“Yes, Papa.” What else could she say? He was her father and she’d always done as he’d asked. Glancing toward the stranger, she gave him a swift smile in parting before she returned inside, resigned to the idea of not being able to leave the ball any time soon.
“The man you met on the terrace,” Papa began once Louise and her parents were finally heading home in their carriage three hours later. “You’re never to speak with him again. Is that clear?”
Curious about her father’s apparent dislike of a person she’d thought to be rather pleasant, she asked, “Who was he?”
“If he approaches you, you’re to walk away immediately,” Papa said, ignoring her question. “To be seen in his company will most assuredly lead to ruin. Mark my word.”
“Goodness,” Mama said with a gasp. “You really must be careful, Louise. Listen to your father and protect your reputation at all cost.” The fact that she believed it was the only asset Louise had left besides her increasingly large dowry was heavily implied.
“I gather he’s a rake then?” Louise asked, since this was the sort of man her parents had always warned her against.
“I’ve no idea,” Papa said, then hastily added, “but it wouldn’t surprise me if he were.”
“Hmm…” Louise frowned. She found her father’s vagueness, his reluctance to mention the man’s name, peculiar.
“Cast him from your mind,” Papa said. “He’s not worth sparing a thought.”
“Instead,” Mama said, “I would suggest you make more of an effort to be seen by the eligible gentlemen looking to marry. If you continue to hide in various corners, they’ll forget all about you.”
“I’m not hiding in corners,” Louise grumbled.
“You’re not making an effort either,” Mama said.
“I spoke to Mr. Fairbanks,” Louise blurted, her intention being to win this frustrating argument.
She instantly regretted it when Mama said, “I believe he’s enamored by Lady Deidre.”
“He hasn’t announced an engagement yet,” Papa said. “Louise could still win him.”
“Yes,” Mama agreed in a tone devoid of conviction. “I suppose she could.”
Louise sighed. She knew she had to do better, try harder, be more assertive. If only fear didn’t always lurk at the back of her mind, it would be so much easier.
To her surprise, her musings on the subject led her thoughts straight back to the stranger she’d met on the terrace. Gazing out the carriage window at the dark streets beyond, she went over their conversation while picturing him in her mind’s eye. Would she ever meet him again? More to the point, who on earth was he?
2
“Are you ready?” Marcus asked his patient, Mr. Keen, as he drew the curtains enough to keep out the bright morning light without plunging the room into complete darkness.
Mr. Keen nodded. “Aye.”
Crossing to the washbasin, Marcus cleaned his hands according to the Duke of Redding’s directive. The practice of doing so still wasn’t widespread, but it was one Redding had been adhering to since having read William Buchan’sDomestic Medicineduring his medical studies a couple of decades earlier. In the book, disease was directly linked to a lack of cleanliness, so when Redding had begun work at St. Agatha’s, he’d insisted no employee touch a patient without first washing their hands. Coincidentally, St. Agatha’s boasted the lowest mortality rate of any English hospital.
Marcus dried his hands and approached Mr. Keen. Reaching up, he undid the end of the bandage surrounding his patient’s head and began to unwind it. His heart beat a steady rhythm thanks to his years of experience. He knew how to keep his nerves under control, even though apprehension remained at the back of his mind. One breath in, one breath out. Deep inhalations and slow exhalations.
In his line of work there was always a risk, a gamble, made less only by the skill he possessed. Redding understood this better than anyone else of Marcus’s acquaintance. The duke had discussed it with Marcus at length and had offered support on the rare occasion when Marcus’s effort to restore sight failed.
“You can open your eyes now, Mr. Keen. Slowly, if you please. Give your vision a chance to adjust. Here, try putting these on.” Marcus helped Mr. Keen with his spectacles. In order to protect the man’s eyes from the sun, Marcus had covered the lenses with black veil fabric cut to size. He opened the curtains more to let in additional light.
“My God,” Mr. Keen murmured. He turned his head, his gaze sweeping the room before it settled on Marcus. He squinted, relaxed his eyes once more, and tilted his head in a contemplative manner. “Ye’re younger than I imagined.”
“Tell me what you see,” Marcus said, his body tense with increased hope.
Mr. Keen blinked. “There’s a table right there. It looks like it’s got a potted plant on it. An’ three books stacked to one side. There’s a picture on the wall above.” Mr. Keen stood and moved toward it. “It’s a countryside setting. With a manor ’ouse in the distance.”
Marcus breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re correct.”
“I know.” His patient turned toward him. A smile stretched wide on his face. “Thank ye, Mr. Berkly. Ye’ve worked a miracle for me an’ I…” Mr. Keen’s voice broke. He drew a sharp breath. “I’m most appreciative. Truly I am.”
