Alex grimaced. Due to his accident, it would now be several months before he passed through Wetherby on his way back to Edinburgh.
Mr. Smith continued.
In regards to your other questions—Was I personally aboardThe Minerva? And can I disclose the general medical nature of this consult?—I, unfortunately, am not at liberty to say. As you will be here soon, there is no need to discuss this via letter. Again, I must stress the importance of your discretion. It is a medical matter of the utmost delicacy . . .
Blast!
Given the movement on investigatingThe Minervain Aberdeen, Alex needed to know what Mr. Smith knew. Perhaps if he wrote back immediately, the man might be more forthcoming now that Alex was unable to travel anytime soon.
Sighing, he picked up pen and paper and began scribbling replies.
He began by explaining his predicament to Mr. Smith and asking if the man were going to be near Bath or London in the upcoming months.
Then . . . three different letters to Andrew, Rafe, and Ewan with essentially the same content.
I apologize . . .
I should have written before now . . .
Lord Lockheade. Marquisate. Heir. Attainder.
Shot. Broken leg.
He left out the phraseattempting not to despair, but the feeling burned in his chest nonetheless.
Why was it so easy to coax and discuss and listen to others’ emotional pain, but when it came to his own, Alex shied away?
More importantly, would his friends understand and support Alex in not wanting to take up the title of Lord Lockheade? Or would Andrew, Rafe, and Ewan offer kindly recriminations and beg him to join them as members of theton?
He supposed he was about to find out.
Alex finished his letter writing far too soon.
It was still hours before bedtime.
Far too much time to ponder his own shortcomings.
His pocket watch ticked with agonizing slowness.
A conversation with a school chum who had spent time in India surfaced in his memory. The man had been enamored with the Hindu concept ofkarma—the idea that one’s past actions, good or ill, called forth similar future reprisals.
Was Alex’s current predicament the result of poor karma?
Too often Alex had dismissed the intense boredom of his patients as they recuperated, brushing it off as so much faradiddle.
But now . . . he felt chastened. Convalescence was nearly diabolical. It gave one far too many hours to ponder the frailties and hypocrisies of mortal existence.
Karma, indeed.
He glanced at the book Lady Charlotte had left, its worn cover taunting him.
He had readA Vindication on the Rights of Women, of course. Catriona had been most insistent. But like most important texts, it was laborious.
Alex’s brain felt sluggish just pondering the idea.
Of course, one thing remained—
He needed to apologize to Lady Charlotte.
