She looked terrible. Reynie kept his expression neutral, hoping the shock did not show. It was more than the mud-spattered cloak and threadbare dress. Her eyes were sunken, and if he was not mistaken, the flush on her cheeks was due to ill health rather than embarrassment. She needed medical attention as much as the child.
“What are you doing here?” He looked from the child to her. “This child cannot be yours. She must have at least eight years.”
“Ten. She is small for her age.” Caroline corrected him automatically. “I am her governess.”
A governess? What governess would look as she did? “Was the coach in an accident? There has been no message.”
“No, no, it was only as Marguerite said. She fell from the door.”
He nodded, a jerky, uncertain gesture. That hardly explained why Caroline looked as she did. Her haggard expression, the circles under her eyes were more than hours old.
“Where have you been? What has happened? Why are you here now?”
“Why am I here, Mr. Osgood?” She paused as though she had to think about her answer. With a deep sigh, she shook her head. “I have come home.”
But where have you been? She was so clearly not the same person who had left him. The Caroline he knew would never appear with dirty, threadbare clothes, unkempt hair. He did not ask again, not wholly sure he wanted to know the answer.
“I am sorry if it will make you uncomfortable, Mr. Osgood.”
Mr. Osgood? He stiffened at the formality of her words. He had called her Caroline and she was still so formal?
“It is quite simple, really. We had no place else to go.”
No place else to go? And given the state she was in, how desperate must she have been to return home, to let the people of her childhood see her this way?
“I have been in France these last years, most of the time in Paris and Amiens, but lately on the coast near Calais. No one here in Yorkshire can begin to know...” She pressed her lips together. “I owe you no explanation.”
“In France? All this time? In the midst of the revolution?”
“Yes, in the midst of it.”
Her face was closed to him. No emotion showed. From that alone he knew the changes went beyond the way she looked. Before he had always found the answers in her eyes, the way they sparkled with laughter or tears. Now they were empty and hard.
Yet she had cried for the child.
He turned back to Marguerite, away from Caroline’s bruised eyes, and lifted his patient’s arm from the water.
Marguerite looked at him in some surprise. “It hardly hurts at all.”
“It will, I am sorry to say. The cold has numbed it just enough that we can bind it against you without too much pain.”
He tended to her medical needs and then watched as Caroline used the water to clean off as much of the mud as possible and remove the child’s clothes. She folded them as though they were of the finest cloth and set them on the dresser nearby. She eased Marguerite into a borrowed nightgown and then insisted on carrying her into the bed in the adjoining room.
He watched all this as he mechanically tidied the items he had used to treat the child. Caroline and Marguerite murmured to each other in French, the child trying for bravery, Caroline as gentle as she would be with a newborn. There was such a bond of affection between them that he was hard-pressed to believe that she was not Caroline’s child.
He knew as well as anyone that it was not possible. Caroline’s virtue was, or at least had been, unassailable. He had wondered more than once how their lives would have been different if he had given in to his carnal urges, if they had made love. With that tension gone and that commitment between them, Caroline would never have run away.
Now she looked no better than the women who stood on the corners and begged for attention. He could hardly contain the rage that swept through him at the thought that she had given away what should have been his.
He held on to the anger for just a moment and then commanded himself to think of her only as someone who needed his expertise. No matter what her station now, she deserved care as surely as did the child she had brought to him.
He drew Caroline from the room. She came with some reluctance and not only because she was hesitant to leave her charge.
“Now it is your turn,” he said.
“Me?” She drew up in a perfect parody of a haughty governess. “I am perfectly healthy except for some fatigue.”
“When was the last time you ate?”
The fact that she had to think about it was all the answer he needed.
“When was the last time you had some fruit or greens?” She shook her head, refusing to answer.
“And when was the last time you actually slept in a bed, alone?”
She turned away from him abruptly, but he could see the tears that question drew.
“We have been traveling for months, Mr. Osgood. We had to wait in Calais for weeks before we were able to find someone to transport us. We had to save our money for the cost of the trip. We ate, we both did.”
But not enough, Caroline. There was a story here, but now was no time to press for explanations. She looked on the edge of collapse.
“Come sit here.” He did not mean to sound so angry. Looking away from her drawn face, he cleared the table of the bowl and wiped the wet spots. “Sit here and let me examine you.” He still sounded stern but at least the anger was under control.
She stiffened. “No! I will not.” The words were shouted, but she pressed her lips together and when she spoke again it was in a carefully moderated tone. “There is nothing wrong with me that some sleep will not cure. And, yes, perhaps, some meat and cheese as well.”
“You are thin to the point of starvation, you show any number of symptoms that indicate jaundice or scurvy and you are so vain that you will not allow the simplest of examinations.” He was the one shouting now. “Some things never change. You deserve your misery. You have earned it all for yourself.”
“And all you care about is medicine—”
He did not wait for her to finish the sentence. “Medicine is the one thing I can give you.” No sooner had he spoken than he wanted to snatch the revealing words back out of the air.
“Still? Even after five years, medicine is the only thing you can give? It was all you were ever willing to give of yourself.”
“I am a man of science.” Oh, that sounded so pretentious.
“Yes, I know. You always were first a man of science. No true sensibility must ever be allowed to overcome your thorough observation.”
Her bitterness was as impassioned now as it had been five years ago. She had only started her rant, but the voice from the doorway silenced her and drew both their attentions.
“Stop this shouting. Stop it at once.” His mother moved into the room, her stick before her. She stopped and leaned on the cane with both hands. “I could hear every word and the two of you are behaving no better than children.”
She tried to straighten and lifted her cane to point at Caroline. “I knew it must be you. Who other than Caroline Morton could provoke my son to shout? I can hardly believe that you finally had sense enough to come home.”
Mrs. Osgood stepped farther into the room, and came between them, shaking her head as she did. “You should both be ashamed of yourselves. There is a sick child in the other room.”
Reynie watched as color stained Caroline’s too-white cheeks. She made to move toward the sickroom, but his mother raised her cane and Caroline stopped on the command.
“You, Caroline Morton, look like a street vendor. Go to the bathing room and, Reynie, you go sit with the child. Caroline, after you have bathed away all that filth and thrown away those clothes you will come upstairs and sleep in the room next to mine. Reynie, go up and bring down one of my nightdresses and a covering. Then give this woman the privacy she needs.”
In no time it was as she commanded. Reynie found himself sitting by the child’s bed, watching her rhythmic breathing.
It took a while for the water to heat, but soon enough he could hear Minnie. The kitchen maid’s high-pitched voice accompanied the sounds of the first of the water being poured into the bath.
“Mr. Osgood thinks that what he calls the ‘water cure’ is as important as any of his other treatments. He makes anyone he thinks is too dirty take a bath before he examines ’em. I think he learned it in France when he went there.”
“He went to France?”
He heard Caroline’s surprise. Or was it curiosity?
“’ Bout five year ago now. He would be always having letters from some French doctor after his first trip. I think he would have gone again but they have some kind of war there now and you’d be a fool to travel.”
“He came to France?” She spoke in a sort of dreamy voice and he could imagine her head lolling back on the rim of the tub.
He heard Caroline mumble something, but had no trouble hearing Minnie’s piercing voice as she replied, “No, ma’am, Mrs. Osgood says I am to stay with you to make sure you do not fall asleep and drown.”
Reynie smiled. His mother was half doctor herself. How many years had it taken him to grasp a lesson that had been hers with motherhood? She had not read Hippocrates or Paré, but still knew that curing disease was as much about caring for the patient as it was about diagnosing the illness. How many surgeons were willing to say that their mothers were as fine a mentor as any man who had trained them?
He settled back in the winged chair, pulling the blanket around his waist and angling the candle so that it did not shine in the child’s eyes. He could read. De Sedibus was as entertaining as it was informative. But his mind was elsewhere. He could admit that to himself, if no one else. Even the well-written descriptions of Morgagni’s studies would not hold his attention tonight.
He heard Caroline’s voice but not the words and when the door to the bathing chamber creaked open, he stood up. With a glance at the sleeping child, he went out into the surgery.
“Minnie, you can leave the bathwater until morning, but would you please go up and make some warm milk with bread and butter for Miss Morton?”
“Yes, sir.” With a quick glance at Caroline’s face, she hurried up the stairs.
His mother’s gown and robe were voluminous on her. Caroline had cinched it tight around her absurdly small waist. Her hair, curled from the damp, made a halo around her face. Despite the deep shadows under her eyes and her poor coloring, he thought she looked quite beautiful. Not like the Caroline Morton who had run away. This was a woman of character, even a little mystery.
She pulled the robe tightly around her throat as though it were an adequate defense of her virtue, whatever virtue she had left. Her cheeks, pink from the bath, reddened.
“I am a surgeon, Caroline. And you are my patient. There is no reason to be self-conscious.”
“I will not be examined.”
“Yes, yes, you already made that clear.” He shook his head as he spoke. Her stubbornness had always annoyed him. It was perversely reassuring that at least this had not changed. He raised two fingers to the bridge of his nose as if that would ease the tension and then tried to summon a smile. “Caroline, I want to help you.”
She seemed to soften a little. Her hand did not clutch at the robe so tightly. She lowered her chin a bit, not so imperious now.
“I will do anything in my power as a surgeon to restore your health.”
She lowered her hands and folded them neatly in front of her. She straightened her body, her softened eyes were cold again. “As you say, you are a surgeon, Mr. Osgood, and I am an intelligent woman. We both know what is wrong with me. I do not need an examination, only some decent food and rest. I thank your mother for her hospitality tonight. When Marguerite can travel we are going to Landreau Hall.” With a curt nod, she walked, barefoot, he noted, toward the door.
“Caroline, I made two trips to Paris.” Did it sound too much like a confession? It was. A confession of his weakness, of his need for her and of his love.
Genuine surprise was replaced by a smile, the first he had seen. In that moment she was the Caroline Morton he knew and missed. “The maid said that you came to Paris. Did you really? To look for me?”
How odd that five years of hardening his heart should evaporate at her first smile. And how foolish. She had run away with no explanation, with an unfinished argument his last memory. He ignored his relief and longing, His heart ached with the burden of it, but he had years of practice at hiding his feelings and he had learned to school his expression as well.
“I had been following the work of Francois Bichat and I was able to arrange a meeting with him. We did have some amazing conversations. He has taken Morgagni’s work one step further and we discussed the book he is preparing.”
That admission cooled her pleasure. “Oh, I see. Your science took you abroad.”
“I did look for you.” He tried to make it sound like a practical series of inquiries, unwilling to admit the frenzy of activity, the sleepless nights, his aching heart. “Knowing your mother was French I thought it entirely possible that you had gone there from London. And when I confronted Susan Landry she admitted it, but would give me no more detail than that. I never found a trace of you in Paris.”
“You must have searched in all the wrong places.” She spoke with a casual dismissal of his weeks of misery. “Before I left London I had already been hired as governess to a count’s family. It was all done through a London agency.”
“If you were indeed that child’s governess, then where are her parents?” he asked as though it were a challenge that she could not possibly meet.
“They are dead, Reynie.” She hissed the answer at him. “And you are an insensitive lout for even mentioning it within her hearing.”
With that final insult she left him. The way she swept from the room, as though his mother’s nightgown were a court dress, showed him that she had learned something in France. Five years ago, she would have thrown her bonnet on the ground and stomped from the room.
Those bursts of temper had been for him alone. To the rest of the world her volatility showed itself in cheerful good humor, a quest for adventure, an inclination for silly jokes.
He had tried to analyze her tantrums and decided that her feelings needed some outlet. The kisses they had shared had been more fuel than release.
He had allowed himself to be reassured by the bursts of temper, told himself they were a sign that her feelings were truly involved. Could that still be so? Or had he been completely wrong before?
He went back into the bedchamber and sank into the armchair. Picking up the volume on the table at hand, he settled it on his lap but did not open it.
He was about to close his eyes and relive the past when he glanced at the child. Her eyes were wide open and she was studying him as though he were some unknown species.
“Dr. Osgood?” Her voice was almost a whisper.
“I am Mr. Osgood, my dear. I am a surgeon, not a physician.”
She nodded without taking her eyes from his face. “Miss Morton is never angry with anyone.”
She looked away for a moment and he could not contain his smile.
“Not even with you, Marguerite?”
The child looked back at him. “If I am honest, then I must admit she has been angry with me, but she never once raised her voice. Her disappointed look was enough to make me feel tears. When I was little she would always then make me laugh, but I knew better than to do whatever it was again. For she is, after all, as a mama to me.”
“But not your true mama?”
“Oh no, sir. My maman had very black hair and she was trés petite. Miss Morton is very tall, is she not?”
She nodded as if answering her own question, then closed her eyes. It looked as though she were doing her best to avoid some less than happy memory. If he pressed her on this then he would, indeed, be the insensitive lout that Caroline named him.
He waited to see if she would fall asleep. She shifted once and the pain woke her again. He decided he could give her a trace of laudanum if the discomfort grew too unbearable.
“But, Mr. Osgood, I have never seen her angry with a man before. She is always able to make them smile and do exactly what she wants.”
“Ah yes, I remember that myself. When we were little she would use that smile on me and I was more than willing to catch all the butterflies she wanted.”
“In Calais, she made the man who stole our food give it back. She could always get the best price for the things we found to sell.” Marguerite looked at him and he watched her eyes narrow as she searched for an explanation and then shook her head.
“Sir, if she could charm you before, how is it that you are the only person she shouts at now?”
She did not wait for an answer, which was as well since any answer he would have given would be no more than a guess.
“I hope it is not because she is angry with me. She was so relieved to finally be here, to be less than a mile from her friend, Miss Landry. We have talked of it for such a long time. I am so sorry that I spoiled it.”
The tears came in a quiet stream, trickling down her cheeks and onto her neck. He reached for a cloth and wiped them away.
“You have not ruined anything, Marguerite. Miss Morton needs treatment herself and would never have come except for your accident.”
Marguerite nodded with some skepticism.
“She has been too long without the right food, or enough rest. Illness can take hold much too quickly when the body is so weakened.”
“You mean that my strained arm is a blessing in disguise?”
He recognized one of Caroline’s favorite sayings and smiled, “Yes, my dear, it is.”
“I suppose it could be.” She studied his face for a moment. “You have been longing to see Miss Morton?” She asked with the sly smile of a ten-year-old who has guessed a secret.
He leaned closer to her and nodded. “I did not know how much until I saw her tonight.”
Confusion replaced her triumph. “Then why were you yelling at each other?”
“Because we were yelling at each other when she left five years ago. It is an unfinished argument.”
“And that is why you wished to see her again, to finish your argument?”
“Oh, no and oh, yes at the same time.”
The child made a small sound of annoyance. “I speak English very well, Mr. Osgood, but still I do not understand how you can mean yes and no at the same time.”
“When you are my age you will understand perfectly.”
“But, Mr. Osgood, that is so far away that I will have forgotten the question by then.”
Which is just as well, he thought.
“If you wish to argue with Miss Morton then when we are with Miss Landry you must come visit us and go for a walk. That is what Maman and Papa did when they wished to argue.”
“I am afraid it will not be that easy. I suspect that after tonight it will take nothing less than another broken arm to bring Miss Morton anywhere near me.”
Marguerite gave him a long, considering look and then yawned, a huge yawn, that cracked her jaw and made her blush. “I am sorry!”
“No, no, child, I am sorry. Here I am, talking with you as though you were an adult and we were in a taproom when you are exhausted and should be asleep.”
She sighed and settled into the covers with such prompt obedience that he felt guilty. With her eyes closed she added, “But if we were in a taproom there would be smoke and pickpockets and neither one of us would be in a comfortable chair.”
He watched sleep claim her. Her body relaxed, and a small smile settled on her lips.
“Dream sweetly,” he whispered and picked up Morgagni. He opened to the page he had last marked. As he began,to read the autopsy of “. . . a woman of twenty-nine so long on the streets that there could be no doubt of her profession...” he wondered exactly how much time Caroline and Marguerite had spent in a taproom and exactly what they had been doing there.