people other than yourself and Miss Selwyn. I am not suggesting you throw the poor woman to the dogs. Make certain that both you and Miss Selwyn are there at all times, so she has someone to lean on.”

Stephen nodded, thinking a little guiltily that he would be happy to pass such a moratorium on to Ruth. Then she will be quite fashioned to my side for the entirety of the event, h e thought happily.

“We can arrange that,” he said.

“You will need to watch her quite carefully,” the doctor went on. “In cases of nervous illness, a fit can come upon a patient quite suddenly, and usually in response to outside stressors. This is avoidable. Simply introduce her to the ball in small amounts, letting her be a part of the dancing at one moment — then showing her out to get a breath of fresh air the next.” He smiled. “Overall, I say this is an excellent decision on your part. If consulted, I would have suggested the same thing myself.”

“Doctor,” Stephen began, not sure how to ask what he wanted to ask next. He hesitated, searching for words. “In your studies and travels before coming to this town, did you ever find a case like what I’ve described? A case that looks like madness, but is really a deep loneliness or lack of companionship?”

“My good man,” the doctor said kindly, “I have not come across a case as significant as what you describe, but any man that has known the sting of loneliness can imagine how it can drive a person mad.” He sighed. “Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.”

“That is in Proverbs, is it not?” Stephen asked. He was thinking of Ruth. He had already felt the poignant sadness that came from knowing a woman worth loving and feeling worlds apart from her. It was a loneliness indeed, unlike any he had felt before he knew what it was to love.

“It is,” the doctor confirmed. “The Good Book, as it were.” He stood up and stretched. “Now I shall leave you to your business, although I would implore you to convince your aunt to meet with me. It seems that her healing trajectory is well advanced and encouraging, and so I am hopeful she will be well enough to suffer a doctor visit in time.”

Stephen gave a short, dry laugh. “Is it often that you have to wait to visit your patients until they are recovered?” he asked.

“No,” the doctor said, raising his eyebrows, “but it isn’t often a man offers to pay me with a chicken, and that happened today as well.”

He set off down the road, walking in long, even strides. Stephen watched him go and then looked back at the house. His heart stopped momentarily at the sight of a figure in the upstairs window. It was his aunt, frail and pale, wearing a white muslin that matched almost perfectly with the curtain she stood against. She saw him turn towards her and disappeared from the window.

Stephen frowned and watched the empty casement for a moment, confused. For a woman who does not want to see a physician, she seems to be most intrigued by him, he thought.

He walked back towards the house with his hat in his hands, pausing at a blossoming bunch of roses by the east entrance. The gardeners had cultivated stunning long-stemmed beauties in reds, pinks, and whites. Stephen pulled out a knife he kept folded in his pocket and cut a few white roses for his aunt. He wrapped the stems in a handkerchief to protect his hands and then hesitated, looking at the beautiful red velvet petals of the scarlet roses and thinking of Ruth.

Would it be too forward for me to give her such a gift? He considered it only a moment before reaching forward and cutting a single red rose off the busy, holding it gently along with his aunt’s bouquet. It just seemed right, as though the rose itself begged to be Ruth’s.

He walked inside, surprised to find his aunt already downstairs in the parlor with Ruth.

“I saw you through the window, Aunt,” he said cheerfully, walking over and extending the bouquet of white roses to her with an exaggerated bow. “Roses for my lady,” he said.

She took them, her hands feather-like on the handkerchief. She seemed a little more pale and drawn than she had earlier in the day, and Stephen wondered if the modiste’s visit had wearied her.

“I was looking out over the property,” she said quietly. She leaned forward and smelled the roses, her eyes closed like a little girl sniffing wildflowers for the first time. “These are quite nice,” she said, seeming to brighten a bit. She stood and scurried over to a small, low vase in the corner, filling it with clear drinking water and propping the roses up inside it.

Ruth was sitting by the window. She’d looked up only briefly to smile at Stephen when he entered and was back to reading her book, the light playing with her gold hair.

Stephen felt his heart in his throat. He walked over to her, trying to appear as nonchalant as he had been with his aunt.

“And I would not forget dear Miss Selwyn,” he said, a little hoarsely, extending the single red rose to Ruth.

She looked up in quiet astonishment, delight and surprise mingling on her face.

“Lord Darnley,” she said quietly. “This is most unexpected.”

He handed her the rose, and their fingers brushed together as she took the stem. He caught her gaze, and held it.

“I hope it is not so very unexpected,” he said, his tone low to match her own.

She pulled the rose to her and smelled it. Stephen felt as though he was looking at some ancient painting, done years ago by an Italian genius. It would be called “Rose on a Summer Day,” he thought, his eyes drinking in the way her neck bent forward over the blossom; the curve of her curls against her cheek, and the sweet look in her eyes.

He pulled away and averted his eyes, fearful that he had already betrayed too much.