Scandals child, p.12
Scandal's Child, page 12
They were essays really, bound for easy reference. Will had once joked that medical students learned by doing and notes they made on various cases became references for others. Surely there were publications that might help her understand Phoebe’s condition.
On her next half day off, she would ask for a maid and visit a bookshop.
Chapter 11
Hatchards was on Piccadilly, a busy street near Pall Mall. Miranda took a hansom cab to get there, choosing not to bother Jeremy for use of a vehicle. The Temple of Muses in Finsbury Square was too large and too grand for her to visit on her own. Hatchards was smaller and females, accompanied by their maids, were welcome.
The streets were crowded with shoppers and carriages. Sitting forward in her seat, Miranda peered out the window and marveled at the variety of shops and the well-dressed men and women strolling along the walkway.
She situated Charity on a bench outside and opened the door. A bell jingled as she entered. Inside, she caught her breath. Hundreds of books, arranged by topic, lined the shelves. How she loved books. They’d been her companions on more nights than she could count when Will was out till all hours delivering babies.
After strolling the aisles, smelling the leather bindings, and touching a few books with embossed covers, she settled down to her task. Finding what should have been the right shelf, she perused the books. There were books on the medicinal qualities of plants, but nothing else. How was she to help Phoebe? She doubted Harley Street physicians would give her an audience. She had to rely on Jeremy’s promise. Medicine was not considered a suitable topic for females unless one was a midwife. Thank God Will had not been so narrow-minded.
Turning a corner, she stopped in front of a shelf with novels. It wouldn’t hurt to pick one up to read for entertainment. She selected Sense and Sensibility, written by someone who identified herself only as A Lady.
“Emily? What are you doing here? I thought you were still in the country.”
Miranda turned and faced a young, well-dressed woman in a green-striped walking dress. Dark curls framed her face, and bright blue eyes peered up at Miranda with absorbed interest.
“I beg your pardon, were you talking to me?”
“I am so sorry. I thought you were someone else.” The woman’s hand flew to her mouth. Her smile was friendly and her bonnet askew. “You look a bit like her.”
“Who?”
“Emily Sinclair, Lord and Lady Langston’s daughter. Do you know her?”
“I have only been in London for a short time. I have not met many people.”
The woman stepped back and took out a pair of eyeglasses. Propping them on the end of her nose, she peered intently, moving to the side to study Miranda’s profile. She took the glasses off and put them back in her pocket. Miranda remained still, feeling much like a specimen in a museum exhibit.
“It is uncanny. Except for your build and hair color, you could be her twin. What is your name?”
“Miranda Comstock.”
“And you reside . . .?”
“Longley House.”
“The earl’s residence? I just saw Longley a few days ago.” The plump head bobbed up and down.
“I am nurse companion to the earl’s ward.”
“I see. I didn’t know he had one.”
Her eyes rested on Miranda’s shabby gown. With Mrs. Gladstone’s help, she had managed to dye the rest of her day dresses black, but they were not in the first stare of fashion.
“May I ask an impertinent question?” The young woman stepped back and tilted her head. Not waiting for a reply, she said, “Are you in mourning?”
“I am.”
“Then please forgive my intrusion. Miss Sinclair is my best friend, and she would be amused to see you, I know.”
“If I ever spy a doppelganger, I will know who it is.” Miranda tried to assume a light tone, knowing full well she would never set eyes on Miss Sinclair or even this woman again.
“But you must meet. Emily would be terribly disappointed if you did not.” She pursed her lips, her finger on her chin. “I have it. It is the perfect solution. You must come to one of my salons. We read novels and poetry.” She reached into her reticule and pulled out a crisp calling card. “My goodness. I have completely forgotten my manners. I am Gwendolyn Pettigrew.”
She stuck out her hand, holding the card. Miranda took it and thought about the unusual invitation. Living in a city with no friends was lonely, but she should decline. This woman was clearly above her touch. Her fashionable dress proclaimed her a member of the ton. And she knew Longley. But, Miranda was tempted.
“It is the first Thursday afternoon of each month. When the weather is nice, we sit in my garden. Please say you will come. I want you to meet my friend.”
“Perhaps I shall. Thank you for inviting me.”
“I shall look forward to seeing you again.”
The woman nodded and bustled off, her maid following with a stack of books. At the door, she signaled to an older woman, and the two left the shop. Miranda paid for her novel, found the housemaid, and hailed a hackney.
What an odd encounter. Did she have the courage to attend a salon? She had heard of them, but she never thought she would attend one. Thursdays were not her half day off, but she could change. Her position had remarkable freedom with such a large staff at Longley House.
She had to admit the entire encounter was somewhat unconventional. And she was curious about Miss Sinclair. If, indeed, they resembled one another, perhaps she was a relative.
Miranda knew nothing about her mother’s family except they lived in London and had disowned their daughter when, against their wishes, she married a penniless vicar. At least, that’s what her father had told her. The family had never tried to contact her, and her father had refused to even tell her their name, claiming they were immoral, unnatural people.
Will had tried to persuade her father, to no avail. All he’d brought back from that particular visit was her mother’s trunk filled with clothes, fans, and a few books. Miranda cherished each item despite having been abandoned by the woman who gave birth to her.
The hansom stopped, and she hurried into the house. It looked like it was going to rain, and she wanted to prepare Phoebe. Perhaps if she was in the room with the child prior to the storm, she could learn what frightened her. Telling her rain was imminent might forestall the fear and the panic.
She hurried up the stairs to the nursery and found Phoebe sitting in a chair in the schoolroom, holding her doll. A young housemaid sat across the room, a pile of mending in her lap. Phoebe was singing to the doll, something she did frequently. She cocked her head when Miranda walked into the room.
“Hello, Miranda. Where have you been?”
“I went out to a bookshop.” She put her parcel on the table in the center of the room and knelt in front of Phoebe’s chair. “How did you know it was me?”
“By the way you walk. Feet make different sounds, you know. And people’s voices are very distinct. I never forget a voice.”
Indeed.
“You are a very clever girl.” Miranda patted her knee.
“What book did you get? Is it a story for me?” Phoebe sounded excited.
“Not this time. It is a novel about a young lady who is probably searching for love.”
“Are you a young lady searching for love?” Phoebe asked.
“Yes, I am a lady. No, I am not seeking love.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
Miranda got up from the floor, went over to the window, and stared out at the grim sky. Swallowing hard, she turned to face Phoebe, whose unseeing eyes looked straight ahead, not at her.
“Yes, I have. It was a long time ago, and I was very young and somewhat foolish, believing the love was returned. It was not. And you are far too young to be asking questions like this.”
Phoebe giggled and hugged her doll. “I love Agatha. And I love you.”
Miranda stilled. Her chest was bursting with pent-up emotions. Slowly she walked back to Phoebe and knelt in front of her once more, stroking the little girl’s cheek. She raised her face as though she could see and smiled, reaching out to touch Miranda’s hand with her own.
“I love you, too, Phoebe.” Miranda pulled the child to her, careful not to dislodge her from the chair, holding her tight, feeling the doll between them.
“I wish my Mama was still here.”
“I’m sure you miss her very much, but she is in heaven. Do you know about heaven?”
“It has angels.” The voice was so soft in Miranda’s ear, she could barely hear. She gave the child another quick hug and let go, swiping at a tear.
“Yes, it does. Now, let’s get you out of the chair. I have a treat for you today.”
“You do?”
“Yes. We are going to put on your coat and bonnet and go outside to the garden.”
The child pulled back.
“I don’t want to go.” Her bottom lip trembled, and a look of sheer terror filled her eyes. “It is too soon. I am not comfortable here yet.”
“Phoebe. Did you not just say you love me? Love involves trust. You know I would never let anything hurt you. Do you believe me?”
“Yes.”
“I will hold your hand and not let go for one second. The gardens here are beautiful. Put on your pelisse.” She held out the wrap and guided Phoebe’s arms into it. After tying the girl’s bonnet firmly under her chin, Miranda put on her own cloak and bonnet and tugged at the little hand.
“Shall we depart?”
They managed the stairs with Miranda holding her hand on one side while Phoebe steadied herself by holding the stair rail. They counted the steps together, with only two stumbles. They had practiced navigating the stairs in the other house, and Miranda was sure Phoebe would do fine. When they reached an outer door, a gardener was at work.
“Lord have mercy, what do we have here? Two grand ladies about to make their come-out?”
“No come-outs today, just a brief walk in the garden,” Miranda said.
Phoebe put out her hand to feel her way. With Miranda’s instructions helping to guide her, she placed one foot in front of the other, moving slowly on the path at the back of the house. Her lips were pursed in concentration, but a smile had flickered briefly across her face when the gardener promised to send up a bouquet of roses to her room.
Reaching the door, Miranda halted and took a deep breath. If this was to work, she must be very sure she was worthy of the trust the child had placed in her. That meant talking her through her fears and never letting go of the little hand holding tightly to her own.
She had two purposes today. First, she needed to get Phoebe back outside. Next, she wanted her to feel rain without hearing it pound against a roof or window.
“It may rain today. I don’t want you to be startled.”
The little bonnet nodded.
Miranda encouraged the child forward into the gray day. A gust of wind cooled her cheek, making her look down at Phoebe’s face.
Phoebe held up her hand and opened her fingers.
“I feel air,” she said. “It’s cold.”
A stray raindrop hit Miranda’s nose as she faced the sky. It was followed by another. The air smelled fresh. Phoebe was still looking ahead.
“The rain is starting, but it is very light,” Miranda tugged the child into her body and tightened her arm around her shoulder. Phoebe clutched the folds of Miranda’s cloak, but she did not seem afraid.
“Give me your hand.”
Phoebe carefully lifted her free hand so it could be grasped.
“Good. Now, palm up. There. What do you feel?”
“Water. It tickles.”
“It is rain, Phoebe. Now tell me why you fear it so.”
“I don’t.”
Miranda shook her head in exasperation. “Then why do you cry out when it rains? Is it the thunder? Does it have something to do with the fire? Was it raining that day?”
“I can’t remember.” She lifted her head and let the moisture fall on her face, opening her mouth to capture a drop.
Like a typical child.
Miranda bent over, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and turned her around. “We should get back inside before you catch a chill.”
She guided the child back into the house. They bypassed the grand rooms of the first floor and climbed to the nursery, counting the stairs as they went up. Miranda settled Phoebe into her chair with her doll and asked one of the maids to fetch cherry tarts and a pot of tea from the kitchen.
“You did very well today. I’m proud of you. You stay here until our tea comes.”
After fluffing Phoebe’s bed in the next room, Miranda realized how emotionally drained she felt. Her back ached from holding herself rigid, and she longed to lie down for just a second. She could hear Phoebe talking to her doll. She stretched out on the child’s bed and closed her eyes. In seconds, the rain escalated in force until it was deafening. Screaming started in the next room. Miranda leaped from the bed.
I think I know what’s upsetting her.
~ ~ ~
Phoebe’s body lay at an odd angle, halfway under the table. Fear lodged in Miranda’s throat as she fell to the floor and turned the child over on her back. She was conscious, but a large welt swelled on her arm.
“Phoebe. Are you all right?” The child’s skin was cold under her fingers as she pulled her free of the furniture and helped her to a sitting position. Miranda put her arms around shaking shoulders, holding Phoebe close.
“I was scared. I went to find you.” Phoebe’s body trembled against hers.
“I was just in the next room,” said Miranda gently, “but I’m here now.”
“My arm hurts,” she whined.
“I’m sure it does. You ran into the table and the chair fell on top of you. Does anything else hurt?”
“Here.” She rubbed her hip.
“I shall take a look. First, let’s get you up and see if you can stand.”
“I wish I could see.”
“I know, dear. Perhaps you will someday.” Miranda lifted the child to her feet and guided her back into her bedchamber. She placed her on the edge of the bed and sat facing her, removing Phoebe’s day dress and sliding her shift down her arms to find a welt on her waist and another on her hip.
“I’m going to help you into your nightgown. Lie back and imagine you are floating on a fluffy cloud. Can you do that for me?”
Her head bobbed in a nod.
“Good. And when you are more relaxed, we shall have a conversation about what frightens you. I think I have discovered something important, but I’m not sure.” Miranda slid the silky nightdress over Phoebe’s head and smoothed it down over her legs. Tucking the covers around her, she lay down beside her and stroked her hand.
“When you are afraid, is it because you hear a sound you associate with fire?”
“The fire roars in my ears.”
“Phoebe, there is no fire here.”
“Then what is that noise?”
“You hear rain, just as the clouds open and the downpour descends. You think it is fire because a cloudburst has the same sound as a fire exploding to life. You cannot see the drops of water zigzagging down the window, or the puddles forming outside in the street. Daylight does not fade in your world, so you have no warning until water hits the roof or windows in what is often a thundering roar. I think the noise is what frightens you. A conflagration, much like the one you experienced, sounds the same.”
Miranda took a deep breath, squeezed the little hand in hers, and continued. “When I closed my eyes to rest, right here on this bed, I experienced a sound similar to one I once heard when dry pine boughs were placed on a bonfire. The noise was deafening, but I knew it wasn’t fire, it was pounding rain, which sometimes occurs with a fierce storm.”
The child’s brows were drawn together in concentration. “So now,” Miranda said, “when you hear the sound, do not scream. Tell yourself it is only rain, over and over, until you feel safe again. Can you do it?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” Phoebe’s voice was almost a whisper. “The raindrops outside were gentle and soft.”
“Yes, and they are in a steady pattern now. Squalls don’t last long. If you could see, you would understand immediately. It’s the loss of your sight causing the fear.”
Miranda got up and straightened her skirts. “Lie here and think about what I said, while I go downstairs and make a poultice for your welts. Do not turn over too quickly, because your body is going to be sore.”
“Miranda?”
“Yes?”
“How do you know so much?”
“About what?”
“How do you know about rain and how to take care of welts?” The question came in the middle of a yawn.
“Everyone knows about rain,” Miranda said. “As for welts, I was married to a doctor for five years, and I helped him take care of sick people.”
“Did you like it?”
“I liked helping them get better.”
“Are you still married?”
“No, dear. My husband died and is in heaven, just like your mama.”
“Do you think they know each other?”
“I suppose it is possible. Now, will you try to lie still for me?”
“Yes.”
Miranda kissed Phoebe’s smooth forehead and pulled the covers up to her chin. She shivered and rubbed her arms as she left the room. It was always chilly, but Phoebe wasn’t ready to experience a fire yet. She might have to before fall.
