herself?
She put on the clean chemise, drawers and stockings Mrs. Tibbet handed to her. There was no sign of any corset, but she didn’t need one when she slipped on the white dress and saw it was fashioned in the Empire silhouette, a style that had been popular decades ago. Made of cotton and embroidered silk, the dress floated over her body, as gauzy and delicate as a cloud. The frock was simply beautiful, something a well-to-do young lady would possess, and she, plain Nellie Barchester, with red scars crisscrossing her cheeks and a disfigured hand, had no business appropriating it. But there were no other clothes for her to wear, and Mrs. Tibbet was already fastening the buttons down the rear of the dress.
“Eh, you do look a treat,” the housekeeper said with some satisfaction as she handed a pair of cream slippers to Nellie.
Nellie fingered the intricate embroidery, marvelling at its fineness. “But whose dress is this?” As far as she knew, Mrs. Tibbet was the only other female in this house.
“Why, yours of course!” Mrs. Tibbet stared at her. “The master will be pleased to see you in his favourite dress.” Before Nellie could question her further, the strange little housekeeper bustled out of the room.
What on earth could Mrs. Tibbet have meant? It made no sense at all.
Nellie’s hand shook as she opened the door. For a moment the familiarity of her room pulled her back, but she stepped out with a firm tread and made her way downstairs. To her relief, Julian stood waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.
“Mrs. Tibbet advised me you’d be coming down.” He greeted her with a smile, and she found herself smiling back in return. Now that she was upright, his handsomeness hit her afresh. Besides being tall and graceful, his unruly black hair and golden skin lent him a certain exotic air, and there was a spark in his jet black eyes as he surveyed her. “You look very well,” he added.
She smoothed down the front of her dress uncertainly. “I’m not sure who this dress belongs to. Mrs. Tibbet seemed to think it was your favourite…?”
“Mine?” Julian looked startled before his expression cleared. “Oh, I think she might have been referring to my father, there. You see, that dress belonged to his late wife. She passed away many years ago, hence the outmoded style of the frock. Mrs. Tibbet gets confused at times.”
“I understand. But won’t your father mind me wearing his late wife’s clothing? I wouldn’t want to cause any distress.”
“Elijah won’t mind in the least, I assure you. He was called out early, so we breakfast alone.” He ushered her into a dining room. Here, ancient oak beams, timber panelling, dark furniture and faded carpets all conspired against the wintry sunlight leaching through leaded windows. Opaque portraits of long-dead ancestors peered down at them from the walls. Thick velvet curtains were drawn back, revealing a rambling, frostbitten garden beyond.
When Mrs. Tibbet set a platter of beef rib roast on the table, Nellie stared in surprise, but Julian appeared quite unperturbed. “Thank you, Mrs. Tibbet.” He waited until the housekeeper had departed before addressing Nellie. “As I said, Mrs. Tibbet becomes confused about certain matters, especially when it comes to meal times. We are just as likely to get roast pork for breakfast as we are bacon and eggs, and similarly so at dinner.”
Mrs. Tibbet returned with roast potatoes, stuffed onions and gravy. Julian carved some beef for Nellie and passed her the plate. She could eat only a few bites of meat and potato, her stomach rebelling against the rich fare. Fortunately, the housekeeper had also provided a pot of tea, and she poured herself a large, reviving cup.
“Do you come from a long line of doctors?” she asked, tilting her head towards the portraits on the wall.
Julian blinked at the paintings as if seeing them for the first time. “No indeed. Most of those men were wily aldermen and councillors. The Darkes rose to prominence during the Civil War. A tricky time for staking allegiances, but the Darkes managing to alter tack as the prevailing winds changed, so to speak.” He paused, an odd look on his face. “Perhaps I should clarify that my father adopted me when I was just a babe, so I’m a Darke by name, but not by birth.”
“Oh.” Not knowing quite how to respond, she found herself blurting out, “My father is a doctor too.”
“Your father?” Julian’s eyebrows shot up. “I hadn’t heard you mention him before. Will he not be anxious about you? Do you wish to send him a message?”
Flustered, she dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Er, no, that would only cause unnecessary alarm. I— he lives in the Midlands, you see, and knows nothing about—about me being in London.”
And even if he did, he wouldn’t care, except to curse her for deserting him. Once, he’d been a kind enough parent, but after her mother’s death he’d retreated, gradually losing himself in a haze of opiates, until there was nothing left of him except a bitter, selfish husk. No, she could never return to him or that life.
“Is there anyone else you wish to contact?” Julian asked. “Anyone else who might be concerned about you?”
This wasn’t the first time he’d asked her, and just like before she shook her head. She couldn’t contact Pip. Not yet. A part of her longed to think Pip would be distraught over her sudden disappearance, but that was the romantic fool in her. She had to be sure of her facts before she revealed herself to him. And besides, there was another, far more primitive, reason for her reluctance. Of their own volition her fingers strayed to her cheeks and traced the bumpy outline of her cicatrix. How would Pip react to her flawed face, her disfigured hand? He used to call her his buttercup, his sweet pea. But what would he call her now—goblin, troll?
With a shiver she balled her napkin in her lap. “No, there is no one.”
“You’re recently arrived in London then?” Across the table Julian’s expression softened. He had beautiful eyes, dark, almond-shaped, fringed by thick lashes. And he gazed upon her without the slightest trace of revulsion, in fact, almost the opposite, as if he enjoyed looking at her. But then, he was a doctor, and she was his patient. No doubt he was only admiring his handiwork.
Again she nodded. “I, er, have been looking for work. I’ve some experience as a nurse.” Pip had objected to the idea. Even though they were living in penury, he couldn’t countenance the thought of her labouring for a wage.
“I suppose you assisted your father with his patients?”
“As much as I could.” Increasingly her father had come to rely on her. The governors of the asylum were none too particular about the medical attention given to the patients, but some semblance of competency had to be maintained. Her father’s slide into dissipation had been gradual, but as it worsened she feared his ineptness would be uncovered and they would be thrown out on the street. So, bit by bit, she’d taken over much of her father’s routine duties, and as long as the patients were kept docile, the wardens had seen fit to look the other way. Since she had left, her father would have to fend for himself, a fact he’d be none too happy with. If he’d been more of a father to her, if he’d at least protected her from the abhorrent advances of Mr. Crawley, she might have stayed. But it was all too late for speculation.
“However, I doubt I’ll find much employment now.” She lifted her left hand and ruefully waggled her remaining fingers. “My hand is not much use, and my appearance is enough to give a child nightmares.”
“Don’t lose all hope, Miss Barchester. You’re only at the beginning of your rehabilitation. I predict you’ll be more sanguine in a week or so.”
His confident tone made her study him curiously. “Have you been practicing long, Doctor?”
“A number of years. I’d spent some time studying at Edinburgh University, but returned here to assist my father. He’s involved with setting up a new hospital nearby, and cannot see as many patients as before, so I’ve taken up the slack, so to speak.”
She was impressed, as the medical school in Edinburgh was renowned for its research in anatomy and surgery. She could not have asked for a better-qualified physician to operate on her damaged face.
Julian set down his knife and fork and wiped his chin with his napkin. “Now, if you’ve finished breakfasting, I shall show you the rest of the house.”
Monksbane House, as it was called, had started off several centuries ago as a small Tudor manor, and over the years successive owners had demolished bits and added other wings in haphazard fashion. Julian led Nellie through a maze of rooms, some surprisingly spacious and airy, others so cramped he had to bend his head to avoid the ancient, blackened beams. Generations of Darkes had left behind a multitude of furniture, paintings, porcelain and carpets, everything cluttered and dusty.
