The Healing Season. Ruth Morren Axtell
’Appens all the time. I don’t know wot it is about folks, but they’re forever mistayken me for someone else. Sometimes even the Queen, poor old deah. I tell ’em ‘I ain’t such ’igh quolity.” She finished with a hearty laugh. “But neither am I no judy, no, sir!”
He was giving her a bemused look, as if he didn’t know what to make of her little performance. “You’re an actress.”
“Yes,” she answered in her own accent. “You’ve never been to the Surrey—the Royal Circus now?”
“No.”
“No? It’s not far from here.”
“I don’t go to the theater.”
Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Never?” The theater was one of the few places where everyone could meet and find enjoyment, from highest to lowest in society. “Are you a Quaker?”
He gave a slight smile. “No, I haven’t the time for such amusement.”
She remembered the packed waiting room. “I can well believe that.”
When he said nothing more, she knew it was time to make her exit. “I shall not keep you from those who need you more. Until three o’clock, then?”
“Until three o’clock.”
Ian popped a few cardamom seeds into his mouth as he watched Mrs. Neville’s chaise pull up at the curb of the dispensary. The actress was punctual, at least. He was still annoyed with himself that he’d committed to accompanying her to the mission. He had little time to spare for excursions like this. Still, the girl needed nursing. It was a miracle she was even alive.
The coachman opened the door and let down the steps. Ian climbed into the smart coach, nodding to Mrs. Neville and seating himself opposite her in its snug interior.
She glanced toward the dispensary before the carriage door shut behind him. “It looks deserted now. What a difference from this morning.”
“Yes, every broken limb has been set, every wound bandaged.”
As the carriage lumbered forward, she asked him, “Do you have such a roomful of patients every day?”
He smiled slightly. “No. Sometimes there are more.” He grinned at the horrified look in her eyes. “I’m only partially speaking in jest. The dispensary is only open four days a week. On the other days I do rounds at St. Thomas’s Hospital a few streets down and hold an anatomy lecture for students there. I also tend the sick at the mission we’re heading for. Then there are the days I pay house calls.”
“When do you rest?”
“I honor the Lord’s Day, unless I’m called for an emergency.”
She nodded and looked out her window. Had he satisfied her interest with his answers and was she now back to thoughts of her own world?
What would occupy such a woman’s thoughts? He found himself unable to draw his eyes away from her. For one thing, she had an exquisite profile. Her small-brimmed bonnet gave him an ample view. Her curls were sun-burnished wheat. Her forehead was high, her nose slim and only slightly uptilted, her lips like two soft cushions, her chin a smooth curve encased in a ruffled white collar.
But her most striking feature was those eyes. Pale silver rimmed by long, thick lashes a shade darker than her hair.
This afternoon she was dressed in a dark blue jacket and white skirt, which looked very fashionable to his untrained eyes. He frowned, trying to remember if she had worn the same outfit earlier in the day. But he couldn’t recall. It had been something dark, but he couldn’t remember the shade. He’d been too dazzled by the shade of her eyes to notice much of anything else.
Chiding himself for acting like a schoolboy, he tore his attention away from her and examined the interior of the coach. It had a comfortable, velvet-upholstered cabin, which looked too clean and new to be a hired vehicle. To keep such a carriage in London, with its pair of horses, was quite expensive.
He wondered how a mere actress could afford its upkeep. He glanced at her again, remembering Jem’s high praises. She must indeed be a successful actress to be outfitted so well. Still, he doubted. He knew actresses usually had some titled gentleman setting them up in style.
But she went by Mrs. Neville.
“Your husband, is he an actor as well?” he found himself asking.
She turned to him. “There is no Mr. Neville,” she replied, her pale eyes looking soft and innocent in the light.
“I’m sorry,” he answered immediately, assuming she was widowed.
She smiled, leaving him spellbound. The elegant beauty was now transformed into a lovely young girl. “You think I am a widow? I repeat, there is no, nor ever was, a Mr. Neville. It’s merely a stage name.”
It was his turn to be surprised. “You mean it’s not your real name?” She must think him an unsophisticated country bumpkin.
She laughed a tinkling laugh. “I just liked the sound of Mrs. Eleanor Neville. It adds a sort of dignity, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I suppose it does,” he answered slowly, trying to adjust his notions of her. Curiosity got the better of him. “What was your…er…name before?”
The friendly look was gone, in its place cool disdain. “My previous name is of no account. It has been long dead and forgotten.”
He felt the skin of his face burn and knew a telltale flush must be spreading across his cheeks, but Mrs. Neville had already turned back to her window. Despite her rebuke, he felt more intrigued than ever. Why would a person ever change her name? Was it a commonplace practice among theatrical people?
It was a long carriage ride, across the Thames and through the congested streets of the City. He spoke no more to her, preferring to concentrate his thoughts on the rest of the evening. He would probably stop at his uncle’s apothecary shop to drop off several prescriptions and pick up the ones he’d had Jem leave earlier in the day. He needed to check on a few patients. That brought his thoughts back to the young woman who’d nearly killed herself.
“Did you have a chance to look in on—er—Miss Simms again, Mrs. Neville?”
Mrs. Neville. He couldn’t get used to the name anymore. It made her sound matronly, completely at odds with the young ingenue looking at him.
“Yes, I stopped to see Betsy before I came to collect you. She had awakened. I fed her some broth and gave her the powder you left. She was still very weak although she didn’t seem feverish.”
He nodded, glad the danger was passing. “I’ll go around tonight.”
“She’s very scared,” Mrs. Neville added.
“She might well be. She almost killed herself.”
“She doesn’t think she had any other choice. If she’d been discovered in a family way, she would have lost her position. If that had happened, she’d have lost her room. She would have ended up in the street. What would she have done with a child then?”
Ian was well familiar with the scenario. He saw it played out countless times a day.
He began to feel a grudging admiration for the young actress. She had not abandoned her friend and was now going to some lengths to assure her full recuperation. He continued to observe her as the carriage trod the cobblestone streets. Beneath Mrs. Neville’s fashionable appearance, there lay a woman very much aware of the grimmer realities of life.
The carriage drew up at the Methodist mission. Eleanor looked around her suspiciously as Mr. Russell helped her alight. The streets had grown narrower and smellier. She clutched her handkerchief to her nose as the doctor led her toward the entrance of the mission.
It at least had a welcoming appearance. A lamp stood at the door and the stoop was swept clean. They entered without knocking.