Night at the opera, p.11
Night at the Opera, page 11
With steps as hurried as she could make them, she returned downstairs to wait for Mr. Winfield’s carriage. Her mother, who was writing letters in the drawing room, glanced up as Gwen crossed the foyer.
“Gwen! Where on earth are you going?”
She drew herself up straight. “I’m going on a drive.”
“Alone?” Cornelia’s tone was full of horror. Apparently she’d adopted the English views on such things as unmarried young ladies riding alone in carriages.
Gwen saw no use in pointing out how often she’d done just that in their carriage back home. Instead she shook her head and moved toward the door. “Mr. Winfield is accompanying me—in his open carriage.”
“Winfield?” Cornelia called back loudly. “We met him at Lady Linwood’s home, didn’t we?” She didn’t wait for Gwen to respond. “I learned last night that he’s the nephew of a duke.”
She could practically hear her mother’s calculating thoughts from one room away. “Yes, he is. I’ll be back in a while.” Gwen managed a smile for the butler, who opened the door for her.
Her mother suddenly appeared in the drawing room doorway. “What a clever plan, Gwen.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Giving your other suitors some competition by going for a drive with Mr. Winfield. It’s a splendid maneuver.”
Frowning, Gwen glanced at the butler. The man, of course, pretended not to be listening. But Gwen knew better. While Jenkins and a few of the other servants back home were loyal and discreet regarding her comings and goings, her aunt and uncle’s staff had no reason to be the same.
“I’m not trying to give anyone competition, Mother.”
“Nonsense.” Cornelia waved her hand impatiently. “You have three men who seem besotted with you. However, this will serve as a small reminder to them that they aren’t the only ones vying for your affections. You have other interested suitors.”
Mr. Winfield was certainly not her suitor. He might be easy to talk with sometimes, and he was unarguably handsome, but she didn’t fully trust him either. Not after the mercurial way he’d behaved around her. He thought little of her faith too. However, she saw no point in explaining all of that to her mother. Not when there was a more pressing issue to be established.
“Lord Whitson, Mr. Fipwish, and Mr. Hanbury may enjoy my company, but the feeling isn’t mutual.” She added in a quieter tone, “It’s still my decision if and whom I marry.”
Her mother’s eyebrows shot upward, then her gaze narrowed. “That may be true in part, Gwenyth.” Cornelia’s voice had taken on a warning edge. “But you mustn’t forget your rightful place as the daughter of a Barton. Or that your father has the right to change his will at any time, regarding your inheritance. Especially if you refuse to marry someone who meets with our approval.”
“I won’t forget,” she countered with quiet firmness. Movement through the open front door pulled her attention in that direction. Mr. Winfield’s carriage and driver were here. “Goodbye, Mother. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
Gwen didn’t wait for a reply. Keeping her head lifted as she descended the front steps, she fought to release the sting of her mother’s parting words. And the despair that accompanied the reminder that she still wasn’t as in control of her life as she wished to believe. She could lose all of her inheritance, especially if—as her mother put it—Gwen refused to marry someone they deemed worthy. Of course her cousin Dean would likely agree to employ her at the orphanage, but her financial help would surely be of greater benefit to them and the children than her physical help.
Mr. Winfield had alighted from the carriage and stood waiting for her. “Good afternoon, Miss Barton.”
She mustered up a smile. “Good afternoon.” The driver handed her inside.
“Now then, where are we off to?” Mr. Winfield asked as he took the seat opposite hers.
Gwen gave the driver the address to Dr. Smithfield’s office. A few moments later, the carriage joined the other traffic along the street. She sensed Mr. Winfield’s gaze on her as she glanced out her side of the vehicle.
“How are you today?”
“I’m well, thank you,” she answered without looking at him.
His low chuckle had her turning to face him. “Miss Barton, given all we discussed last night and that I am now accompanying you on a rather mysterious errand, I would hope you could be as refreshingly honest with me today as you have been in the past.”
“Refreshingly honest?” She couldn’t help returning his laugh. “Is that what you’re calling it now?”
He shrugged and gave her a lazy smile. “I believe that sounds far more polite than shockingly frank, don’t you?”
“Agreed.” Gwen relaxed against the cushioned seat as she pondered how to honestly respond to his inquiry about how she fared. “I feel a little weary after another at-home day.”
Mr. Winfield dipped his head in a thoughtful nod. “More than five minutes with Lord Whitson or Mr. Fipwish often leaves a person feeling that way.”
“We had other callers.” Her cheeks heated with a blush as Gwen realized how arrogant that must sound. “What I mean is that Mr. Hanbury called on us today too, along with several new friends of my mother’s.”
“Mr. Hanbury is a suitor of yours?” The sudden interest in his voice didn’t make sense to her.
She watched the other carriages moving along the street. “My mother would call him that.”
“What sort of a chap is he?”
Gwen lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I’m not really sure. He speaks very little, but there’s been at least one time when he acted kindly towards me. Like the others, he doesn’t seem bothered by my limp either.” She hadn’t exactly meant to share that last thought aloud.
“Why should it bother anyone?” he asked, causally leaning back into the corner of his seat.
After taking a moment to study his face, Gwen was relieved to find no flippancy there. “The bachelors back home weren’t keen on the prospect of their would-be bride limping about the house.” Her thoughts turned to Randolph and brought a prick of old pain. Before she knew what she was doing, she was sharing the story with Mr. Winfield.
“During my first season in New York, I was seriously courted for six weeks by one young man. But when he discovered I had a limp, he promptly engaged himself to another girl. She didn’t have an impediment, physically or socially, since her family was a part of New York’s most elite circle.”
His brow had furrowed as she relayed her past, but Gwen didn’t expect the question he asked. “How could this gentleman not have known you had a limp at any point during those six weeks?”
She blushed again. “Because at the time I was heeding my mother’s counsel to disguise my limp.” But she wasn’t doing that ever again. “If I walk with small steps, I can hide it. And when asked to dance, I would feign some excuse.”
“Yet you didn’t do that the other night.”
He spoke it as a statement, but she nodded anyway. “I’m not hiding it this season.” She lowered her gaze to her gloves. “My mother was furious when she found that out the other week. But she’s relented since then.” At least as far as Gwen’s injured foot was concerned. Securing marriage to a titled gentleman was still a different matter altogether, especially after Cornelia had realized as Gwen had that the bachelors in London didn’t care a whit about her limp—only about her bank account.
From the corner of her eye, she watched Mr. Winfield reach across the space between the seats. He lightly touched her gloved hand before sitting back, but the connection still inspired the same stirring effect inside Gwen that she’d experienced last night when he had clasped her arm to prevent her from falling.
She could recall feeling this way only one other time in her life—after that wonderful kiss in the opera box. Could Mr. Winfield be the injured man she’d helped? His choice of words last night, about it not boding well for them to be seen leaving the library together, had sparked a memory from the opera. The man in the box had used a similar turn of phrase. And yet, Gwen couldn’t completely reconcile that gentleman with the one seated before her.
If the stranger had been Mr. Winfield, he certainly wouldn’t have kissed her back. He likely would have reprimanded her for her bold, unladylike behavior at reviving him.
“It takes a great deal of courage,” Mr. Winfield said, bringing Gwen’s thoughts back to the present, “to be who and what we really are.”
The wise, almost caring, statement warmed her. “Thank you.” For a man who could be rather pointed in his questioning, he was also proving to be a rather good listener too. “What about you, Mr. Winfield?”
“What about me?” His blasé tone belied the tightening of the lines on his forehead.
Making sure to lower her voice to a whisper, Gwen said, “I’d think your profession capitalizes on you being anything but who and what you really are.”
The man appeared momentarily at a loss for words. “You are correct, Miss Barton,” he murmured after a long moment.
Something unnamed passed between them when he fully met her gaze. But it was gone the instant the carriage settled to a stop. They’d arrived at the office of Dr. Smithfield.
“This is it.” Gwen gestured to the stone building before Avery climbed down and assisted her to the sidewalk.
He led the way up the steps. “Is this Dr. Smithfield an acquaintance of yours?”
“Not yet.” Mr. Winfield opened the door for her. “You see,” Gwen told him in hushed tones to avoid being overheard by the clerk seated at the nearby desk, “Dr. Smithfield specializes in the care of children who have suffered long-term illness or injury.”
He followed her into the small foyer. “Your mother doesn’t deem this errand worthy enough for her to accompany you, though?”
“Something like that. You have to understand something, Mr. Winfield. In America, no one finds it improper for an unmarried young lady to ride alone in a carriage. I’m accustomed to attending to this type of errand alone.”
She didn’t wait for his response and instead approached the clerk. “Good afternoon. I’m Gwen Barton. Is Dr. Smithfield in?”
“Ah, you again,” the clerk said, lifting his head from the book he’d been reading. “You dropped in last week, didn’t you?”
Gwen smiled, though she couldn’t tell if the clerk was simply stating a fact or was displeased by her unaccompanied, impromptu visit the week before. “Yes. We’d like just a few minutes with the doctor, if he’s around this afternoon.” She waved a hand to encompass Mr. Winfield, who stood watching the exchange.
The young man sized him up, then stood and circled the desk. “The doctor’s ’ere. But I don’t know if ’e’s even got a few minutes to spare for questions. I’ll see.”
Hopefully they wouldn’t be turned away. “We appreciate it.”
“Are you here to ask him about your foot?” Mr. Winfield asked her from behind.
“If there’s time,” she admitted. “I’d really like to know more about his work and how we can implement some of his practices at my cousin’s orphanage back home.”
“This orphanage is quite important to you.”
“It is.” Purpose and enthusiasm rose inside her, along with a feeling of homesickness for Heartwell House and its young occupants. “Most of the children there have been the victims of accidents like my own or of childhood illnesses. We want to find a doctor who better understands these cases to help us in our work.”
Mr. Winfield regarded her silently again as he pocketed his hands. “You are unlike any other society miss I’ve met, Miss Barton.” He added in a quieter voice, as though it were an afterthought, “Save one.”
What did he mean? And who was this other society miss? There was no time to ask him, though, because the clerk had returned. “Dr. Smithfield will see you both now. You ’ave ten minutes.”
“We’ll take it,” Gwen said, throwing a smile over her shoulder at Mr. Winfield as she fell in line behind the clerk.
*
“It was my younger brother’s childhood fight with illness that initially inspired my desire to become a doctor . . .”
Avery tried to pay attention to Dr. Smithfield, but his focus kept straying to Miss Barton. Perched on the edge of her chair, she listened to the doctor with open interest. A lock of her dark hair had fallen across her forehead, eliciting a bizarre wish in him to brush it aside and touch her smooth cheek. It was this same unexplainable yet pleasant longing that had compelled him to cover her hand with his own in the carriage earlier.
Clearing his throat, Avery twisted slightly in his chair to study the framed paintings and the clock displayed on the wall. But he couldn’t stop recalling Miss Barton’s vulnerable expression as she’d talked about her past and her decision to be herself. For a man such as him, trained to see past the pretense and hidden agenda of others, he continued to be surprised by Miss Barton’s authenticity.
Of course there were others in his life who were also genuine—Mack, Linwood, his grandmother. But Avery had never met a young woman who was herself around him. He both applauded and feared the idea. If he spent more time in the company of Miss Barton, would she come to expect him to be himself too? And if he were himself, who would he be?
He shifted in his chair at the disconcerting question, unsure if it was the question itself or his inability to answer it that he found most uncomfortable. Avery glanced at Miss Barton again. He wasn’t surprised she had a handful of suitors or that they weren’t appalled by her limp. Certainly their interest wasn’t just because of her beauty and her money, though. At least he hoped not. These other men would be fools if they couldn’t see her strength, compassion, or clever sense of humor.
For reasons Avery could only chalk up to momentary insanity, he allowed himself to consider what it might be like to be one of Miss Barton’s suitors. She would obviously have the means to help Beechwood Manor, though that wouldn’t be his reason for courting her. Despite some of their more charged conversations, he liked being in her company. He could almost relax in her presence. Almost felt himself.
He mentally shook his head at the direction of his thoughts. Why was he even entertaining such an idea? He didn’t wish to court or marry. Not if it meant giving up his position with Captain Kell. How many seasons had he already endured without the slightest inclination to align himself with a young lady? This year he’d already experienced that pull twice—after his encounter with the girl in the opera box and now with Miss Barton.
The young clerk popped his head into the room and coughed. “Your next appointment is ’ere, Dr. Smithfield.”
“Yes, of course.” The man rose to his feet. “Is there anything else you wish to know, Miss Barton?”
She stood as Avery did, casting a hesitant look toward the open door of the office. Through it, Avery could see a husband, wife, and their young daughter, her arm tied up in a bandage, waiting for the doctor in the entry hall.
“No . . . not today.” Miss Barton took a step toward the door. “Thank you, Dr. Smithfield.”
She moved across the room, her limping gait now familiar. Avery followed in her wake. Miss Barton paused long enough beside the girl to give her a sincere smile. Although the gesture wasn’t directed at him, Avery still found himself smiling in return, as the child did.
“You didn’t ask him about your foot,” he said in a low voice as he opened the front door for her.
Hesitancy filled her gaze once more, along with a flash of what he suspected might be disappointment. “There wasn’t time. I didn’t even ask about his other colleagues who might do similar work in New York.” She faced forward and slowly descended the stairs. “I suppose I’ll have to figure out a way to come back.”
“We’ll figure out a way to come back.” Avery gently clasped her elbow to detain her at the bottom of the stone staircase.
He thought he heard her take a quick breath, and yet she didn’t pull away. Rather she lifted her chin to peer at him from beneath the brim of her hat. Avery wondered why he’d never noticed until this moment that her eyes held glints of gold too, among the warm brown and cool green colors. If only he’d been able to see the eyes or the face of the girl from the opera box . . .
“Y-you want to come back with me?”
With a nod, Avery released her arm and took a much-needed step backward. “Of course. I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I didn’t extend my offer of help as long as it is required.”
“Well, then, thank you.”
He sensed the gratitude behind her words, but she hadn’t smiled as she’d voiced them. If anything, her lips had tightened into a worried line. Had he somehow offended her? Avery sincerely hoped he hadn’t. Accompanying her a few more times to see this doctor seemed a paltry price to pay for her agreement to remain silent about his espionage work. And yet perhaps there was something more he could do to show his appreciation.
A recollection from the Stouts’ ball returned to Avery’s mind. “Given this errand of yours took very little time, would you be interested in seeing St. Paul’s Cathedral before I return you to your aunt’s?”
“You mean we can go see it right now?” Her expression lit with excitement and hope.
Avery chuckled. “Yes, Miss Barton. We can visit the cathedral right now.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
She stepped closer to him. Almost as if she meant to reward his suggestion with a kiss on the cheek or a friendly embrace, right here on the street, however improper it might be. But then she simply offered him a delightful smile and walked to where his driver held the carriage door open. After helping Miss Barton into the vehicle, Avery instructed his driver to take them to St. Paul’s Cathedral.
