Chapter 7

Chapter 7

However we achieved our fates, at least we know that we are good at what we have in life.

Miss Gundry's words from the theatre resonated with Ernest all week. In the days that followed their attendance of Romeo and Juliet, he had not stopped thinking about her. The way her eyes had fixed on the stage during their quieter moments and the way she had clutched her ticket after the show in the carriage ride home as if she was excited to hold it—to keep a memento of attending.

It seemed very sentimental. He liked to envision her putting the ticket away in a box and keeping it somewhere safe.

I would like to make sure that she has many tickets to keep, he resolved.

He worked through the rest of the week, putting in tireless hours to keep avoiding his mama—something he had been doing ever since her party lest she speak with him about his behaviour—and because he felt expectant of something.

Now, since inviting his cousin to the play, he thought there might be an expectation that he should do something more, but he was stumped about what else to do. He would attend one of her pianoforte lessons, but that did not seem enough.

Perhaps another play, he thought as he packed up for the day.

He put patient files back into the locked cabinet in his office and slipped off his examination coat, hanging it up on the hook next to the door.

"We did good work today, Mr Stevens," he said to the man who had come to oversee the work of one of the best medics in Bellott's Hospital. He was on the board with Graham. Together, the two of them had been assessing Ernest's work. Secretly, he wondered if his mother had a hand in the extra watching. Perhaps they were seeing if being an earl and having to dedicate time to that life and the estate was interfering with his professional career.

It would be just like her to upend me in such ways, he thought. Ignoring his doubts, he gave Mr Stevens, a balding man with a long moustache, a weak smile.

"Indeed, you did," Mr Stevens told him, nodding. "Your patient was rather complicated."

"It was an amputation," Ernest answered. "As hard as it is for my patient, it is no difficult matter for me." He gave him a knowing look. "After all, I have been doing this job for many, many years now."

"I understand."

"And I would never let anything jeopardize it."

"I assure you that I understand, Lord Bannerdown."

He winced. "Please, Mr Stevens. In this hospital, I am Doctor Barnes. Or Ernest. I like to think I leave my status as Earl of Bannerdown at the door and simply become a medic among other medics." He gave a confident smile that faltered when he saw Mr Stevens's nervous one in return. "Is that not correct?"

"Of course," the chairman said. "It is simply … Unheard of."

"I understand that," Ernest said. "But I had a life before I became the Earl of Bannerdown following my late uncle's and cousin's unfortunate death to consumption, and I intend to enjoy that and my life's work to the full, regardless."

"It is only that … noblemen do not work, My Lord."

Ernest paused as he slid his notes into a satchel. "I do know what you mean," he said slowly, "but as I said, I was a medic before I was an earl. Am I to be expected to stop saving lives to sit around Little Harkwell until I am old and dying myself?"

His annoyance should not have been aimed at Stevens, but he couldn't tamper it down. Miss Gundry had filled his thoughts, distracting him, and then there was the issue of his mother's ire at this very topic of discussion. He truly did wonder if she had put Stevens up to this.

"There have been no complaints as of yet," Mr Stevens said and hesitated. "Although if we do find that your … medic duties and noble ones begin to clash or slacken, then we will be forced to take further action."

Ernest's temper rose; it very rarely flared, but he could not believe it! "I have been the Earl of Bannerdown for all of seven months, Mr Stevens. I have been a medic for more than a decade. Please do not insult me by insinuating I cannot do both. I must contribute in such ways."

"And I am not asking you to step down," Mr Stevens said. "Merely that we shall be on guard for if you find yourself with too much to handle. Your title is not one you can give up."

Ernest glared at him. "And neither is my profession."

The tense silence filled the room and was only broken by the opening of the door. In walked Graham, and Ernest, despite his strange jealousy towards his friend, was glad to see him.

Mr Stevens stood up straighter. "Regardless of our discussion, Doctor Barnes, thank you for your dedication to the hospital."

"You can thank me for more if you do not threaten my position," he all but snarled as the board member left awkwardly. Graham looked between the closing door and Ernest, cocking his head.

"Trouble?" he asked.

"I suspect my mother is meddling and whispering in the ears of your board," Ernest muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It tires me."

"Ah," he said. "Lady Katherine would not be herself if she was not meddling."

"I fear that she might have meddled a touch too far this time." Ernest slumped down against his desk, bracing himself on the edge.

Graham was quiet for a moment. "Do you ever think of it, Ernest? The war?"

"Yes," he answered quietly. "All the time."

"Do you ever feel as though … it is unfair that many men died, but so many of us lived?"

"All the time," he repeated, his voice a whisper. "Every time a man comes in with battle wounds, I am pushed right back to that field hospital. Or every time they say they have continued to sustain injuries from the war that have not got any better, I think of the unfairness of it all. War buries some men and permanently scars others." He paused. "Forgive me if this is disrespectful, but I have many feelings about wondering which is better. To die a hero but not live to the end of a long life or walk away from the war with the mental wounds."

"I know what Archibald would have said," Graham muttered.

Ernest nodded. "That battle changed us, Graham. Even if we did not fight as soldiers, we fought. We fought for lives and medicine and proper burials for those who died in our care."

Graham swallowed, glancing out the window to compose himself for a moment. He nodded. "Indeed, we did."

"I am proud of my service even if I am loathe to realize that I walked away to a noble title and inheritance while other men did not get to return to their betrothed."

"That is precisely one of the reasons I am still trying to build the wing for the viscount." Graham gave him a softer smile, one of encouragement and support. "Men like him deserve the grand honour for what they gave their lives to."

"And yet if we built a wing for every man fallen by their sword, we should have tens of thousands of hospitals."

Graham laughed quietly. "It is a regret that I cannot honour every man as he deserves. But we get to live on and continue our work, Ernest. That is an honour. So do fight to stay as a medic here. Be both an earl and a medic if it is possible, and when it is not, I trust you will make the right decision."

"The right decision for whom?" Ernest muttered. "Because there is right for society and my mother, and then there is right for me."

A small voice in his head rose up: If you were not the earl, then you might be able to court Miss Gundry without fear of judgement or being cast out.

But that was a foolish notion. He was the earl due to there being no other heirs. He did what he had to do. Duty was paramount.

"I am sure you will figure it out," Graham said, giving him a teasing smile of which he had not seen in a long, long time. The battlefield had stolen not only lives but the brightness of his friend's smile. "Speaking of finding things out, it has been some time since I visited Bannerdown. How about I visit the manor soon for some drinks? I hear your mother has redone the drawing room."

"She has," he acknowledged, but the thought of Graham—his closest friend, his assistant in the field hospital months ago—being near Miss Gundry, especially since they had both sung each other's praises, sat uncomfortably in his stomach. "But it is not yet finished."

Guilt simmered within him. He felt as though the real reason Graham wished to visit Bannerdown was not for drinks but for his cousin's governess. After the two had got along well, Ernest could not prevent himself from thinking about the pair laughing together, bonding over …

He frowned. What had they talked about except one another?

Instead of comforting him, the thought only pierced him further.

"I would be delighted for you to call upon the manor," he told Graham. "But I would love you to see the redecoration of the drawing room. My mother is going for a very sophisticated look, and you would very much appreciate it, I believe."

Graham smiled at him, none the wiser of Ernest's attempt to delay his visit lest there be any sort of romance between him and Miss Gundry. He would not be able to bear that.

"Very well," Graham said, nodding. "Thank you for thinking of me, Ernest. And I look forward to that drink."

"As do I," Ernest answered quietly as he watched his friend leave the practice room where he was stationed, feeling guilt eating away at him. He concentrated only on packing his work belongings away for the day and heading out as well.

***

Little Harkwell was a dark sentinel in the late afternoon by the time Ernest returned home. Usually, he worked late to avoid his mother and retired to his study before sharing a drink with her in the parlour when he knew she would be mellowed and in better spirits.

But today, he did not go to the parlour. He went straight towards the music room, where notes were tinkling their way from the room and into the hallway as if beckoning Ernest to come closer.

He knew it was not the practiced way Miss Gundry played, nor the searching notes that his cousin played. He was proficient in the pianoforte but did not always know the melodies presented. He questioned who, in fact, played despite hearing both his cousin and Miss Gundry talking.

The governess's voice was soft and soothing, and Ernest found himself gravitating towards it.

"Lady Florence, I understand you are tired after a day of lessons, but please listen to your instructor."

"But it is so difficult," he heard his cousin respond.

Ernest poked his head around the doorway, curious. What instructor?

In the room, the piano had been set back, and a woman he did not recognize sat at it, looking stern. She had her hair pulled back into a tight bun, and a flowing skirt hugged her legs, while a white blouse complemented her without a bodice, he noticed.

A harsh clap of the instructor's hands had even him jumping to attention. "Lady Florence, we shall try again."

"But I am struggling, Mademoiselle Trevoux," Lady Florence said, wincing. She stood in the centre of the room, awkwardly holding out her arms.

It finally hit Ernest: his cousin was learning to dance.

She had performed a country reel well enough, but it appeared that she was being prepared even more than he realized for the marriage market.

"And one will always struggle if one does not practice often enough," Mademoiselle Trevoux chided. "Come now. Once again, from the beginning. Miss Gundry, if you shall, continue playing the pianoforte while I tutor."

"Of course."

The two women switched places, and Ernest watched, raptured, as the governess swept her skirts around her as she sat at the piano bench, her fingers settling on the keys. But it was no use. Even as she played and the dance instructor barked her commands, his cousin merely looked confused and kept stepping on the woman's toes.

"Perhaps we should take a break?" Miss Gundry suggested, and Ernest smoothed out his amused smile as the three women showed signs of distress, nodding eagerly.

"The waltz is a romance novel within a book!" Mademoiselle Trevoux exclaimed as they broke away. "You must perfect it before you meet with any suitors, Lady Florence."

"I am trying," she said calmly. "But there are so many counts."

"Merely four! That is all you need. Four counts and the ability to move around the room gracefully."

As the two parted, Mademoiselle Trevoux caught sight of Ernest lingering in the doorway. She gasped, excitement etching across her face.

"Lord Bannerdown!" she said happily. "You must join us!"

"Me?" he asked, blinking. "Oh, no, I could not possibly—"

"Yes! For this is exactly what Lady Florence is missing! A male partner."

"I am her cousin," he answered. "It would be improper."

"It is merely a dance lesson," Mademoiselle Trevoux countered. "And you shall be helping her prospects for marriage." The woman, whose ringleted hair was done up in a beautiful fashion to expose her long, elegant neck, looked at him with such hope.

His eyes flicked to Miss Gundry, who bit her lip against a smile. Her hair was loosened today, curling down her back in those waves that she often had to keep pinned back for her work. The tendrils were tied up with a bow, pulling parts of her hair back from her face. As always, a few strands framed her features. The errant locks caused her eyes to twinkle a bit further.

He gave her a smile, hoping it was convincing and did not speak of his guilt at putting his friend off visiting.

Miss Gundry approached him. "Come and join us, Lord Bannerdown." Her eyes lit up in mischief. "It shall be my repayment for attending the play with you, and I am sure Lady Florence will be ever so grateful to see the waltz performed as intended."

She glanced back at his cousin, who nodded. "Ever so grateful, Cousin."

Ernest did not know a lot about women, but he knew when they were outnumbering him. The three of them all looked at him expectantly. He glanced both left and right down the hallway to check that his mother's voice was nowhere near the room before nodding.

"If you all insist, then I shall be of service," he said, laughing nervously as he strode into the room. "But I will warn you all that I am a terrible dancer."

"I am sure you are not," Miss Gundry teased.

Oh, you will find out soon enough, Miss Gundry, he thought as Mademoiselle Trevoux gestured for them to come together with a wave of her hands. Awkwardly, Ernest approached his cousin's governess.

"You shall show Lady Florence how the waltz is performed," she instructed. "Come now. You both know the steps, yes?"

Ernest nodded despite not being a good dancer. His mother had taught him a great deal as a boy allowed to languish away from the societal propriety of noblemen. She taught him in the garden of their home in London while his father was at work, and her smiles had been content and wide, and Ernest longed for those days.

He was snapped back to the present when Miss Gundry's hand sought his, and her other one rested on his shoulder.

"Lord Bannerdown, your hand should seek Miss Gundry's waist," Mademoiselle Trevoux hinted, her eyebrows lifting. She looked excited to pair them together. Even Lady Florence, who stood near the pianoforte, watched in excitement.

"Of course," he said. "I apologize, Miss Gundry, for I am a most clumsy dancer."

She merely waved him off. Mademoiselle Trevoux strolled towards the pianoforte, sat down, and began to play. Ernest dipped Miss Gundry into the start of the waltz and tried to lead despite his own nervousness.

"You have not danced with a lady before?" the governess asked, arching a brow at him in question as they crossed the length of the room.

"Not a lot," he admitted. "My mother, mostly. She is the one who taught me these dances. I have not had the chance to embarrass myself formally in public yet."

Miss Gundry laughed. She twirled as he guided her, and just his hand on her waist made Ernest feel as though he was doing something wrong, even as he convinced himself that this was what the dance demanded.

Her hand on his shoulder burned an imprint that he swore he would still feel later.

"Where did you learn such dances?" he couldn't help asking her. She was a beautiful dancer, elegant and graceful, her limbs extending perfectly every time he spun her out and away from him, only to spin deftly right back into his side.

Her face was blank for a moment, confusing him, but she quickly answered, "I taught myself." Did he fabricate a tremble in her voice? "I knew that if I were to be a governess, then I might need to tutor any ward. And see, that time has come."

She laughed, and the sound was shaky as she struggled to meet his gaze. Still, they danced and danced, and Ernest slowly felt himself melting into the steps. The eyes of Mademoiselle Trevoux and his cousin faded away, and he became quite unaware of anything but Miss Gundry as they spun around the room.

Her gaze did not break from his.

"You are very adept," he murmured. She blushed, and he found that he wished to thumb over the spread of pink on her cheeks. He tightened his hold on her waist and her other hand.

"What is the meaning of this?"

His mother's shrilly voice had Ernest startling, breaking away from Miss Gundry with a sense of urgency. His panicked gaze sought out his mother, who stood in the doorway to the music room, her face twisted in disgust at him and the governess.

"You are dancing with—with a commoner?" Her screech made him wince. Mademoiselle Trevoux rushed to her feet.

"Lady Bannerdown, please forgive me, for it is my fault. I encouraged his lordship to dance with Miss Gundry to better show Lady Florence how the waltz is conducted. It is entirely my responsibility."

"I hired you to teach my niece how to dance so she may have a better chance at finding a suitor." Lady Katherine's voice was sharp and venomous. "Not to enable my son to dance with Lady Florence's governess!"

Behind his mother were her usual gaggle of ladies who watched on in horror as if Ernest had been caught in a scandalous act. He did not think he had been.

"My apologies, Lady Katherine," Mademoiselle Trevoux murmured, curtsying.

But Ernest's mother's eyes were on him.

It was clear where the blame was directed.

Awkwardly, he smiled at Miss Gundry, bowed to Mademoiselle Trevoux and his cousin, and departed.