How to Care for a Lady Read online

  “Why did he shoot her?” he asked, for surely his sister knew that part of the story.

  “Supposedly an accident on the field of honor. She tried to stop them and was caught in the crossfire.”

  “Then he was defending her honor?” At least there was that.

  “Oh, no!” Daphne gave a somewhat maniacal laugh. “Her brother was defending her honor…against her husband.”

  “The duke?” Graham thought he must have heard wrong. Why would he have to defend her honor against her husband?

  “No one knows exactly what sparked the duel, but it is common knowledge that Lord Beeston was…well, a beast. Fitting, isn’t it?”

  Graham was getting a headache. “I suppose.” He felt rather sick to his stomach all of a sudden as the pieces began to fit together.

  “Dinner is served,” the butler announced from the doorway, but Graham had lost his appetite. For all the suffering he’d seen in his time as a doctor, it was alarming that this was disturbing him so. There was something about her. She seemed quite the most gentle woman he’d ever met, her demeanor so genuine, her eyes fathomless and soulful. One only need look at her to know the kind of person she was, and to think of a man—this Beeston—taking her for granted made Graham’s blood boil. It was a good thing the man was dead already, for Graham would have a hard time not killing him.

  “Graham, are you all right?” came Daphne’s voice, snapping him from his thoughts.

  “I think I’m not feeling well all of a sudden,” he said, coming to his feet. “Would you be terribly upset if I didn’t join you for dinner after all?”

  Daphne took a large step away from him, whether consciously or not, he wasn’t sure. “If you’re ill, you ought to go home,” she said. “Do you think you can make it? I could always have Evelyn make up a room for you.”

  Graham held up a hand. “No, no. I can make it home, I just…this headache came on rather quickly.” As quickly as Daphne had told him the story of Lady Beeston.

  He said his goodbyes and then made his way out to the street after gathering his things from the butler. Darkness was falling over the city as the lamplighters went about their work illuminating the sidewalks. Graham began his walk home, recounting his time that afternoon with Lady Beeston and then replaying his argument with the duke. She would never get better with Dr. Pritchard’s methods. Laudanum would only weaken her until she wouldn’t be able to so much as lift her head off the pillow, let alone try to walk again. Her muscles would begin to atrophy soon, and the poor woman would waste away to nothing.

  Graham had always done his best to keep his emotions out of his practice. It was too difficult to become attached to a patient, only to have them die. Yet one afternoon in Lady Beeston’s presence, and he had no choice. His heart was already in it. He wanted her to get better more than any other patient he’d ever cared for. He only had to figure out a way around the duke.

  Chapter 5

  There wasn’t anything to get worked up over. Not a thing. He was only a doctor, just like Dr. Pritchard. He was going to tend to her and help her get better, and once she was better enough—for Dr. Pritchard had made it clear she would never be completely better—he would be on his way again. Never mind she’d spent half the night dreaming of him, or that the images and scenarios continued to swirl in her head in the light of day. He was still just a doctor.

  Hannah craned her neck to see out the window. Not that she could see much from this far away, but if he were walking on the far side of the street, she might catch a glimpse of the top of his head.

  Oh, it was no use. She slumped back to her pillow with a pout. He would be here when he was here—there was no point obsessing over where he might be now or when he might arrive.

  She’d set her resolve to read some more, but just as she opened her book to the page she’d left off, the handle to her door jiggled. Her heart raced, and she sat there, stupefied, waiting to see who was on the other side.

  “Good morning, Hannah.”

  Botheration, it was Mother. The Dowager Duchess of Somerset.

  “Hello, Mother,” Hannah replied, suddenly feeling like a little girl again, instead of a thirty-year-old woman. She hated that her mother had that power over her, yet she felt helpless to change it. “What brings you here today?”

  “I live here, if you remember right,” she said, her tone condescending and sharp, as always. She crossed the room, her black bombazine skirts swishing loudly in the silence, her hair refusing to move with the movement, thanks to her maid’s tight hand and a thousand pins. “Are you feeling any better today?”

  She asked that every day, as if Hannah might one morning leap from the bed and declare herself ready to reenter society. It was all about society for Mother. She lived and died by Debrett’s, and expected everyone else to do the same. The society pages, more aptly referred to as the gossip columns, were as vital to her morning routine as tea and toast were. They were a source of life to her, which was why Hannah and her mother had never really understood one another.

  Of course, Mother had come ‘round after the shooting, defending her against Beeston—something she’d never done before. Not in the ten long, lonely years that Hannah had suffered as his wife. But she supposed her mother’s change of heart—however short lived—was something to celebrate.

  “A bit,” Hannah finally answered. “But when the laudanum wears off again…”

  “You’ll just take more,” Mother finished.

  Hannah sighed. “But I don’t like to take it. It makes me sleepy.”

  “Rest is what you need. That’s why Dr. Pritchard prescribed the stuff to you.”

  And yet Dr. Alcott seemed to disagree with him on that point. “I think I’m tired of resting,” she blurted out.

  The dowager turned sharply to look at her. “Rest is vital for your recovery.”

  Hannah knew she was treading on shaky ground, picking an argument with her mother, but she couldn’t help it. She was bored. “Is it? It’s been nearly two months and my condition is hardly changed.”

  “Well, it hasn’t worsened.” Her mother was getting agitated, if her flaring nostrils were any indication. “Now, see here, you will do exactly as the doctor dictates, do you understand?”

  Hannah allowed herself a small smile. Of course she would. But clearly, Mother didn’t know she was no longer under the care of Dr. Pritchard.

  “I think that’s a very wise idea,” came a masculine voice from the doorway.

  “Who are you?” Mother asked, her voice as stern and biting as ever as she looked Dr. Alcott up and down with a shrewd eye. Clearly, she was scandalized that a handsome man was in Hannah’s bedchamber.

  Hannah couldn’t stop her heart from fluttering or her toes from tingling at the sight of him, for he was indeed very handsome. She might never get over how tall he seemed, even in her rather large bedchamber. And the way the light streamed in through the windows, catching his sandy hair just so, made the strands of gold shimmer brightly. But it was the way he looked at her that truly made it hard to catch her breath. Did he look at all his patients that way?

  “Mother,” she finally managed, “this is Dr. Alcott. He has taken over for Dr. Pritchard. Dr. Alcott, may I introduce you to the Dowager Duchess of Somerset, who is, coincidentally, my mother.”

  One could immediately see why Hannah was as meek and quiet as she was—someone else had clearly been speaking on her behalf her entire life. The dowager duchess was a formidable woman with a sharp tongue, and Graham had deduced that in a mere thirty seconds. If he thought the duke had been intimidating, his mother was one hundred times more so.

  He bowed to the woman, nonetheless. “An honor, Your Grace,” he said, and then righted himself once again.

  “Where is Dr. Pritchard?”

  Apparently, she wasn’t one for pleasantries.

  “He is gone, Mother,” the baroness answered before Graham even had a chance to open his mouth. “The Countess of Kilworth has requested his presence du
ring her confinement, and he cannot care for both of us, what with her being in the country—”

  “This is an outrage!” The dowager’s skin had turned to an unnatural shade of purple, and she nearly shook with rage. “He valued a countess over you?”

  “In truth, I am only a baron’s widow.”

  “Yes, but your brother is a duke,” Her Grace bit back, “and he is the one paying for your care.”

  “Perhaps I could find it in myself to be as overset about this as you are if I didn’t have a great deal of confidence in his replacement.” She smiled up at Graham, and it warmed him all over. “As it stands, I’m very happy with Dr. Alcott.”

  Graham smiled back, completely locked in her gaze. “Thank you,” he said with a slight bow of his head.

  The dowager stared at him, her lips drawn together in a straight line, her nostrils flaring with each breath. “What credentials have you?” she demanded.

  “He comes on recommendation from Dr. Pritchard, Mother. What more do you need?”

  Graham appreciated her defense, but he didn’t want the dowager to think he couldn’t fight his own battles. “Quite a few, actually,” he said. “My father was a doctor, and I grew up watching and learning from him. After his death, I became the local doctor in our town, and eventually was honored with an apprenticeship here in London, with Dr. Pritchard. I’ve been working with him for six years now, while also attending lectures and symposiums on medical advancements. Does that satisfy Your Grace?”

  Perhaps he should have left off that last bit—it did come across as rather goading. But he couldn’t help himself. The woman was intolerable, and he’d only been in her presence a mere few minutes.

  She narrowed her beady eyes on him and straightened her spine. Graham didn’t dare look at Lady Beeston, for she was likely trying to keep a straight face. It wouldn’t be terribly professional to burst into laughter just then.

  “I will sit here while you see to my daughter today,” the dowager finally said, slipping onto the tufted window seat.

  Graham finally turned to Lady Beeston. “Is that all right with you?” he asked.

  She nodded, though a bit reluctantly, it seemed. “I’m certain I don’t have another choice.” Then she sent a pointed look to her mother.

  After an awkward moment of silence, Graham sprang into action, trying to put all this nonsense behind him. “Well, then. Let us begin.” He moved across the room and set his large, black bag down on the night table, knocking over the bottle of what he assumed was laudanum at the same time.

  Lady Beeston gasped and reached for the vial as if she were a rabid dog. Once she had it in her grasp, she slowly looked up until she met Graham’s eyes, before quickly looking away again. Damn.

  “Sorry,” she muttered. “I just didn’t want it to drip to the rug.”

  Right. “Thankfully the lid was on tightly. No harm done.”

  She cleared her throat. “No harm done,” she repeated. “So, what are you going to force me to do today?”

  “First,” he said, plucking the bottle from her hands again and placing it further away, atop the dresser. Her eyes followed it carefully. Was she worried about how she would get to it in his absence? “First, we will ring to have a bath drawn.”

  “A bath?” the dowager called from her spot by the window. “Is that safe?”

  “I have already been through this with Dr. Alcott, Mother.” She turned up her lovely brown eyes at him. “He assures me it is perfectly safe.”

  “I’m going to dress the wound,” he went on to explain, breaking the startling eye contact she’d initiated and addressing the dowager. “I shall attempt to keep it as dry as possible.”

  “You don’t mean to say that you’re going to bathe her?” the dowager balked.

  Graham looked back to Lady Beeston, who’s face was flushed a bright pink. She was now trying desperately to avoid eye contact.

  “No,” Graham said, laughing just a bit in spite of the fact the idea of bathing her was quite arousing. Damn. He must keep himself in check. She was a patient. Nothing more. Perhaps he needed a visit to a local madam to ease his ardor. It wouldn’t do to go springing up every time he was in her presence. “No, of course not,” he went on. “Once the wound is properly dressed, I will step out of the room while your maid bathes you. When you’re finished, I will return to apply a poultice. Then I will let you rest.”

  “No walk today?”

  Oh, how he wanted to walk with her. To have his arm around her waist again and feel her slight body pressed into his side. “Not today. The bath will be taxing enough.”

  The dowager shook her head as she made her way to the bell pull in the corner of the room. She tugged on one of the bells, and then tsked. “I don’t know how I feel about this, Dr. Alcott, but I will defer to your expertise…for now.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace. Your confidence means the world.”

  And truly, it did. Getting past the duke was one thing; pleasing the dowager was a feat of a whole different nature. To get her approval—even if temporary—felt like a victory.

  “May I?” he asked Lady Beeston as the dowager returned to her spot by the window.

  The baroness nodded, though her lashes fluttered and she looked away from him. Clearly, she found this part uncomfortable, and Graham did too, for the first time in his career. He’d cared for many a pretty lady, but none like her. Lady Beeston, in spite of the fact she hadn’t had a bath in far too long, had captivated him. It was easy to see she was a beautiful woman, even with matted hair and a sallow complexion. He could see past that, right to her heart.

  “How does it feel today?” he asked as he pulled yesterday’s bandage from her leg with as gentle a hand as he could manage.

  “Sore, but perhaps not as bad as before.”

  “Have you taken any laudanum today?”

  There was a pause. Her throat worked as she swallowed loudly. “Yes,” she finally answered, and there was shame in her tone.

  She ought not to feel ashamed. Laudanum was the cure-all in their world. But he wanted to show her a better way—a different way. He’d seen what the stuff could do to people over time, the way it held them in its grasp and wouldn’t let go. Oftentimes, the effects of the medicine turned out to be worse than the ailment in the first place. With a poultice of ancient herbs and oils, perhaps they could simply treat the wound and not her entire person.

  The maid arrived while Graham tended to the wound, and at the dowager’s instruction began the process of preparing Lady Beeston’s bath. When it was time for him to make his exit, Graham found it hard to leave—almost as if his feet were refusing to move.

  “Dr. Alcott,” the dowager said sharply as he stood lamely at Lady Beeston’s bedside.

  “My apologies,” he said, coming to. “I will wait downstairs until you are ready for me.”

  Unable to look her in the eyes, Graham left the room, stopping to catch his breath once outside the door. His breath and his heart, God help him.

  Chapter 6

  Hannah sat in the small wooden chair while a maid dumped the last bucket of warm water into the large copper tub. She was a bit nervous, truth be known, which was preposterous. It wasn’t as if she’d never taken a bath before. But it had been a long time, and part of her worried that Dr. Alcott was being too aggressive with his treatments.

  She gulped down her apprehension. Something had to change. Something had to give—either she would die or get better. But she couldn’t stay in that bed wasting away the rest of her life.

  “Are you ready, my lady?” her maid, Alice, asked. She’d not had much use for her over the last couple months. Her brother had a staff of thirty, and seeing as Hannah hadn’t been out of bed, well, Alice had been scarce.

  Hannah stared at the tub for a long moment and then finally nodded. Alice took her by the elbow, slowly and gently guiding her to the tub. Hannah swung her good leg over the edge and into the water. It was warm, but not too warm, on Dr. Alcott’s instructions. Po
or Alice was forced to support the bulk of her weight while helping to lift her wounded leg over the edge. In truth, they could have used an extra pair of hands to help her in, but obviously, Dr. Alcott couldn’t be one of them, and Mother had taken herself off to do her correspondence. But it was too late to call for an extra maid, so they had to make do, carefully, slowly, until at last Hannah was sinking her body into the warm cocoon of water.

  “Oh, Alice,” she sighed. “How I have missed this!”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t let you linger, my lady.”

  “Yes, I know,” Hannah replied. Dr. Alcott had made it clear that she not luxuriate in the water too long, lest the bandage be breached by the water. She was to get in, wash, and get out. “Go on.”

  Alice set to washing her, starting at her hair and face, then moving on to the rest of her body, finishing with her feet. The smell of rose oil and lye wafted about her, sending shockwaves of joy and relief through her body. How wonderful it felt to finally be washing off the dregs of the last many weeks. With every stroke of Alice’s washcloth, Hannah felt renewed.

  “If you can stand, my lady, I’ve another clean bucket of water to do the final rinse.”

  Whatever it took, Hannah would find a way to stand long enough to be rinsed. The water in the tub was gray by the end—if she wasn’t going to rinse it off, she might as well not have taken a bath at all. “I will try, but you must help me get there.”

  Hannah placed her hands on the edge on the tub, using it as a cantilever to pull herself up, while Alice pushed from behind. It was all rather humiliating, being completely helpless and relying on everyone else to push or pull or hold her weight. She silently prayed that Dr. Alcott knew what he was saying when he purported that she would walk again.

  She winced as she came to her feet, the effort sending waves of pain to her wound. Stars danced before her eyes, and she worried, momentarily, that she might fall back down into the filthy water.