Still smiling.
Chapter 15
After five courses sitting between Daniel’s father and his formidable aunt, Nora craved Daniel’s easier company. As the remains of a cream tart congealed on the fine china, Daniel’s aunt pushed back her chair and stood. “Shall we?” She pointed the question to the women.
Tea with the ladies first in the drawing room, while the gentlemen remained at the table for tobacco and port. It wasn’t a custom they kept at home, and longing for her dressing gown and bedroom slippers already, Nora held in her sigh. This was easily the best evening she’d spent in her in-laws’ company, and she couldn’t ruin it with waning enthusiasm. Tacking an agreeable smile to her lips, she stalled until Joan reached her. As they fell into step, her sister-in-law sent her a mischievous look.
Before Nora could install herself safely next to Joan on the sofa, her mother-in-law captured her arm in a soft grip. Hiding a start, Nora turned with raised brows. “Yes, Sarah?” Though Daniel’s mother had asked her to call herMama, Nora simply couldn’t bring herself to do it. She’d called no one by that name since she was eight years old. ReplacingMrs. GibsonwithSarahhad been hard enough.
“Are you eating adequately? I’m not sure my son is taking sufficient care of you…” Sarah Gibson’s eyes spanned Nora’swaist, measuring the inches. The secret possibility she’d still not confessed to Daniel made her wary of attention on her figure.
“Dinner was excellent,” Nora returned, smoothing any crispness out of her voice.
“You know, you and I haven’t exchanged a word—”
“Not easy, all the way across the table,” Nora said.
“You must sit with me now,” Sarah commanded, steering her across the drawing room, where Aunt Wilcox was already ensconced in an armchair. A satisfied look passed between the older ladies, sending a frisson of danger tiptoeing up Nora’s spine. She glanced back—but the doctor’s wife had persuaded Joan to seat herself at the piano. No escape. Lulled by food and kindly chatter throughout dinner, she hadn’t prepared herself for a private conversation with the other significant women in Daniel’s life.
Unbidden, she thought of Horace, who was probably back at home, reading in the library beside his stuffed zebra, Enzo. She wished she could trade him for her current company, or have him suddenly appear—wombat in one hand, medical journal in the other—and startle this sedate company into commotion.
Nora held back a snort. If she could manage Horace, she could surely find a way to satisfy Daniel’s relatives for another hour. Daniel’s mother deposited her in a cramped little chair angled between herself and Aunt Wilcox, and the familiar sensation of preparing for a surgery washed over Nora: lungs filling, ears tuned to every sound, her eyes alert and focused. “What a lovely dinner,” she began. “Thank you so much for having us.”
“Lord Parkins was dull as soup,” Aunt Wilcox countered in a voice too flat to travel to any other ears in the room. “Joanteased him all night and he didn’t even realize.” She pursed her lips and cast a small glare across the room at her niece.
“I’m sorry I missed that.” Nora gave a small, conspiratorial laugh that died under the weight of Sarah’s disapproving frown.
“The girl is incorrigible. I wash my hands of her.”
Nora swallowed, rearranging her face to the proper soberness. She could do with a sip of port like the men.
“I was seated with Dr. Russell and his wife.” Sarah’s lip twitched almost imperceptibly, but the negligible movement sent a twinge through Nora’s stomach. “He suspects that you are the doctor mentioned in some medical articles of late.” Her gray eyes looked cold as river rocks, despite her demure smile. “Do tell.”
Nora froze, sensing a trap.
“Hardly interesting,” she lied. “Only a scientific discussion on childbirth. I’m sure it’s not pleasant conversation for your drawing room.”
“Dr. Russell appeared very interested. He said that you’ve put yourself at odds with London physicians.”
Nora resented the familiar heat and panic that overtook her whenever someone ambushed her. It made it impossible to speak intelligently. “I’d rather not—”
“Don’t be defensive, dear. This isn’t an attack.” Aunt Wilcox possessed the most agile eyebrows. They angled down as if looking at Nora from a hundred feet above.
Sarah tittered, fussing unnecessarily with her bracelets. “You’re my daughter in-law. I’m trying to know you better.”
“I didn’t know you followed medical debate,” Nora asked more than stated.
Sarah plucked again at a bangle, but Aunt Wilcox, made of sterner stuff, snorted instead of dithering. “We hardly follow it. But it does seem to follow you. It must be exhausting to pit yourself against the world so relentlessly.”
Nora schooled her face, refusing to show Aunt Wilcox how her arrow had landed. “I’m afraid it comes with the calling of medicine sometimes,” she said cautiously.
Aunt Wilcox folded her hands, wrinkled fingers rearranging around her large collection of rings. “I’m quite impressed with your intelligence,” she said. “I’m very modern myself, as you know.”
“Of course,” Nora choked out.
“I have friends intrigued by your experience and ability,” Aunt Wilcox informed her. “Members of my society.”
“It’s a service society,” Sarah put in. “The British Ladies’ Society for Promoting the Reformation of Female Prisoners.” She stopped to draw breath.
