The Governess Was Wicked Page 4

  “Is Dr. Fellows really as handsome as you both say?” Jane asked.

  Elizabeth cast her eyes heavenward. “He is, though I daresay he’s not a fashionable man.”

  “All the better,” said Mary. “Too many men today look like they spend far too much time on the shape of their beards.”

  “Dr. Fellows doesn’t wear a beard.”

  Jane actually looked intrigued. “Really? How novel.”

  “Do you know how rare a clean-shaven man is?” asked Mary with a mischievous smile. “Perhaps you should kiss the doctor just to see what it would be like.”

  She dropped her hands to her lap, balling them into fists in a desperate effort to control the desire just under her composed surface. “And lose my position?”

  “You would be doing it for science,” Mary reassured her in such a way that Elizabeth wasn’t entirely certain her friend wasn’t in earnest.

  “Maybe you could marry a physician,” said Jane. “They’re quite respectable these days.”

  The suggestion made her stomach sink. Even if Dr. Fellows could look past her poverty, there was no way that would ever happen. He might be kind and good, but he was still an ambitious man. He’d set his sights much higher if he had a mind to marry. Taking a governess as a wife simply wasn’t done.

  “This is a silly conversation to be having,” she said, her tone firm. “He sails to New York in the spring for a fellowship under an American who studies the blood.”

  Mary pulled a face. “Blood?”

  “Apparently it’s quite a complex system that we know very little about.” She remembered the excitement that lit his eyes when he first told her about his plans, yet she couldn’t fight the sinking feeling that come spring she might never see him again.

  Jane toyed with the handle of her teacup. “Perhaps it’s for the best to forget the beardless Dr. Fellows. It sounds as though Miss Norton and Miss Cassandra need you more than ever.”

  “Of course, if you decide children are too much for you, Lord Radnor’s cousin let me know that Lady Crosby needs a companion,” said Mary.

  She pulled a face. “I thought you said they call her Battle-ax Crosby.”

  “Not to her face.”

  She shook her head. “No. The girls need me.”

  “Well,” said Mary, looking about the table, “if you hear of anyone who might be a fit for Lady Crosby, do let me know.”

  “Why don’t you refer Lord Radnor’s cousin to Elizabeth’s agency?” Jane asked. “Don’t they place ladies’ companions from time to time?”

  “From what I understand, Lady Crosby hasn’t had any luck with the last three girls sent her way by an agency. She’s looking to fill the position by recommendation only, although it might take her some time. She does have a reputation for being exacting.”

  “I’ll see if anyone comes to mind,” Elizabeth said, relaxing now that the conversation had safely turned away from Dr. Fellows. “Now tell me about Lord Radnor. Are you still arguing over whether Louisa should be out of short dresses?”

  “That man,” said Mary with a huff. “Let me tell you about our latest battle.”

  As the three governesses settled into their usual conversation about the lives of those they served, Elizabeth tried her very best to shake the melancholy that had settled around her as heavy as the London fog.

  Chapter Three

  A governess is a teacher, not a mother. She would do well to remember that the children she educates are not her own.

  —Miss Carrington’s Guide for Governesses

  It was a particularly cold January night a couple of months after Miss Norton’s ipecac incident when Edward found himself in front of a roaring fire in his drawing room, entertaining his good friend Dr. Henry Gray. His guest was leaning back in his chair, examining a cut-glass tumbler full of whiskey.

  “Do you know, Fellows, I’ve always appreciated that you never bother to serve port,” said Gray. “I much prefer this.”

  Edward tipped his two-fingers-full glass toward his friend. “I know it’s not done, but I never really acquired the taste for port.”

  Gray turned his drink so that it caught the light of the fire. “Uisge beatha. Scotland’s water of life. Fitting for a Scottish physician, don’t you think?”

  “I can’t find fault with that reasoning.”

  Gray raised the glass to his lips and tipped it for a sip. Then he said, “So, my friend, I have to ask: when are you leaving us for the New World?”

  Edward shifted in his seat. “I sail in April.”

  “Yes, yes, you keep telling me that, but when? Most men can name the exact date of their departure down to the minute once they decide to embark on some great adventure. I don’t expect you to memorize the schedule of every passenger ship to New York, but you must know more than that.”

  But that was the thing. Edward didn’t know. Every time someone would ask—his patients, his friends, his mentor, Dr. Menser—the idea felt so distant. He was committed to the fellowship, yes, but here in London other things distracted him. He still had patients to see and house calls to tend to daily. He was a busy man.

  And then there was the problem of Miss Porter. Weeks had lapsed since he’d last seen her. Christmas had turned into the New Year, and now London was blanketed in a fine coat of snow. The only thing left to do was buy passage on a ship, but all he could think about was how few steps it would take to bring him to her door.

  He wanted to go to her, even though every ounce of propriety and common sense held him back. The moment his restraint broke he would compromise the lady irrevocably. And yet, he wanted to compromise her so badly that it actually hurt.

  Since November, his fingers had itched to grip the soft flesh of her hips and pull her to him. His cock twitched just thinking about the way her dressing gown had gaped open slightly at the throat, exposing a column of smooth skin he longed to lick. All he had to do was walk up Sydney Street toward Onslow Square and he could feel the burn of her lips on his again.

  This was ridiculous. Medicine was his great ambition, his one love. He shouldn’t be distracted—not even by a woman as alluring as Miss Porter.

  “So when will it be?” asked Gray, mercifully breaking into his thoughts. “When is Dr. Fellows going to conquer the New World?”

  The doorbell rang, saving him from admitting that he had any hesitations about leaving.

  “Who on earth would be calling at this hour?” asked Gray with a glance at the mantel clock that read one.

  The Nortons. It had to be.

  His pulse quickened. For two months, his heart had soared whenever the bell rang. Every time his housekeeper opened the door to a different client, the disappointment crushed him. Yet that didn’t stop him from praying that this time he’d be called to the nursery. That he’d be called to Miss Porter’s side.

  When the bell rang again, followed by a heavy fist pounding against wood, he strained to see if he could hear the footfalls of Mrs. Mitchell in the hall, but all was quiet.

  Hang propriety. He’d open his own damn door.

  “It’s late,” he said, standing quickly. “Perhaps I should answer that before whoever’s at the door wakes the whole neighborhood.”

  Edward clattered down the stairs, not even bothering to pull on a jacket. The bell rang a third time as he jogged down the hall that led past his examination room.

  “Dr. Fellows, is that you down there?” came his housekeeper’s voice from the stairs.

  “Go back to bed, Mrs. Mitchell. I’ll take care of this!”

  Throwing the bolt, he wrenched open the door. Sure enough, standing in the lightly sifting snow was the Nortons’ kitchen boy, Jeremy.

  “An illness in the family?” he asked, fighting back his grin.

  “That’s right, sir. Miss Porter says that one of the young ladies is feeling poorly. She says t
his isn’t like last time.”

  The joy surging through him mellowed. Not like last time? That meant that she suspected this wasn’t one of Miss Norton’s tricks—one of the children was actually ill.

  He stepped back. “Well, come in and warm yourself a moment. I’ll get my bag and coat.”

  He couldn’t be sure whether Jeremy took him up on his offer, because he was already bounding up the stairs two at a time to make his excuses to Gray and collect his things.

  Elizabeth paced back and forth outside the girls’ room, wringing her hands with every about-face.

  When Cassandra had woken her, she’d thought she would find another of Juliana’s attention-grabbing illnesses, yet this one had none of the theatrics of the earlier incidents. Instead, the girl simply lay there, her forehead scorching hot. When Elizabeth drew the candle closer, she saw the telltale signs that made her heart skip—ruddy cheeks and angry red dots.

  Scarlet fever.

  She’d separated the girls immediately, praying Cassandra would escape the illness, and sent Jeremy for Dr. Fellows. And yet she didn’t wake the Nortons. First she needed Dr. Fellows to tell her what she already feared was true. Then, if the danger was real, she’d alert Mrs. Norton. If it was not? Well, the lady did not take kindly to being woken up for anything.

  She wrung her hands as she walked back and forth, back and forth across the nursery. There was no book for this scenario. That slim volume of Miss Carrington’s Guide for Governesses didn’t contain any practical words of wisdom about nursing a child sick with a dangerous illness. It was all platitudes and warnings, more judgmental than helpful. It seemed that the author was far more interested in steering young ladies away from sin than in actually helping them fulfill their function in a household. As if she needed another reason for her growing resentment toward the guide.

  The sound of wheels rattling over the cobblestones sent her rushing to the bay window looking out over the street. Jeremy hopped out of the hansom. The doctor emerged close behind him, his head down and face obscured by his hat. Then he looked straight up at the window, and relief flooded her. She’d needed him and he had come. He touched the brim of his hat before following Jeremy up the front steps.

  Elizabeth met Dr. Fellows and Crane at the top of the third-floor stairs a few moments later. “Thank you for coming,” she said, worry lodging the words in her throat.

  Crane edged down the hall and away from the specter of ill children as the handsome doctor nodded. “Jeremy tells me you suspect this isn’t another of Miss Norton’s attacks?”

  She nodded. “I believe it is something more grave this time. Something real.”

  “Tell me what’s the matter.”

  “I don’t want you to think me rash—”

  He reached out and touched her hand gently. “I won’t.”

  She wanted to take that hand and guide him until his arms were wrapped around her in reassurance. “It’s scarlet fever, I’m almost sure of it.”

  His features hardened. “Miss Cassandra?”

  “In my room. I don’t think I saw any symptoms, but I can’t be sure.”

  “I’ll examine Miss Norton first and then Miss Cassandra just to be safe. If it’s scarlet fever . . .”

  If there was such a dangerous illness in the house, they would have to separate the healthy from the sick. The baby would no doubt be removed, as well as Cassandra if she was well. Mr. and Mrs. Norton would flee without a second thought—Elizabeth was certain.

  “If it is, I know what to do,” she said with a deep breath.

  “Well then, let’s have a look.” His fingers brushed her hand again. “And, Miss Porter?”

  “Yes.”

  “We will do everything we can, you and I. Together.”

  That was exactly what she needed, she thought as she fell into step behind him. Elizabeth was so used to taking care of everyone else that she’d forgotten what it was like to have someone caring for her. And yet there the physician was, reassuring and solid, always calm and ready with that crooked smile of his.

  She’d missed him these past months with an urgency she didn’t dare confess to anyone. She should have known the foolishness of kissing him. The stolen moment hadn’t quenched her thirst for Dr. Fellows, but rather fed her desire until it surged up and became as uncontrollable as the sea during a storm. Lying in bed late at night, she could still feel the sensation of his short hair between her fingers. Her cheeks would burn with the mere thought of his lips on hers. And sometimes, when the desperation grew too strong to ignore, she would imagine that mouth kissing lower down her body. Behind her locked door, she would skim her fingers over the insides of her thighs and then—when she was feeling the most daring—dip her fingers into the thick curls between her legs. She’d imagine his mouth there, his fingers pushing back her folds and touching everywhere that throbbed for his attentions. And yet she knew it would never happen. The doctor was far too respectful to be wicked with her.

  “Miss Norton,” Dr. Fellows said as they entered the girls’ room, pulling Elizabeth’s attention back to the very real danger at present. “I hear you’re not feeling well.”

  The little girl hardly made a noise—a great departure from her previous display of dramatics worthy of the Royal Opera House.

  “Well, we shall just have to see what’s the matter,” said Dr. Fellows rather cheerfully.

  She watched as he put down his bag and pulled out the strange device she had seen him hang around his neck during his last visit.

  “Now, I’m going to listen to your heart,” he said, keeping up the string of conversation despite his patient’s lack of response. “Do you know what this is?” He held up the device. “No, I don’t suppose you do. It’s called a binaural stethoscope. It lets me listen to your heart. Can I do that?”

  The girl gave a weak nod, and Elizabeth watched as he quickly popped two ends of a rubber tube into his ears and pressed the metal disk on the other end to the child’s chest. After a moment he rocked back on his heels and hung the stethoscope around his neck.

  “You’ve got a very strong heartbeat,” he told Juliana with a smile. “That’s a good thing. Now, stick out your tongue for me.”

  Even in the dim light, Elizabeth could see that white covered Juliana’s tongue.

  “Strawberry tongue,” she said, her voice strained.

  “Hmm . . . Miss Porter, perhaps you could help me. I need to see Miss Norton’s back and chest.”

  She moved swiftly to his side, acutely aware of the very warm, very male presence of him there next to her as she leaned down. She eased Juliana up to sitting, and the girl whimpered.

  Rubbing the girl’s back in large, slow circles, she tried to soothe her. “Juliana, you’ll be able to sleep again in a few minutes. The doctor just needs to examine you.”

  She unbuttoned and eased down the girl’s nightdress, and Dr. Fellows looked at the skin on Juliana’s chest and back. With a collection of spots around her armpits, the rash was even easier to see now than when she’d sent Jeremy to fetch him. Elizabeth and the doctor exchanged a look. It was just as they’d feared.

  With swift fingers, she rebuttoned Juliana’s night rail and tucked the girl back into bed. When she stood, Dr. Fellows took her by the elbow and led her out of the room. Even through the long sleeves of her plain gray wool dress she could feel the warmth of his skin on hers. She had pulled the garment on rather than greet him in a state of dishabille. It seemed to fit the gravity of the situation. There would be no temptation this time, only concern.

  “I need to see Miss Cassandra,” Dr. Fellows said as soon as they were clear of the room.

  “This way.”

  He stopped her, his hand still on her elbow. “We’ll do everything we can to heal Miss Norton, but you know the risks involved with scarlet fever.”

  She pursed her lips and nodded once. “I do.”


  She wouldn’t think about the consequences of Juliana’s illness. She didn’t think she could bear to lose a charge, not one so young.

  It took Dr. Fellows little time to examine Cassandra. Sure enough, the faint dots of a rash were already spreading across the girl’s skin and the fever was beginning to take its grip on her.

  Elizabeth tried to push away her dread as she pulled the bell. Crane appeared a moment later with his usual sour expression fixed firmly on his face.

  “Miss Norton and Miss Cassandra have scarlet fever, and the baby must be removed from the house,” she said to the butler. “I’ll wake Mrs. Norton, but the maids must begin to pack straightaway.”

  Crane’s eyes widened, and for once he didn’t sneer at one of her orders. “I’ll prepare the carriage as well.”

  She nodded. “Good. The sooner Master George is out of the house the better.”

  Crane backed out of the room as quickly as his stumbling feet would take him, shutting the door sharply behind him.

  “What do you think they’ll do?” asked Dr. Fellows.

  “Who?” she asked, distracted by the task ahead of her. It would fall to her to nurse Juliana and Cassandra. She must stay awake and fight the exhaustion threatening her.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Norton.”

  “They’ll retreat to the home of Mrs. Norton’s relatives. Once their heir is out of danger, I imagine it’ll be something of a holiday for them.”

  She turned her attention back to the doctor, only to find him studying her with curious eyes. “You don’t approve of your employers.”

  It wasn’t prudent to say anything—not while she was in their house—and yet something about the sympathy in his expression made her want to divulge everything to him. Her disapproval of the Nortons. Her disappointment in not having a life of her own. Her anger with her father for dying and leaving her with nothing more than a sharp mind, a genteel upbringing, and one month of a season to rely upon. Her own inability to show this man how fast her heart beat every time she saw him.