Chapter Twenty-One

B ea took a step back. So many rules of decorum had been broken that they made her head spin.

Or was it the fact that Alfie was still holding her hand?

“What happened here?” Wendy asked in the exact tone of Bea’s mother. For years, Bea tried to imitate her strict tone, and all it took was getting caught kissing Alfie so that Wendy could produce a perfect impression of Mother’s worst tone. If Bea weren’t still tingling all over from Alfie’s kiss, it would be funny.

Alfie squatted to collect some of the larger shards on the floor. “We dropped some cups, and I was just looking for a broom.”

“In her mouth?” Wendy narrowed her eyes but didn’t seem upset with Alfie; it was Bea who had seemingly irked her somehow.

“No, Wendy.” Alfie had the tone of a big brother, annoyed with his surrogate younger sister. Bea knew that Alfie had known Wendy since she was a child, but there was a level of closeness as if they were siblings. “Why did you call for me?”

“A patient is here with a baby,” Wendy said, staring at Bea so thoroughly that she broke out in goosebumps.

“Who?” Alfie rose, tossing a stack of shards in a bucket near the door and wiping his hands.

“She didn’t say.” Wendy stepped aside, and Alfie passed her, turning around to give Bea one parting I’m-so-sorry look, but then he was gone.

Wendy shifted and watched Bea.

Her impulse was to ask for a broom to clean up the mess, but instead, Bea lifted her chin and gave Wendy a superciliary glance. To Wendy, she was Lady Beatrice, not a kitchen maid. For some reason, Bea’s instinct told her to raise her guard.

“Why are you kissing Alfie if it’s the prince you’re after?”

Ah! Wendy was excellent in her roles as Hestia, the goddess of domesticity at 87 Harley Street, and her family’s protector, including that of her brother Nick and even all the others, Felix, Andre, and Alfie.

“It’s sweet that you are trying to protect Alfie’s heart, but I think he can look out for himself.”

“He could lose his customers for seducing you, and yet you’re toying with his life. I know your kind, Lady Beatrice, and it’s not fair that you take advantage of hard-working people for your own fleeting amusement while you are after a royal prince.” She hissed the word “prince” as if it were pure venom. “Don’t toy with Alfie, he’s like a brother to me.”

Bea’s heart dropped, and she searched for something to hold. When her left hand finally touched the back of a chair, she brought her right hand to her stomach. That was what she’d always worked on; it was nothing useful like the doctors or the nurse, just her reputation.

“You must think I’m terribly shallow based on what you’ve seen of me.” Bea was suddenly acutely aware that her simple day dress had more brocade than fit the setting and that Wendy merely wore a white apron over a grey muslin gown. Only now Bea noticed that the nurse’s front had several buttons because she dressed herself, and that her hair was tucked under a bonnet. She didn’t have a wardrobe designed to be laced by lady’s maids, nor did she have ribbons braided into her hair as it was pinned up. Bea sank onto the chair and stepped on a few shards that clattered under her feet.

Wendy cringed at the sound of the broken porcelain on the tiled floor, but she seemed too proud to bend down and clean it up in front of Bea. But then the moment was interrupted by Alfie’s call. “Wendy!” His voice rang out. “Come here!”

Both Bea and Wendy darted to the hall and toward Alfie’s apothecary shop.

Bea stood at the threshold, the sharp scent of herbs and remedies pricking her nose. Her heart tightened at the sight before her. There on the countertop lay a baby boy, red-faced and wailing, his tiny body writhing on the pristine white towel and his knees pulled up to his belly. He was covered in an angry-looking rash. Alfie leaned over the infant, his brow furrowed in concentration as he gently dabbed at the child’s skin with a damp cloth.

A nursemaid hovered nearby, her hands fluttering uselessly, her face as pale as milk.

“How did he come in contact with the nettles?” Alfie’s voice was calm, steady, but Bea could hear the undercurrent of concern. The nursemaid stammered, explaining through tears that the baby, no more than ten months old and eager to explore, had slipped from her watchful eye for only a moment.

“What were you doing if not watching the child?” Alfie asked but the nursemaid broke into tears, and he stopped his line of questioning.

Bea noticed that she was scratching her wrist, and the backs of her hands were covered in red bumps. Well, at least she’d taken him out of the nettles.

The baby’s cries pierced the air, his tiny fists clenched in agony, his head turning an alarming shade of purple. Alfie handed the cloth to the nursemaid and motioned for her to hold the baby still. He reached for a small jar. With practiced ease, he unscrewed the wooden lid and scooped out a dollop of salve.

With gentle precision, Alfie smeared the soothing balm onto the baby’s inflamed skin. Alfie’s large muscular hands contrasted with the baby’s smooth pink skin, but Bea couldn’t take her eyes off the glistening salve on Alfie’s hands. He rubbed the baby with as much gentleness as precision. Bea watched as the child’s screams ebbed into whimpers, then silence, replaced by hiccupped breaths and wide, teary eyes. The transformation was immediate, almost miraculous.

Bea’s chest swelled with an emotion she couldn’t name—admiration, perhaps, or something deeper. In that moment, Alfie was more than just an apothecary; he was a healer, a savior. And in the quiet aftermath, as the baby’s sobs faded into soft murmurs, Bea felt her pulse begin to steady, finding solace in Alfie’s capable look when he cast her a glance as he wrapped the baby in the towel and handed him gently to Wendy.

Bea’s heart twisted as she observed Alfie, the resolute set of his jaw as he handed the nursemaid the jar of salve, the calm assurance of his hands as he placed the lid back on and wiped his hands on a white muslin cloth. Here was a man who moved through life with a purpose, a healer whose touch brought peace to the suffering. In this small shop, surrounded by jars and tinctures, herbs and oils, he was in his element, performing miracles with every patient he attended. The realization struck her like a hammer: if she pursued him, if she pulled him into the tumultuous world of balls and gossip, she’d be dragging him away from this place where he was needed most. Nick had to move, even if it was only two minutes away, he wouldn’t be there around the clock. Alfie should be there. And she shouldn’t be.

The thought gnawed at her, a relentless ache that refused to quiet. She didn’t want to be selfish, to prioritize her longing over the well-being of those who depended on Alfie’s skill. Yet the desire she harbored for him was an inescapable force, powerful and insistent. It pounded within her, throbbing in her stomach, a constant reminder of the connection she yearned to deepen. The conflict within her mind was like an open wound, raw and painful. Torn between her love for him and the undeniable truth of his calling, Bea stood at a precipice, uncertain which path would lead to something whole.

What she did know with certainty was that she didn’t want to lose Alfie.