The Healing Season Page 9

  He frowned. “Isn’t that a bit capricious?”

  She shrugged. “It’s a better role than many. Most of the heroines in today’s melodramas and burlesques are such simpering fools, always needing to be rescued as you could see from tonight’s piece. Donna Anna is another stamp altogether.”

  She took a healthy bite of her oyster pastry and washed it down with a swallow from her tankard. Then she laughed afresh, and he could see nothing he said could dampen her spirits.

  “We shall be rehearsing next week to open in a fortnight,” she continued. “I hope you come on opening night.”

  “After what I saw tonight, I think I was right in staying away from the theater.”

  She drew herself up. “What do you mean?”

  “I was brought up to believe the theater was devoid of morals. What I saw tonight has not disabused me of this notion.”

  She flicked aside a flake of pastry from the tablecloth. “Morality is for those who have the blunt.”

  “Your young Miss Simms might have saved herself a lot of trouble if she’d had a higher moral standard.”

  “Betsy is young and ignorant. She’ll learn the ways of the world soon enough.”

  “If the conduct of those young actresses backstage tonight is any indication, they haven’t learned from their mistakes. They seem to believe they may have any man they please with no consequences.”

  “Any man who can make it worth their while,” she countered in a hard voice.

  “What is the difference between that and one of the lightskirts hanging about the theater entrance?” he asked, his tone matching hers.

  “Between a common streetwalker and a woman who knows how to secure herself a tidy nest egg for her old age? There is a vast difference, Mr. Russell—the difference between ending up dead in some alleyway or living out one’s years in a comfortable house in a respectable part of town.”

  He swallowed, shaken by her convictions despite himself. “Is that what you have done?”

  “That is an impertinent question, Mr. Russell.”

  “You are right, Mrs. Neville. My apologies.”

  “Don’t use that disapproving tone with me. Come,” she said, her tone softening, “it is all very well for a young woman who has a father to defend her virtue. What happens to the one whose stepfather strips her of her virtue before she has scarcely entered womanhood?”

  “Is that what happened to Miss Simms?”

  She shrugged and looked away. “Who knows? ’Tis often enough the case.”

  She leaned her head back and stared at him through half-closed lids, looking in that moment dangerously seductive. His glance strayed down her slim white throat, and he felt his own throat go dry.

  “What about your morality, Mr. Russell? Dining late in the evening with a common actress, while your wife sits at home with the little ones? Does she wait up for you? Is she sitting by the fireside? Does she believe you are on a medical call?” Her soft, sultry words mocked him.

  “I am not married,” he answered steadily.

  “I am sorry.” She leaned forward, immediately contrite, the image of seductress vanished with the speed of a snuffed candle. “Have you been widowed long?”

  “I am neither wed nor widowed.”

  Her gray eyes opened wide. “I can scarcely credit what you say. You look old enough to have long since wed.”

  “The fact remains I have never entered into the state of matrimony.”

  “Excuse my impudence, but how old are you, Mr. Russell?”

  “Two-and-thirty this past summer,” he answered stiffly.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Why haven’t you married? Are you waiting for a woman who satisfies your high moral caliber?”

  “‘Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies,’” he quoted softly.

  She made an inelegant sound. “That’s because she probably doesn’t exist except as a figment of your imagination.”

  He ignored the mockery in her tone. “I am waiting for the Lord’s choice for me. Up to now, He hasn’t made it clear. And, yes, she will be a virtuous woman.”

  She gave him a pitying look. “You are so sure about that. Women can be very crafty about their purity, you know. I have an acquaintance who has feigned virginity a half-dozen times.”

  “I know that my future wife will serve God, and her purity of spirit will shine through her.”

  “And how will you know she is the one God has chosen for you? Will He beat a drum when this virtuous woman appears and you will know you are to wed?”

  “I don’t know how He’ll let me know. I only know that He will.”

  “And what about you? Will you be as pure as you expect your future bride to be?”

  He could feel himself reddening in the face, but he refused to back down. “I have kept myself pure for my future wife.”

  He could see the incredulity in her eyes, and it irked him.

  “You must be a lonely man.” Before he had a chance to negate the charge, she answered for him, “No, of course you aren’t. You have your work. You don’t have time to be lonely. You wouldn’t have time for a wife. Where would you ever fit one in?”

  She gave a mirthless laugh. “We have that in common. I have little time for amorous entanglements. I work half the night like you, and sleep half the morning.”

  He shrugged, feigning an insouciance he was far from feeling. “You can believe what you like. It makes little difference to me. I care only for the Lord’s good opinion.”

  “You are serious, aren’t you? Aren’t you afraid you will grow old before having tasted the delights of the flesh?” The question teased him.

  “A Christian is more concerned with eternity than with the temporal of this world.”

  “Don’t you like women?”

  The outspoken question took him aback, and when he understood her meaning, he felt his face flush again, this time in anger. “I like them well enough,” he answered shortly.

  She sighed, as if the conversation were completely beyond her ken. “What happens if God withholds your future bride for another ten years? Aren’t you afraid you’ll be a little old to be enjoying matrimonial bliss?”

  “Then He will redeem the time for us,” he answered. Her words weighed on him despite his confident tone. What would happen if he were obliged to wait another decade?

  “I have seen too much of the fruit of worldly vice,” he answered after a moment. “Every day I treat poxed men and women. I see too many die on the streets. No, I have no desire to compromise my trust in God’s way. He has ordained holy matrimony between a man and a woman. I am content to wait for that union.”

  “So you will keep yourself virtuous and unspotted until that blessed day?”

  “I plan to continue so, yes.”

  “You poor gull.” Her tone dripped with pity, and Ian knew he had been a fool to come with her tonight. He deserved her derision.

  He pushed away from the table. “I may be so in your eyes, but since I am not concerned with the approbation of the theatrical world, I may rest easy.”

  When she had dropped him off, Eleanor sat a moment in her dark carriage, watching Mr. Russell reach his door. The evening had ended badly, and she was sorry she had teased him. But his high-toned morality had irritated her and she had merely wanted to knock him off his pedestal a bit.

  She hadn’t succeeded. Instead, she’d been made to feel as soiled as a girl from a flash house.

  She tapped on the panel to signal her driver to go.

  As the carriage rattled over the cobblestones, her mind went over the evening’s conversation.

  Could the good surgeon truly be faithful to some far-off hope of a divinely appointed bride?

  Eleanor couldn’t credit that such a man existed on the face of the earth. Every man of her acquaintance was susceptible to a female’s charms.

  Undoubtedly, Mr. Russell was no different. He just hadn’t been tested by the right set of circumstances.

  It would b
e amusing to discover how high his moral standards truly were.

  Eleanor decided at that moment to make it a game to test the righteous surgeon. Let him dare to judge the likes of Betsy and herself then.

  It would be interesting to find out what type of woman he preferred. She could play the part soft and demure like a debutante in her first season, or bold and alluring like a siren, singing her seductive song. She could even play the role elegant and ladylike.

  Or perhaps none of these. Perhaps she’d already discovered the key—a helpmate in his work. She remembered the mission. She could visit it again and offer some assistance.

  She laughed inwardly. How long could Mr. Russell resist her charms? She had seen many lesser men fall. There had been something in his eyes the day of the street riot. Under all that disapproval lay a man like any other. He was no better than d’Alvergny with his offers of jewelry and other as-yet-unnamed favors.

  It would be amusing to toy with the good doctor, she decided, her thoughts returning to Mr. Russell. She would carry out a little wager with herself. She wouldn’t let it go too far. No one would be hurt. After all, she had bigger fish to fry, and had no possible interest in an entanglement with a low-paid surgeon.

  It would serve Mr. Russell right to be brought down a peg or two.

  Ian entered his quiet house and hung up his coat. As he was making his way down the corridor, his cat appeared at the top of the stairs and sat staring at him.

  “Hello there, Plato. Did I wake you up?” he asked.

  As he entered his bedroom, the cat followed him.

  Mrs. Neville’s mocking tone and looks came back to him as he stroked his cat and felt its purring beneath his fingertips.

  Was he a normal man? He felt like the rarest oddity in her eyes.

  But oh, yes, he was very much a normal man. If she only knew the very natural reaction he experienced every time she stood near him and he smelled her perfume or she slid her hand into the crook of his arm.

  His fingers clenched into fists. He forced himself to abandon the path his thoughts and feelings were taking.

  She was not the one for him. He must be patient and wait, trusting in God for the eventual choice of helpmate for him.

  His future wife would be as pure as the driven snow. He’d been waiting for her for a long, long time, and he wouldn’t compromise now.

  Chapter Seven

  “Oh, look, isn’t that Lord Halford?”

  Eleanor followed Betsy’s gaze. “Where?”

  “Over there on the bay.”

  “Yes, I see him.”

  Betsy looked around Hyde Park enthusiastically, like a child at a fair. “All the ton seem to be out driving today! It’s so funny to see the same gentlemen I see in the theater now riding in the park in such stately processions with their ladies.”

  Eleanor agreed. She glanced over at Betsy seated beside her in her carriage, to make sure the girl wasn’t tiring. It was her first outing since that awful night.

  “How are you feeling, my dear?” she asked, adjusting the carriage blanket around her friend’s legs.

  “Oh, I’m fine. Really. I just wish I didn’t feel so weak all the time.”

  “You have to be patient. Each day you’ll get stronger if you follow Mr. Russell’s advice.” Her stomach fluttered when she said his name. “Has he been by to see you lately?” she asked casually.

  Betsy nodded. “Yes, just a few days ago. He said I was vastly improved.”

  Eleanor nodded. She had not seen him since the dinner, almost a fortnight since.

  “Tell me again about the new show.” Betsy’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

  “Oh, it will be a true extravaganza, as Mr. Dibdin is billing it. ‘A specter on horseback, a comic, heroic, operatic, tragic, pantomimic, burletta spectacular extravaganza!’ How is that for hyperbole?”

  Betsy laughed in appreciation. “How I wish I were in it. You are so lucky!”

  “Yes, but I’ve been walking the boards much longer than you have.”

  Their carriage continued down the congested row. The October day was mild enough to have the top removed, and the turning leaves formed a canopy overhead.

  “Just think, it will only open a few months after Mozart’s production at Covent Garden. You’ll be following Kemble’s act,” Betsy said in exaggerated terror. “It will be interesting to see how the crowds react to such a different production of the Don!”

  “Oh, I think the two pieces are nothing alike. Dibdin’s is pure amusement. Besides, Mr. Dibdin is a genius when it comes to upstaging his competitors. I think he’s even planning on a live horse onstage in the finale.”

  Betsy eyed her in wonder. “I shall so miss being part of the cast. Perhaps I may come to the rehearsals?”

  “Of course, as long as you feel up to it.”

  “Eleanor?”

  “Hmm?” she answered, continuing to scan the carriage crowd around them.

  “Do you…think I did wrong to…do…what I did?” she said in a low voice that ended in a whisper.

  Eleanor turned to her, knowing immediately what she was referring to. She had dreaded this question. The topic was not an easy one for her. She knew so well the terror of finding herself in Betsy’s predicament. And yet, would she have ever done anything differently? Her love for Sarah was so all-consuming that she could not imagine having rid herself of her unborn daughter. But Betsy hadn’t had any place to go. Eleanor knew nothing of the man responsible for Betsy’s predicament.

  She took her friend’s hand in her own. “You mustn’t even think about it. Just put it behind you, and think of the future. You’ll soon be back at the theater. You’re fortunate Dibdin loves you,” she said with a face. “I seem to have run-ins with him all the time. I suppose I’m too outspoken for his taste.”

  Betsy fidgeted with her gloves. “The gentleman…well, the one…I was seeing,” she explained, her voice hushed. “He has never come to see me.” Her lower lip trembled. “I was so foolish…I th-thought he loved me.”

  “Don’t cry, Betsy.” Eleanor patted her clasped hands, knowing well that scenario. Once, she had been just as foolish, believing a gentleman’s avowals of love.

  “Just forget him. He’s a scoundrel, and that’s all there is to it. Think about the theater. Someday you’ll get a lead role like I did. You’ll see.”

  Betsy sighed. “Yes, I suppose so. Sometimes, though, it’s hard to forget.” She pressed her lips together, visibly trying to hold back her tears. “It helps when Mr. Russell and Jem come.” She gave a watery giggle. “Jem makes me laugh.”

  Eleanor smiled. “That’s the best medicine you could have, I’m sure of it.”

  “Mr. Russell has been so kind.” She stared off into space. “That’s the kind of gentleman I wish I could meet someday. If I’d known someone like him, I never would have…you know…”

  “Oh, nonsense, don’t let your head be turned by a man like Mr. Russell,” Eleanor scoffed to hide her dismay at the younger girl’s words. Betsy saw Mr. Russell practically every day. How cozy were they getting?

  “A poor surgeon, who gets called at all hours of the night,” she continued, “whose life is never his own. What kind of husband would he be? You’d be left all alone most of the time. He’d never let you back on the stage, and where would you be when he tired of you? High and dry.”

  “Oh.” Betsy’s voice was small, and she looked down at her folded hands. “I was just being foolish.” She sighed.

  Eleanor stifled an impatient remark. Why had Betsy’s harmless infatuation gotten her so out of countenance? It was an absurd notion—Mr. Russell with Betsy! The irony was certainly not lost on her. If only poor Betsy knew how high Mr. Russell’s standards were.

  “Good afternoon, ladies.” A familiar male voice intruded upon her thoughts.

  She turned to find the Duke d’Alvergny tipping his high-crowned beaver to them from atop his white stallion. She acknowledged his greeting.

  “Your Grace, how delightfu
l,” she said, feigning pleasure. In truth, she found the man impossibly conceited.

  “The delight in finding two such lovely young ladies abroad is all mine.”

  Betsy blushed and thanked him for the compliment.

  D’Alvergny sidled his horse up to Eleanor’s side of the carriage. “Did you find my gift last night to your liking?” His gaze strayed to her unadorned neck.

  “It was a pretty bauble,” she replied, referring to the necklace of garnets entwined in a gold-filigreed design.

  “But not pretty enough to sport this afternoon?”

  “I’ve placed it in my jewel case…sandwiched between my diamonds,” she added with a sidelong look at him. Men like him needed to be put in their proper place.

  “You prefer diamonds,” he answered smoothly. “If I send you diamonds, I shall expect something tangible in return.”

  “Jewels don’t tempt me. I have enough to please me.”

  “What does tempt you?” he asked, his gloved hands resting across the pommel, the riding crop held between them.

  She pursed her lips, as if seriously considering his question. “An invitation to a fashionable party of the ton?”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  She gave him a mocking smile. “It must be truly fashionable. Nothing in some gentlemen’s club. No lightskirts present.”

  He bowed over her hand. “You will see the power I wield.”

  “We shall see.” If he were able to bring this about, he might be worth a small favor of hers in return.

  The next day after rehearsals, Eleanor dressed in her plainest gown and directed her carriage to Whitechapel. Thankfully, her coachman remembered the way to the mission.

  When she expressed her desire to help in the work, she was introduced to a woman about her own age named Miss Breton.

  “Good day,” she said, offering her hand. “I came by the other day with the surgeon, Mr. Russell.”

  Miss Breton looked at her with a pleasant smile. “Oh, yes. I heard you kept the children quite entertained. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to meet you then. Would you care for a tour?”