Chapter 19

Chapter

Nineteen

Kathryn

" E mily…" The name that escaped Doctor Beille's lips made Kathryn nearly drop her cup.

Who is Emily?

Doctor Beille shifted in his seat. He'd been at peace for some time as Kathryn drank from her cup, nearly draining it completely. The doctor hadn't stirred at all until now. His head turned to the side, a slow murmur leaving his lips, then he said the name again.

"Emily."

Who is she? Is this why he was so upset? Has this Emily hurt him? Is he in love?

Kathryn felt such a fool that she couldn't move. She stared at him across the room, realizing that the sudden ache in her chest was a form of heartbreak. In her time with Doctor Beille, she hadn't just ben longing for his teachings, but longing to be with him, and yet, he had no wish to be with her.

He thinks of another. Oh, how could I be such a fool?

Kathryn hurried to place down the cup on the table without making a sound and raised herself to her feet. She had to get out of there, as fast as she possibly could, before her foolish heart placed anymore hope on a man whose love was clearly placed elsewhere.

"Emily."

Oh, enough!

He kept saying it, repeatedly now, to such an extent that she felt as if she was being tortured by it. Kathryn crossed the room toward her discarded cloak and lifted it around her shoulders, fixing it tightly. She gathered her books and her bag, hurrying to her task so much that she nearly forgot Arabella's book and had to dart back from the door to get it.

"No. No!" Doctor Beille's voice abruptly grew louder.

Kathryn stiffened, with her hand outstretched over Arabella's book as she stared at Doctor Beille.

His head flicked from one side to the other, hitting the other wing of the armchair. His face was no longer pale but bright red and there was sweat on his temple.

What is happening?

"No. No, it can't happen. Not again. Not again."

Again?

Kathryn could not make any sense of what Doctor Beille was saying, but what was plain through the dim candlelight between them was that he was suffering some nightmare. Kathryn slowly released Arabella's book, remembering she had read a section her aunt had written on nightmares.

She believed nightmares were sometimes mere wild imaginings, and other times, were memories sent to torment us, with fresh problems resurfacing. It was a mark of the scars that people's problems left on their minds.

"Doctor?" Kathryn whispered.

He gave no sign of hearing her. He just pleaded for things to stop again. He pulled at the blanket around him, as if desperate to escape it.

She reached for Arabella's book and flicked the pages open, turning to the one about nightmares and night terrors again, reading the words fast.

A true night terror one cannot always be woken from. All an onlooker can do is wait it out and make the room as calm as possible. I once treated a man so locked in his nightmare that when his wife tried to wake him, he was scared, and lashed out, breaking their furniture. He was not himself. If someone shows reluctant signs of waking up, there are things we can do to calm them.

Kathryn shrugged off her cloak and put down her book, crossing the room toward Doctor Beille.

"Doctor? Doctor? Can you wake? Can you escape this?" She laid a soft hand on his shoulder. He shrank away from her, becoming small in the chair, his face contorting as if in pain.

"No, no. It's happening again. All over again. She's gone. Emily…"

The words started to torture Kathryn. Tears stung her eyes, but she knew she couldn't dwell on that ache now. She had to help the doctor, to give him a way to escape the demons of his mind.

She returned to Arabella's book, reading all the things she could do to help calm Nigel.

First, she moved back toward him and placed her hand to the back of his head. He had no temperature, and if anything, simply felt a little too cold. She tucked the blanket around him one more time. When his feet lashed out toward the nearest table, she snatched off his boots, placing them out of harm's way. His feet relaxed a little under the blanket and he sank down in the chair, the words still escaping him fast.

"No, no. Let me out of this. I can't see it all happen again."

She ran toward the cupboard full of jars of herbs. She collected all the ones for relaxation. In particular, she gathered lots of chamomile and lavender. When she found fresh lavender, she tied the sprigs into small bundles and placed them near the doctor, trying to give the air a calmer scent. Moving toward the window, she closed it tightly, blocking out the sounds of the street and the drunkards beyond.

She turned back to the doctor, facing him for a minute as she took stock of whether there were any changes. His manners had softened and slumped, but he was still murmuring words repeatedly.

I must do something more.

She returned to Arabella's book. There was nothing more on the page about what to do. She flicked through the pages, searching for anything that could help. Kathryn cursed under her breath, for Arabella could offer nothing more in this moment.

As she moved to close the book, the pages turned, and the book opened on a different page entirely. At the top of the page read, To Calm Feverish Nightmares. Kathryn halted, her hand falling flat to the page. Doctor Beille had no fever, but it was possible some of the learnings could be extrapolated.

There was one line on the page that offered Kathryn some hope. As mad an idea as it could be to try, it was just possible that it could work.

Sing or hum a soft tune. When one's spirit is wild, something so calming can have a greater effect than we can possibly imagine.

Kathryn moved toward Doctor Beille. She shifted a stool and sat before him, praying that her singing voice, something she had no confidence in at all, would at least perform for her now. She waited for a small lull in his ramblings, so he would hear her, then began to hum a soft tune.

It was a song from Dorset, about Old Harry Rocks and the way the waves would roll across the sand, and children would play in the shallows. It was a tune she'd often returned to over the years, and as she hummed it now, she at first felt mad, certain it would do no good. Gradually, she realized the doctor's words did not come as hurried anymore. They softened, and eventually, they stopped altogether.

Kathryn sang a few of the words from the song, sitting back and trying to maintain her tune as the doctor angled his head toward her, clearly listening to her attentively. She finished her tune with a soft smile on her face.

Slowly, she stood and moved across the room, tiptoeing so as not to disturb the doctor. Looking down at the page, she read Arabella's notes, checking to see if there was anything else she could do. The final words scribbled at the bottom of the page startled Kathryn so much, she stepped back from the book.

When I first met Daniel, I sang to him often when he had a fever. He told me later he remembered those songs. They gave him peace in the darkness.

"Oh," Kathryn gasped and turned her back on the book. It now felt strange to have done something for Doctor Beille that Arabella had done for her husband.

The candle was burning down, the light growing dimmer. Determined not to leave the doctor alone in case these nightmares returned, she reached for a new candle and a tinderbox, lighting it with the iron wool. The candle holder was placed on some of the periodicals that Lady Bingley ran. Interested, Kathryn picked up the periodicals along with the candle and moved to Doctor Beille's side. Pouring out a second cup of tea for herself, she sat in her chair with the candle close by and read the periodicals, occasionally looking up to the doctor to check he did not suffer those nightmares again.

Kathryn read about the women she had met at Lady Georgiana's house, the Duchess of Lestenmeer and the Countess of Nightburn. Yet there were other women on these pages, other ladies that were being held up as trailblazers in their industries. Miss Radcliff and Miss Austen were talked of in the literary world, and Miss Angelica Kauffman was celebrated as one of the greatest artists of the last century. Kathryn stared in awe at the paintings that were recreated in print before her.

All the women described had successful careers. They were admired for what they had done. It made Kathryn look toward Arabella's book on the table nearby, thinking of how Arabella had missed out on the praise she deserved in life.

Maybe not everyone gets the light they deserve to stand in.

Kathryn smiled more and more as she read the periodical, noting the happy tone of the articles within. At all stages, they encouraged women to take their future into their own hands, and there was even a section toward the back of the periodicals where women wrote in, asking for advice or telling their own stories.

One of the stories caught Kathryn's attention in particular as she read, for it reminded her of some of the letters that had been written to Bona Dea in Dorset.

Dear Editors for The Women's Periodical.

I am writing to you in some desperation. I have always been an independent soul, quite wild in nature. Where my mother would have me sat at a piano, perfectly musical and charming in the way that an ornament is pretty to look at, I'd rather be out of the house. Most days you'll find me striding across our country estate, enjoying the weather, come rain or shine, and admiring the natural world.

My mother insists this is no way for a woman to be, and that if I ever hope to be married someday, I should become the version of a lady that she wishes me to be.

Yet this periodical seems to show me a different life. These pages are full of women who are exactly who they wish to be. I ask you this, to put the matter to rest in my own mind once and for all, should I do as my mother asks? There is so much pressure on a lady's shoulders these days to marry, to avoid being a spinster, to have a family of her own. Yes, I want those things, but should I compromise who I am in order to get them?

I look forward to your reply.

Your avid reader,

A.E.

Kathryn smiled as she read the sign off. It was clear the woman was afraid of her name being recognized in the periodical, so she had chosen to write it anonymously. Kathryn shifted her attention to the reply that had been written in the periodical. She recognized something of Lady Bingley's turn of phrase in the words and wondered if she was the person who had written the answer.

Dear A.E,

Never compromise who you are. Yes, there is an expectation these days for women to live up to a certain ‘ideal.' Yet that doesn't mean this ideal makes us happy.

It is a tragedy of this world that I have seen many women who have married too young, too soon, and for the wrong reasons. Their happiness is compromised because of it.

Be who you wish to be. If you wish to go for a walk? Then go walking! If you wish to look at nature in the rain? Then do so and trail your muddy boots back toward the house to make a point to your mother. You can be yourself.

Most women wish to marry because they want a family and they want love, but love only comes from being your true self. If you forget the expectations, ignore the pressure, and just enjoy every day of your life, you'll find someday you'll come across a man that suits you – he will be a man that like you will probably enjoy traipsing through the rain.

Trust me. That marriage is worth waiting for, no matter how long the wait is.

It is the greatest advice I can give to any reader of this periodical. Be who you wish to be and don't sacrifice anything for any other's expectations of you. We only have one life – live it the way you wish to.

Your friend from the Women's periodical.

Kathryn slowly lowered the paper down to her lap as she thought of these words. It imbued her with energy, a knowledge that she was doing something right after all in pursuing her medicinal knowledge and trying to improve it. She could make herself happy, live her days the way she wished to, and someday, she could marry and be happy with someone who was like her in mind.

Her smile faltered as she turned to look at Doctor Beille beside her. It would be a lie to pretend that she hadn't considered the idea that Doctor Beille could be that partner. She was attached to him, far more strongly than she had realized before. Sighing deeply, she now recognized the truth for what it was.

It didn't matter if her heart was devoted to him, for he was attached to another. This Emily, the woman's name who he had muttered so repeatedly in his nightmares, clearly had his heart. In comparison, what was Kathryn? She was simply the frustrating daughter of a baron who kept calling at night and pleading for medical lessons from him.

I have to let go of my wishes for him. I have to focus on myself instead.

She reached up, for she had a strange sensation that Arabella's earrings in her ears were abruptly heavy. She took them off and placed them on the table beside her, far out of reach, before she returned her focus to the periodical before her. She read of other women like Arabella, women who deserved to wear such treasured things.