An Independent Miss (22 page)

Drawn by morbid fascination or na
ï
veté, Andover didn’t
know which, but Upton stood at his side, only to pull back, gagging. His
muffled “Oh! God!” succeeded in gaining everyone’s attention.

“Go!” Andover ordered, “Wait in the
carriage.”

But his friend only went as far as
the corridor, to plunk down on a chair, curled over, pressing his handkerchief
to his mouth, stanching any risk of bile escaping.

Andover turned back. All eyes set
on him.

Four people stood next to a bed
where a man lay, his raw stump of a leg uncovered. Andover said, “You chose the
maggot treatment.”

Felicity, serene and peaceful as
ever, despite the gore-stained apron and a man’s mangled limb beside her, said,
“Yes, the maggot therapy, along with washes and poultices. I’m doing them in
turns.” And then basic, ingrained, courtesy had her introducing him.

“This is Lord Andover,” Felicity
told the Marshalls, as though they stood in a drawing room and not their son’s
hospital ward.

“And these—” she informed
Andover, “—are Robbie’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Marshall. Neighbors of
ours. And, of course, the guest of honor, Jack Marshall.” He thought she
blushed, but couldn’t be certain with the poor light.

“Of course,” Mr. Marshall
remembered. “You came over in the rain, with Lord Westhaven.”

“Pleased to see you again,” Andover
removed his hat. “Though I’m sorry for the circumstances.” He acknowledged
Jack, who watched him closely, in sharp contrast to Robbie, who looked
everywhere but at Andover.

He stepped full into the room. “If
you don’t mind, I’d like a word with Lady Felicity.” He bowed, and held out his
hand to see Felicity truly flustered.

She gestured to the leg. “There’s
one more…” she gestured to the larvae, dropped her head, taking in a deep
breath of the foul air before bravely raising it and meeting his eyes. “ …and
then the washes. I can’t leave it exposed.”

“Absolutely.” Despite the dictates
of politeness, to step out of the room and leave this family their privacy, he
braced against the gore, stood silent, and watched.

“You leave this to us now,” Mrs.
Marshall fluttered about, reaching to help, hesitating, pulling back without
once disturbing Felicity’s keen concentration or efficiency.

“Did you bleed him?” Andover
couldn’t keep the question back.

“No!” Mr. Marshall joined him in
the doorway. “Our Felicity never bleeds. Doesn’t believe in it.”

“Surely a doctor has seen to him.”

“Aye, before she was here, and more
the worse he was. We thank God he’s in her care now.”

“And when you are home?”

“You mean the bleeding? Ah, well,
the local sawbones agrees with her. Young Dr. Henry was halfway there. Felicity
tumbled him to the idea of leaving blood inside a body.”

Mr. Marshall rocked back on his
heels, his thumbs in the arm openings of his waistcoat, as though they were
comfortably chatting in a drawing room.

“Young Dr. Henry?”

Mr. Marshall nodded. “Young man,
younger son of a Viscount, I believe. I think the poor lad is half in love with
our Felicity.”

My
Felicity. “I never heard of such an attachment.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” He chuckled,
nodding as his wife learned how to wash their son’s wound. “Lady Felicity would
never marry a doctor. No. A bit hard when a woman knows more than a man. I
think she sees him as her student.”

“Surely, you jest.”

“No,” Mr. Marshall shook his head.
“No, not at all, and him that studied up at the college in Edinburgh is still
learning from a wee lass.” He beamed proudly at their Felicity.

“There,” the young lass in question
said to Mrs. Marshall, “that’s all there is to it. A few more pours, then put
the poultice on as we discussed.”

A mournful moan, a low undertone in
the room, grew.

Mr. Marshall looked down the row,
met his wife’s gaze and shook his head.

She tried to hurry Felicity out.
“You are a lamb, Lady Felicity, can’t thank you enough.” But the building cry
could not be ignored.

Felicity stepped into the path
between beds.

“You are staying?” Andover asked,
knowing the answer even as he put it to her.

Distressed, by him, the patient or
both, he didn’t know, but her eyes showed depths of emotion. “I can’t leave,”
she whispered.

“No, I don’t suppose you can,” he
agreed, realizing the truth of it. This was who she was, what she was.
Impossible to change her.

He took her arm, and led her to the
hall. Upton stood, his legs wobbly and his face ashen.

“Are you uncomfortable here, Lord
Upton?”

He shot her a look, as though she’d
lost her mind, to be anything but uncomfortable in such a place.

“Rupert has never been good with
blood. Fainted dead away when he cut his finger once.”

“The smell…” Upton shuddered.

“I won’t be long,” Andover
promised. “Why don’t you see if the coach is outside?”

No other prompting needed. Upton
bowed to Felicity and headed for the stairs, leaving the two alone in the
hallway. He watching her, she wiping Lord knew what off her hands and on to the
stained apron.

“So this is where you go, when
everyone thinks you are shopping or walking, or in the park painting.”

She nodded.

“You use maggots on your patients?”
Maggots
. He rather thought he
preferred bleeding.

“On the dead flesh of an
amputation.” She took his arm, led him further down the hall, away from
doorways, as though all young ladies dealt with amputations and walks down dark
hallways in a hospital. “He is improving,” she told him.

He feared it was true. That this
would encourage her.

“You do all that…” he gestured
behind them. She nodded.

“I know it doesn’t seem so, but he
was worse.”

Yes, he must have been for Robbie
to be calmed after such wild grief. For Mr. Marshall to be jocular in the face
of his son’s ragged stump of a leg.

He looked about the hall, the
darkened doorways. A place full of foul odors with an undertone of moans, and
wondered how one suffered a life among such things.

The
depths of her.

He now understood Thomas’s words,
his understanding, his heart breaking for himself, his mother, but not for
Felicity. She knew what she wanted in life. Marriage would never be enough.

“This is where your heart lies? In
this place, such places, the reason you hesitate? What you wanted to talk to me
about?”

Swallowing against tears shimmering
in her eyes, she admitted, “I rather thought you might want to be free. I did
not want you tied to me without knowing the truth of everything.”

His cheek twitched. He clenched and
released his fist. Tapped the side of his leg. “You say this Jack Montgomery is
doing better? With maggots?”

“I will do what I must,” she told
him.

“And this is what you want? To
leave balls for this? Miss appointments? Be from home when visitors expect you
there?” He asked. “You choose this over all else? Including marriage?”

A scream rattled through the house.

Felicity turned away, and in that
he had his answer.

“I will speak with your father in
the morning, and accept your rejection.” He bowed, refusing to acknowledge her
tears or allow his own, for he realized, in this night, he’d found a selfless
woman of peace and calm he could love. A woman who would be there for everyone
or him—but impossible to do both.

He’d not force her to make that
choice.

As he walked down the hall, down
the stairs, he felt her eyes upon him but never, not once, looked back.

CHAPTER 2
2 ~ DUPLICITY

Heavy with the strain of the night,
battling infection, caring for the other men in the ward. The echoes of screams
from the other ward, still ringing in her ears. No doubt she’d hear them in her
dreams. Thankfully, Matt had returned with more pouches and maggots, though
where or how he got them in the night, Felicity didn’t want to know.

She, Matt, and the Marshalls moved
through the ward, washing, putting on poultices and maggots in turn. Even with
his improvement, Felicity insisted they move Jack out of the home. Far better
to be alone than risk contamination.

She’d written out strict
instructions on how to care for his ward mates and future amputees.

She left the Marshalls to make
arrangements as she walked slowly down the stairs, dumb with fatigue, to stand
on the front steps.

The porter stepped lively before
her, whistling into the grey mist.

She waited, arms wrapped tight
around her middle, holding shards of sorrow from flying into the night.

A large, well-appointed carriage
pulled up, too rich for what she would use, so she kept her head down.

A crunch of gravel, the step of a
footman. “Lady Felicity Stanton?”

Confused, she looked up,
recognizing the livery. Behind him, a coach door bearing the Andover family
crest. He opened the door, lowered the steps. “Lord Andover wishes to offer you
conveyance.”

“Oh.” Like a herded lamb, she climbed
into the sumptuous conveyance, her mind sparking to one idea. As the footman
folded up the step, she asked, “Could you take me to Lord Andover’s home? I’d
like to sit with his mother.”

“Yes, m’lady.” Well bred to his
post, he didn’t show any sign of censure, but then, that wasn’t his place and
she was too tired to worry whether it was hers or not.

She didn’t want the secrets any
more. Andover would free her to this life, of caring for others, giving of
herself, following in her grandmother’s training.

Except her grandmother had married
and borne children, as had all the women who learned from the book.

They married men who allowed what
they did, even admired their work. Rare men.

Andover was a rare breed as well,
just not in the way she needed him to be rare.

He deserved the full truth, as did
his mother. Then they could part ways. He could find the perfect sweet miss to
sit with his mother. His wonderful mother. Felicity was more than fond of her.
A woman of fortitude.

To be mama-in-law to another woman.

After the scandal, Felicity would
never marry. Impossible. The line of healers would die out with her, as she was
the one fated to carry it on.

By the time they reached the Earl
of Andover’s home, the kitchens had come to life with baking bread. Felicity
passed the warm scented rooms, nodding to the few servants about their business
before daylight, and took the back stairs up to Lady Andover’s chambers. A path
she’d learned days ago.

The chambermaid was just leaving as
Felicity stepped into the room.

Startled, the young girl tried to
stop her, whispering. “She’s still asleep, m’lady,”

“I know, it’s all right, I’ll
wait.”

Odd though her actions were, the
maid managed to bob a curtsy. Before she could leave, Felicity touched her arm
and signaled toward a wingback chair that stood by the fireplace.

“Help me move this.”

Quiet as a soft breeze, they moved
the heavy chair next to the bed. Felicity smiled her thanks as the maid left,
and stepped up to the mirror, as she tugged off her gloves, revealing hands
chapped from harsh soaps.

Her dress no less worse for wear. A
pretty white sarcenet gown, with a sky-blue ribbon along the high waist, was
not meant for a sick bed vigil. Without much hope, she brushed at the wrinkles,
tried her best to fix loose tendrils of hair back into the intricate weave
Jesse had managed, and splashed water on her face from the pitcher the maid
left for Lady Andover.

Nothing could be done for her
red-rimmed eyes.

A truly foolish way to meet the
woman once meant to be her mother-in-law. Their history was not a normal one,
so she counted on Lady Andover taking her presence in stride. After all, when
she woke, she would see Mrs. Comfrey and Mrs. Comfrey always visited in the
middle of the night, to sit by her bed.

This was not so terribly different.

Having assured herself she could
get away with what she was doing, Felicity did what she’d done so often in her
life as a healer. She curled up in a chair beside the bed, to wait.

If she had seen the night through
at the ball, she would still have the energy to swirl and dance her way through
her nightly ablutions. But not tonight. Or morning, as it was nearly dawn. No,
this breaking of day she could barely hold her head up.

****

As per usual, Lord Richard Henry
Albert Carmichael, Marquis of Andover, Earl of Sutton, Viscount St. John, arose
at dawn with every intention of a bracing morning ride. Again, as per usual,
Jones fussed about the dressing room, making noise, speaking quietly to
someone.

Odd
.
There shouldn’t be anyone but Jones in the dressing room, or the splash of
water poured into a basin.

He didn’t shave or bathe until
after his ride. He barely woke until he left the barn and was deep in the
morning air.

“Jones?” Andover called, as he
pulled on a full-length silk robe. He flipped the sash into a loose knot, as he
strode into his dressing chamber.

Short and stout and fussy, Jones
stood over a footman, critically watching as the man poured water into a
pitcher.

“Don’t let it splash!” Jones
warned.

“What are you about?” Andover
snapped. Not so put out by the interruption to his routine, as he was to the
why
of it. Why would Jones take it upon
himself to break a perfectly sensible schedule?

“Go!” Jones shushed the footman off
like a mother with too many chicks, following him to the door. He reminded the
man, “We’ll be needing the bath water.”

“No,” Andover said. “We will not.”
Angered by the exchanged looks between his servants. “We will not,” he
confirmed, before the door was closed.

“You will,” Jones pranced past him.
“Because you have a guest.” And he sniffed, like a woman countered when she was
best not countered.

“Guests? At this hour?”
Unbelievable
. The only likely guest when
the sun rose would be another fellow wishing to join him on a ride, and he
would be damned if he’d bathe for that.

“I think, my lord, you should wear your
buffs and…” the man said, as he bustled about.

“For riding?” Andover headed
straight for the coffee tray on the bureau, hoping the brew could clear his
head against the muddle of the day.

“Not for riding,” Jones informed
him, as Andover poured a cup of strong black coffee.

He savored the rich scent, already
feeling better. He’d let it do its work as he waited for Jones, so obviously
bursting with information, to divulge it. “All right, then, who has come to pay
a call that requires me to dress the gentleman? Prinny?”

“Your betrothed,” Jones said with a
sniff.

“What?” Andover put his cup down
with a clink. “Lady Felicity?”

Smug, Jones nodded and gestured for
Andover to sit for his shave.

“No.” He waved the idea away.
“Dress me as you would. I’m going for a ride, and then I will meet with Lady
Felicity.”

“M’lord?” Horrified, Jones paced,
hands flapping about in front of him. “You really must see to this.”

“Which room is she in?”

Jones relaxed, standing still,
though oddly excited to be the teller of such titillating news.
Sotto voce
, he leaned toward Andover.
“She’s with your mother.”

His mother? Felicity visited with
his mother? “Why didn’t Coachman take her home?” he wondered aloud, coming to
grips with all the implications. He would have to send for her parents, a
vicar.

To visit his mother at dawn? His
mother would be sleeping soundly. She always did at this time of day, didn’t
she?

“When Coachman went to take her
home, Lady Felicity asked to be brought here. Seems she wanted to sit with your
mother.”

Andover toyed with the cup, staring
down where it sat so crookedly on the saucer.

“She arrived just before dawn. Not
so long ago. Came in through the kitchens, greeted Cook and went upstairs, calm
as could be. She knew exactly where your mother’s rooms were.”

“Is my mother ill?”

“Oh, no, no, no.” Jones waved that
worry away. “No, nothing like that,” he assured Andover, sighing over the buff
trousers he now questioned as the appropriate choice, no doubt fretting over
just what a man should wear for such an occasion. “Your mother was sleeping
like a baby. Probably still is, as it’s a bit early for her, but your
betrothed…”

Jones shot Andover a wicked,
gossip-y glance. Not that Andover would rise to this bait. No one would see how
he felt about this.

“Go on, my betrothed, you were
saying.”

“She had the chambermaid help her
move a chair over to the bed, so she could sit and watch your mother sleep. Or
so we guess that’s what she is doing.”

Andover blinked. “I see. Well, I’d
best get dressed, but not for guests. I will wear my riding clothes.” He would
not change his routine for this situation.

This was no social call. No, it was
the outrageous behavior of the sort a woman who climbed trees would instigate.
He would not dress for receiving, although he allowed Jones to take more time
with his cravat and brush down his jacket with more vigor than usual. He waited
as his valet polished already shiny boots.

Riding in the morning was a matter
of fresh air and exercise. One did not greet ladies at such a time, so what one
wore did not need to be in the first state of appearances.

He took the time to compose a short
note. “See this gets delivered to the Stanton household immediately, and
arrange coffee for me and two hot chocolates for the ladies.”

Business taken care of, he stepped
into the hall, very aware of the significance of all he’d just done. Ordering
hot chocolate for a woman. An intimacy he’d not anticipated. But what other man
would ever do so, order morning chocolate for this woman other than immediate
family?

None—bar
a husband.

His mother’s rooms were on the far
side of an open gallery. Barton, his butler, and too many servants for this
time of the morning looked up from their posts below, polishing stair rails and
floorboards. He raised an eyebrow, doubting the man could see it, but not
surprised Barton anticipated the message, sending the busy servants scurrying
out of sight.

They would all know the outcome
soon enough.

Disquieted, he stood for a moment,
outside his mother’s rooms. Outrage or admiration? He couldn’t decide between
the two. He did not like choices made for him and Felicity had done just that,
more often than not. Forcing issues out of his hand.

Much as a husband would do with a
wife in ordaining their life.

The hypocrisy was not lost on him.

He let himself into the room with
gentle care, not wanting to wake his mother. Once inside, he found his stealth
unnecessary. She sat up in bed, looking at the chair pulled close. Andover
couldn’t see the occupant of the chair, due to the deep wings, but he knew who
to expect.

Time enough to look there, once
assured his mother faired well, despite this odd occurrence.

Beatific love, not for him but for
the woman in the chair, as though taking in the features of a long-lost child.
Precisely why he wished to marry. She needed another in her life. Desperately
enough to accept a woman who would slip into her chamber in the wee hours of
the day without invitation.

But she had, if she was of a right
mind, and not imagining other things.

She saw him them, sitting up from
her pillows, obviously bemused, not put off at all. She put her fingers to her
lips in the age-old command of silence and nodded toward Felicity.

He stepped more fully into the room
to see beyond those forbidding chair wings. Adorable as a kitten curled up on a
windowsill, Felicity’s head rested against the side of the chair, her legs
tucked under her, bare toes peeking out. Not a wild hoyden, but a sleeping
woman, barely beyond the age of a girl. His heart softened, melting, as he desperately
tried to freeze it.

His mother caught his eye and waved
him over to the window seat.

A good location. Although across
from Felicity, this would put him just far enough out of her line of vision she
wouldn’t notice him straightaway. He could observe her, see what the devil she
expected to accomplish by coming here. It was not done, just wasn’t done, but
he couldn’t quite muster the outrage he knew he should be feeling. Outrage for
his mother’s sensibilities, and the possibility that this might send her into
one of her long, dreamy, absences.

Except his mother didn’t look
dreamy or disturbed. She looked delighted, a hint of mischief in eyes he’d long
ago stopped hoping to see lively again.

Felicity accomplished that, put
that little smile on his mother’s lips, the even larger sparkle in her eyes.
With all he’d done, all he’d tried, this woman made the difference. Not at all
as he’d planned it, but what did that matter, when the outcome remained the
same?

His mother cleared her throat, a
dainty sound.

Felicity stirred, weighted lids
lifting slowly. Suddenly, her head snapped up, eyes wide.

“Mrs. Comfrey?” his mother asked,
so obviously delighted to prove there was such a woman, Andover was horrified
at the duplicity.

Oh, he’d considered the possibility,
even suggested it to Felicity. All the scenarios had fallen into place, except
for Mrs. Comfrey’s appearance at Montfort Abbey. He’d not been able to place
any credence on that, so he dismissed the possibility.