Settling breeds resentment, and that is a lifelong punishment I will not cast on any of the men who have yet asked for my hand.
~A scientist’s observations on love
I had several important missions at Crestwicke—treating a patient, finding a missing love letter, reuniting lost loves, planning for medical school . . . but my days were mostly spent conducting singing lessons. Singing lessons.
Heaven help us.
“No, no, relax your shoulders, body limber, lift your chest.” I pressed my patient’s shoulders back and demonstrated. By Friday, my third full day at the manor, I had become fully absorbed in inventing all manner of ways to improve my patient’s lung function and throat, but little was changed. This cannot be what you have in mind, Lord. Yet I sense a purpose in it all, a reason I’ve come . . .
Golda braced herself on the back of a chair in the opulent music room. She closed her eyes as if to summon heavenly talent, but the same reedy sound came from her lips. I cringed as her melody rose, tightening to a pitch far higher than her voice was ever meant to go.
Here it was, the end of my eardrums.
I turned to fetch my bag, just to give myself an excuse to face the other way. When I lifted the latch and stretched the bag open, there in plain view lay three lovely purple flowers, their faces shining innocently up at me atop my instruments. My heart pounded as I fought back the giggles that rose like buoys in my chest. But then I saw a curled paper underneath them and flattened it to find a snippet of Robert Nicoll’s poem, with one small change:
If winter fields be cauld and bare—
If winter skies be blae—
The mair we need thy bonnie face.
But so it is; and when away
For dreary months you be,
The joy of meeting pays for all,
Sweet, wild Ammenomie!
With those lines, all was lost. Laughter spurted out, and Golda spun with a look of horror, her exercise cut short.
I snapped the bag closed as heat climbed my neck in a suffocating manner. “I beg your pardon, my lady.”
The dangerous sparkle didn’t leave her eyes. “What, pray tell, is in your bag?”
“Shall we try again?” I rose and walked to her with my most charming smile. “There, now. Try to think of your arms as heavy sandbags, relaxed down at your sides. Keep your shoulders down.”
I held them in place and Golda released one long note that gradually strengthened as she drew it out, like pulling taffy.
In the passing days of failed attempts and frustration, my mind was often stilled by the casual whisper of chilly air, the shadows in the corridors, the veiled expressions of everyone I encountered, and I felt it there like a ghost. Secret love, authentic romance, hovered somewhere in this house, just waiting to surface in broad daylight. It always felt just out of reach, like a luscious, delicate flower I could not quite see for all the smog in the air. I closed my eyes in those moments and imagined where the letter might be, what its writer might be doing that very minute.
Golda Gresham’s hovering note finally snapped to a close. I reached out to steady my patient as she faltered, her voice hitching and body trembling, but she batted me away. “Enough, enough. This is ridiculous.”
She turned, but I wasn’t ready to give up yet. “Breathe up instead of out. Try that and see if your lungs last longer.”
She took a tall breath, lifting her chest and releasing a single long note, but a violent coughing spasm cut it short. I rushed to find a tonic, tumbling my little flowers out of the bag. She wilted into a nearby chair and closed her eyes, forehead propped on her fingertips. She sat up as I administered a spoonful.
I dabbed lavender water on her temples while her lids fluttered. “Perhaps you should rest.”
Her eyes flashed open, cat-like poise solidifying again. “How dare you patronize me. I know my limits.” Her bright gaze landed on my bag, and the flowers that had fallen out.
I clutched the bottle, toes curling in my boots.
A knock on the door pivoted her attention.
“You have a visitor, Mother.” Celeste glided into the room as I scooped the flowers into my bag and snapped it shut. “The housekeeper couldn’t find you. Are you—oh!” Her gaze landed on me with keen appraisal, and a touch of gladness. “Why, Miss Duvall. You are the new nurse?”
“Tell our guest I’m not at home.” Golda turned away.
“Yes, of course.” She stared at me.
I looked over my old acquaintance, the only daughter of the Gresham household, and realized there were levels to spinsterhood. By all appearances, she was several rungs beyond me. Narrow features were framed by hair scraped back into pins, her figure squarish and comfortable. She might have made a fine headmistress, or perhaps a nun. Direct and efficient, she seemed far more suited to instructing than mothering. I remembered her as warm and imaginative, but that girl had been tight-laced into the modest, practical woman before me.
“How nice that you have a nurse to look after you, Mother. I know how you—”
“Indeed.”
“She’ll be wonderful company, and I—”
“Quite.” Golda Gresham straightened, and I was struck with the sudden awareness that she did not care for her daughter.
“You seem strained. Shall we take a turn about the gardens? It will do you good.”
The woman’s hard stare turned her direction. “Haven’t you a society meeting tonight? I thought that was Fridays.”
“Mary had to postpone. Her husband is home for the weekend and he doesn’t approve of our goings-on.”
“I rather thought that’d fuel your fire, offending a man.”
Celeste adjusted the little fringed pillow behind her mother. “We’ve nothing against men, of course. We simply want our own rights.”
“Rights.” Golda sat back. “No God-fearing woman demands such things.”
“No God-fearing man would hinder them, though, would he?”
Golda’s voice was soft. Dangerous. “How nice that she has one to care what she does, and try to keep some sense in her head.”
The subtle rebuke had me gripping the table edge.
Celeste tipped her head and offered a simple smile. “Not every woman needs one. There’s so much to be done at the women’s league that I haven’t time for much else. Do you know, we’ve decided to auction off the quilts we’ve made? I was thinking of asking Cook to make pies to add as well. Wouldn’t that be splendid?”
Golda’s eyes narrowed. “I hope to high heaven that no one ever connects your foolish pastime with this family.”
“Not to worry, then.” Celeste’s airy voice sailed around her mother’s insults, and I couldn’t help but stare at her with admiration. “I’ll simply keep the pies anonymous if you wish. Miss Duvall should come, and Caroline Tremaine. I’ll ask her.”
I cleared my throat. “I’m afraid I have duties here, and—”
A dry cough took hold of Golda. “Both of you, take your chittering voices away, if you please.” She leaned her forehead on her fingertips and closed her eyes as the cough subsided. A deeply troubled sigh followed. “Miss Duvall, something for my infernal cough, please.”
Celeste took my arm and we moved to the far end of the long room, where I dug through my bag for a throat tincture.
She spoke privately. “I’m glad you’ve come. Parker told me how Burke tried to send you home, and I’d forgotten how delightfully feisty you are. It’s nice to have a woman in the house who uses her own mind, even if it differs so from my own. Perhaps together we can put the men of this household in their place now and again. Now, tell me all your news.”
The last five years spun through my brain in dizzying color. “I’ve been to nursing school, I work with Father, and plan to one day—”
“No no, not that, silly. The other news.” She lowered her voice on this last bit, eyes glittering. “I heard you’ve rejected multiple men. Am I to assume you’re one of us?”
I’d heard rumors of Celeste and other highborn women who’d linked arms in some political movement. The Kensington Street Women’s League, they called themselves. The word unnatural had floated about, as well as suffragette and gender rebellion. Yet I had no powerful feelings on the rights of women in England—only on my own. “I do believe marriage would stand in the way of both our ambitions, so on that matter we are alike, I suppose.”
“You’re set against marrying then, are you?” Her bird-like eyes were eager and probing.
“Staunchly so—the wrong ones, anyway. And I’m weary of being matched with every wrong one between here and Newcastle.”
“So are most of us at Crestwicke.” She winked and jerked her head toward her mother.
I blinked, recalling her heated speech on my first night. “She, a matchmaker?”
“More of a calculated chess player. She’s been working on dear Gabe of late, and his childhood sweetheart across the way. What a stunning match that would be, and a valuable connection to a wealthy family. She’d do Gabe a world of good too, drawing him out into society.”
I studied the Bayer cough tonic label and squeezed a dropperful of the medicine into a fresh cup of tea as I pondered the fate of that letter writer and his beloved. “I suppose such a chess player might also maneuver to divide couples as well as bring them together, no?” Perhaps that’s why the letter had been hidden rather than delivered.
She flushed, her mouth pinching into a rosy oval as her gaze fell. “I’m afraid so.”
I paused, noting her reaction. “One of yours?”
“Long ago. Oh, it was nothing, really. If a man cannot stand up to Golda Gresham, he won’t last long as part of the family, now, will he?”
I clenched my lips shut, burning with anger for her.
“Oh heavens, don’t look that way. I’m not the only one. Why, even Essie’s young man was sent away, although I don’t believe she knows why.”
I huffed. “Does everyone in the house go along with these schemes, arranging their lives and marriages as she deems fit?”
“If they know what’s good for them. She makes everyone see reason, sooner or later.”
I looked long at Celeste. “That man of yours. Was his name—”
“Miss Duvall, have you any plans to actually carry out your duties?” Golda Gresham’s voice jerked me back to my task.
I stirred the mixture and hurried over. “Here you are, Mrs. Gresham. My apologies, I haven’t seen Celeste in so long, there was a great deal to discuss.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Pray, what about? I hope she hasn’t convinced you to cast your lot in with those women. You’d think she’d spend time cultivating qualities that might attract a man, rather than running them all off.”
I lowered my voice, embarrassed for Celeste. “She has many virtues a man might value and she’s quite accomplished. She attracted a suitor once, did she not?”
“A French scoundrel.” She spat the last word. “A man of no account.”
I peeked over my shoulder, but Celeste had vanished.
I settled back before my patient. “Mrs. Gresham, I don’t suppose you remember anyone named Aberdeen, do you?” It didn’t sound French, but perhaps . . .
She narrowed her gaze and sipped her tea. “Wherever did you come upon that name? You’re a first-rate snoop, you are, and only a mediocre nurse.”
I studied her face, and everything it veiled. Anger glowed in her eyes, but this mediocre nurse smelled fear too. “I came upon the name in passing, in relation to this house.”
She blinked several times, lowered her tea. “He was a servant who left Crestwicke years ago for town.” A forced smile of gentility. “I’m afraid your curiosity has led you to a rather dull end.” She watched me with rapt attention, pressing her lips together, then wetting them with her tongue, and I realized how important my response was to her. Yes, she was afraid.
My gaze nearly burrowed into her head, so desperate was I to peel back that perfectly coiffed hair and glimpse her knowledge on this man.
“Those servants, a rather dodgy sort at times. Here today, gone tomorrow.” Her gaze remained steady as she spoke.
A knock on the door cut in, and Parker entered to announce that their rejected guest had persisted. “Shall I bring him ’round, madam? Mr. Burke insists you see him.”
“Very well, then.”
Before I could ponder further, a well-dressed gent approached with long strides, black bag in hand. Dr. Tillman? I held back a groan. I knew the man well—but wished I didn’t. Father’s former protégé had been all science and no heart—an intolerable sort of physician. Worst of all, he’d patronized Father after a time.
“Good day to you, Mrs. Gresham, Miss Duvall.” He set his bag on the table and smiled at the lady of the house while I willed myself not to roll my eyes. “How are you this morning?”
She straightened. “Why are you here again? I’m not your patient, nor do I wish to be.”
“No, but your husband is. Therefore, I’m duty-bound to concern myself with the health of his entire family.”
“And a larger share of his pocketbook.”
He offered a grim smile and opened his bag. “I hear you’ve hired a nurse to aid with your voice. I hope you are not unwell. Have you any recurring symptoms?”
“None but you.”
I coughed my tea back into my cup, choking on my restrained laughter. There it was at last, a ray of kinship with this woman.
Undeterred, he fished something from his well-oiled leather bag. “I have something I’d like you to try.”
Golda Gresham rose, a pillar of disdain. “I know what you’re about, and you can take your leave before you say anything more.”
“You haven’t even given them a chance yet.” He lifted a blue stoppered bottle from his bag. “Tillman’s tablets will redeem your good health and have you singing like a bird in no time. Only two pounds a bottle.”
“I never waste a pound, much less two.”
His gaze was steady. “What if they truly help you feel better?”
“Or I could simply hire a new physician for my husband. Now wouldn’t that make me feel grand.” Her smile curled into her cheeks.
“Mrs. Gresham, I wish you would seriously consider—”
“Leaving this house.” I hurried over to escort him out. “That’s what you will consider, anyway. She has no need for your magic beans.”
I glimpsed a flicker of approval from my patient.
“Just a moment, Miss Duvall.” He folded his arms over his chest as if to brace against me, anger hardening his features. I hadn’t meant to make an enemy of him, but clearly I had. In seconds. “If you refuse to let her even consider the tablets, then tell me—has she improved since you’ve come to stay? Her lung capacity, her throat?”
I flashed a look up at the odious man before me, then at my waiting patient who sat very straight in her chair, a cat with perked ears.
“I assume you’ve already worked together on the obvious things. What difference have you seen in her voice?”
Strangled by the waiting silence, by both pairs of eyes on me, I searched for the right words, for I knew they’d get back to my father. I was walking through a field of buried explosives, and I had no protection. “I do believe that Mrs. Gresham sounds better today than she ever has before.”
“Is that so?” I wished I could slap the smile right off his face. “Perhaps she should perform her verses before a crowd. Yes, I believe she should.”
Charged with fury and dread, I propelled that man toward the door and lowered my voice to a harsh whisper. “You despicable man. My father would in no way condone such underhanded behavior. Both the magic elixir you’re trying to foist on her and that horrible display just now.”
He sobered. “My apologies, Miss Duvall. I meant no harm.”
“Take yourself away from here and leave my patient to me. And never even implicate an association between your name and my honored father’s.”
Golda had slid onto the piano bench behind us, her fingers idly plunking keys.
His gaze was steady, intentional. “I rather hoped my name might be intimately associated with Phineas Duvall for a long time to come . . . through marriage.”
Every muscle tensed. “Marriage generally requires permission from the bride, which you’ll find nearly impossible to obtain.”
“I see. I was given to understand . . . that is, he mentioned an agreement between you . . .”
I convulsed, sudden illness sweeping over me. “He told you about that, did he?” Weak. I felt weak. My knees were pudding. I looked up at him, full in the face of where my failure would land me. My skin tingled and something swelled in my throat.
He looked down, bag in hand. “I’m the one he’s picked, it would seem. If you find you must, though—marry, I mean—I’m not the worst option available. He’s always envisioned us together, and I’ve come to see the wisdom in it. Perhaps . . . give it a thought?” A half smile warmed his face. “I’d never force you, of course, but do give it consideration. Think what we could do together, a doctor and his little nurse.”
I cringed. How desperately I needed those precious letters beside my name—not M-R-S but M.D. I felt the need for it in my marrow.
“I know you care about helping people as much as I do.” His face grew soft. “You’re really a wonderful helper, you know. Done wonders for that father of yours, even when he should be put out to pasture. How perfect would it be to work side by side, as medical partners, but also as husband and wife?”
“You’d best go.” Or I’d end his silly infatuation by becoming sick all over his patent leather shoes.
He turned, but paused in the hall. “Consider it, will you? Whatever it is you have against me, please, Willa, don’t let it stand in the way.”
By all means, one should never let a complete lack of affection stand in the way of marriage. “I should see to my patient.” I turned away as dread rolled in my belly.
Shoving aside my panicked thoughts as the doctor departed, I turned again to Golda Gresham and crossed the room to her. I’d not failed yet. “A little better now?”
She looked up from her idle tune, a smile of distant amusement playing with the edges of her lips. “A performance. I had no idea I was ready, but what you said . . . Perhaps it’s time.” She ran her fingertips along the keys and closed her eyes. “Yes, it’s time to give the world a taste of my heart and soul, and let them enjoy what I’ve created. Imagine it!”
I did.