The sun had passed its zenith and was heading toward late afternoon. But as they were approaching the summer solstice, sunset was still half a day away.
Margaret’s labor pain eased.
The doctor smiled at her. “Second deliveries are usually much quicker than first, Lady Frank. Rest as much as ye can.”
Margaret whimpered and closed her eyes, face exhausted, a hand pressed to her swollen belly.
“Thank you for being here, Lottie,” Margaret murmured, eyes still closed.
“Hush. There is nowhere I’d rather be than here. Rest.” Lottie pressed a kiss to Margaret’s forehead.
For his part, the doctor began digging his fingers into his scalp.
“Hairpins,” he said, as he noticed Lottie noticing. “My drunken friends insisted upon it, which is why I havenae removed this dratted wig. I couldnae locate them while following the groom on horseback.” He pulled out a hairpin and set to finding more.
The man was a conundrum, Lottie decided. Underneath the face paint, the doctor was a subdued kind of handsome with a rather Grecian nose and sharp jawline. Lean and clean-shaven, he exuded a quiet competence. As if the world could go topsy-turvy, and he would simply roll-up his sleeves and set-to, cleaning up the mess.
But most significantly, he had kind eyes—slate-gray and soulful, calling to mind the sky on a cloudy winter’s day. The promise of better things to come.
He pulled out a final hairpin and dragged the offending wig off his head, revealing tousled brown hair. Leaning to one side, he scrubbed a hand through his hair, shaking loose the remaining traces of powder and coaxing it into some semblance of order. His hair obeyed with remarkable alacrity, falling into well-behaved straight lines. He then dipped a handkerchief in the lime water and began wiping the cosmetics off his face.
“I’m Dr. Alex Whitaker, by the by,” he nodded, swiping through the rouge. “Likely should have introduced myself afore now.”
“Dr. AlexWhitaker?” Lottie grinned. “I am Lady Charlotte Whitaker. Did you hear that, Margaret?” she asked.
Her sister opened her weary eyes.
“The doctor’s surname is Whitaker, just like ours,” Lottie repeated. “Perhaps he was fated to be here with us today.”
“Our surname is hardly uncommon.” Margaret rolled her eyes. “I fear sometimes you live too much in books, dearest.” She closed her eyes, signaling she wanted nothing to do with this conversation and preferred to rest.
Mmmm.
Margaret considered Lottie something of a bluestocking.
Well, Lottiewassomething of a bluestocking, she supposed.
Hadn’t Grandmère said as much last week?
Our Lottie could hold her own in a meeting of the Blue Stocking Society,c’est vrai. But I find itodieusethat the term ‘bluestocking’ is now considered so derogatory. An educated mind is an elegant thing.
Granted, Grandmère’s opinions were decidedlyun-English, having been formed in the salons of Paris in decades past.
Lottie rubbed Margaret’s hand and turned her attention back to the doctor with a wry smile. “Margaret is likely correct. Besides, surely you spell your last name differently from ourselves. My family are Whitaker with one ‘T,’ not two.”
Dr. Whitaker rinsed his rag, brows drawn. “My family uses only one ‘T’ as well.”
Lottie laughed. “Next, you will say you are related to the Marquess of Lockheade, and I shall perish from astonishment.”
The doctor’s brows drew down further as he continued to wash his face clean.
Margaret’s eyes snapped open, her attention piqued.
“The Marquess of Lockheade?” Dr. Whitaker parroted. “Aye. We do have a connection with the family. My great-great-grandfather was the third Lord Lockheade.”
“In truth?” Lottie nearly crowed with delight. “My father is theseventhLord Lockheade. Why . . . Dr. Whitaker! We’recousins!”
Margaret frowned, staring at the doctor as if searching for a family resemblance. “I am not entirely sure I trust that claim, Doctor.”
