Short in stature, Principal Surgeon Reginald Trask sat high in his chair behind a massive oak desk. His prematurely white hair flowed back from his forehead like plumage on an officer’s cap. Philip had gotten on well with Doctor Trask from their first meeting. Both having received their medical training in Scotland had served as an immediate bond.
“You do not trust any of the Shrewsbury surgeons, Philip? I daresay I may have trained some.”
“Yes, sir,” Philip replied. “I’m sure there are competent ones. But none that will care so much about the patient as I do.”
His father-in-law rested his chin upon steepled fingertips. “Is caring on the same level as skill?”
“I don’t know,” Philip confessed. “I only know that I must go. I regret very much the hardship this will cause.”
“We shall cope,” said the older man. “And I regret Florence and I were in Italy that time your parents visited. I enjoyed my chats with Vicar Phelps during the festivities surrounding your wedding. He must have been a good stepfather to you.”
Philip nodded as a memory swept over him. “Did you go to boarding school, Doctor Trask?”
“Of course.” He frowned, grew pensive. “A breeding ground for bullies. I was, naturally, smallish. I may as well have painted a target on my jacket. I wept into my pillow every night. They were the darkest years of my boyhood.”
“I had the same experience,” Philip said, “and was ashamed to tell my mother, when she had sacrificed so much to enroll me. One day I was out running laps around the building for simply defending myself, and a carriage pulled up in front of me. Andrew got out, said he was taking me back to Gresham.”
Doctor Trask’s brows raised. “What a wonderful kindness.”
“He wasn’t even my stepfather yet. Do you see now why I must be there for him?”
“I do,” Doctor Trask replied, his eyes actually watering behind the spectacles. He glanced away for an instant, cleared his throat. “Then I’ll detain you no longer. I know you want to look in on your cases. I’ll need to send a messenger to Florence. She’ll want to bid Loretta farewell.”
Philip hesitated. “Loretta isn’t coming.”
“But why not?”
“She has several appointments in place.”
Doctor Trask opened his mouth, closed it. Just when Philip was wondering if he should himself break the stilted silence, his father-in-law said, “Perhaps the time away will benefit you both. My prayers for Vicar Phelps go with you.”
Saying farewell to Ines and slipping out of the house before Loretta could wake, Aleda walked down to Notting Hill Gate and found a hackney cab. After dropping off her manuscript at the Argosy office on Oxford Street, and staying there much longer than she had intended, she gave the cabby an address on Bloomsbury Square, one block east of the British Museum.
Gabriel’s butler answered the door to the terrace house. “Why, Miss Hollis, is it?”
“In the flesh, Mr. Smithson,” Aleda replied.
“Mr. Patterson’s in the garden. Shall I lead you to him?”
“How about if I make my own way?”
“I shall bring out tea.”
“And some toast or cheese, perhaps?”
“Very good, madam.”
She was getting good at asking for food. Perhaps she was a beggar at heart. She walked through Gabriel’s tastefully appointed home, past a drawing room with overstuffed chairs and landscapes on serene teal green walls, a dining room with Belgian rug, oak table and chairs. Double French doors opened into a cozy world of greenery and trellises, flagstones and wooden benches, fish pond and vines creeping up stone walls.
She saw Gabriel Patterson’s thinning brown hair first, then the back of his portly frame, swathed in dressing gown and ensconced in a lawn chair. As she drew closer she could see his left hand penning lines across a folded sheet of foolscap.
“Gabriel?”
His shoulders jumped a little before he turned to face her. He smiled and rose, drawing the sash tighter around his middle.
“Aleda! I had the oddest feeling last night that I would see you soon, and here you are. Are you visiting Philip and Loretta?”
“Philip,” she replied. “And just last night. I slipped out of the house this morning before the duchess came down.”
He winced. “Aleda . . . she’s Philip’s wife.”
For how long? she thought. But not wishing to waste precious time with Gabriel on the subject of Loretta, she said, “I spent much of the morning in the Argosy offices. When my editors realized I was there to drop off my manuscript, they wanted to discuss extending the serial—about sending Captain Jacobs off to some new adventure.”
“Well, good for you.” He opened his arms. “And it’s wonderful to see you.”
She fit comfortably into his arms, then stepped back, lest she give him false hopes. They had gotten all that business settled two years ago.
“Don’t grieve yourself, Aleda,” he said lightly. “Friends embrace, too.”
Embarrassed and relieved at the same time, she said, “Then I’ll have another.”
But instead he smacked a kiss upon her forehead and said, “Naughty girl. You’ve caught me in my dressing gown. Can you entertain yourself while I change?”
She strayed a glance to his manuscript pages. “I’ll think of something.”
“Sorry, no peeking before it’s polished. I don’t want you to think I’m a hack.”
As if, Aleda thought. Gabriel could write circles around her. And the popularity of his novels, adventures set in Roman Britain, proved it.
He was wealthier than Croesus, and generous to a fault. Representatives of charities called often, well acquainted with his philanthropy. Sometimes she thought she was foolish for not accepting his proposal of marriage. He would make a wonderful husband.
But just as Brutus had said of Caesar and Rome, it was not that she loved Gabriel less, it was that she loved independence more.
Was there not any sharp London woman willing to look beyond the less-than-perfect physique and value the gold of his heart more than his bank account? But where would he have met her? His forays beyond his house were limited to Bloomsbury Chapel and occasional ambles through the museum or an art gallery. Philip was practically his only caller, besides the charity representatives and his editors from Macmillan Publishers.
He returned in black trousers and white shirt, as she was munching happily on a croissant with a generous slice of ham tucked inside.
“You’re still against typewriters?” she asked.
He settled into a chair beside hers. “Shakespeare never owned one.”
“He never owned a water closet, either,” Aleda said, grateful for the opportunity to use the quip a second time.
Gabriel made a face at her. “Besides, you use a pen for your novel yourself. You’ve admitted such. How is it progressing?”
“I’m still polishing.”
“How many polishings does this make now?”
“Um. . . . I don’t remember.”
“Interesting,” he said.
“You’re not going to suggest that I don’t want to finish.”
“I only suggest that you’re more gifted than you think. That you do not have to fear editors. Or critics.”
Aleda bristled. “I’m not afraid of critics.”
“Then I’m mistaken,” he said graciously.
She loved him for it. They both knew the truth. Of what use to belabor it?
“Just bear in mind, I’ll be happy to read it and give you my opinion any time you wish.”
“Thank you,” she said, just as she said every time he made the offer.
He shrugged, and asked why she had come to London. He was saddened when she told him. “I’ve envied you and Philip . . . having such a father.”
It was rare that Gabriel spoke of his parents. But she had learned the family dynamics years ago, when fifteen-year-old Philip returned from a fortnight with the Pattersons in Birmingham. Doctor Patterson had praised her brother’s sports prowess and aspirations toward the medical field, while making barbs about Gabriel’s weight and desire to write.
Mrs. Patterson was as bad in her own way, cautioning Gabriel against exerting himself physically as if he were fragile, pushing food and sweets upon him as if a famine were imminent. It was a wonder he was able to break free to attend Oxford, and no wonder that he moved to London straight after commencement.
Later, over a simple but delicious lunch of asparagus soup, baked sole, crusty brown bread, and salad, and the anticipation of a not-so-simple chocolate cheesecake ahead, Gabriel asked about her cottage. She took him audibly from room to room.
“You must come see it sometime.” She frowned. “I just hope my belongings are still there.”
“Go on . . .”
She told him of happening upon the coach, and Mrs. Libby and her daughter.
“Brummies?” he said, referring to the nickname often given to Birmingham natives. “How interesting. But you just left them, knowing no one?”
She slurped a spoonful of soup. “I was pressed for time.”
“Hmm. What if this Mrs. Libby manufactured the whole situation? What if she’s an aspiring author, intent upon stealing your manuscript?”
“But how would she know of my family’s friendship with Vicar Treves?”
“Let’s see.” Gabriel mused for a second or two, then snapped his fingers. “She was a servant in his household and heard your family being spoken of as she served tea.”
Aleda nodded. “And in the course of dusting his desk, she copied his signature and forged a letter.”
“She’s so desperate that she stole an orphan from the streets. Who could turn away a mother and child?”
“I’m not sure about that one. They both have very red hair.”
“Orphans can’t have red hair?” Gabriel countered.
“Touché.” They exchanged smiles of mutual fondness, and Aleda thought it was a pity that she did not live in London. With her determined nature, she could find him a good wife.
Double pity, that she could not do the same for her brother.
Gabriel’s voice cut into her thoughts. “Do you mind if I accompany you and Philip back to Gresham?”
She straightened in her chair. “You’d be most welcome.”
“Not to be in the way, mind you. But I’d like to be there for your father’s surgery. I’ll stay at the Bow and Fiddle.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Your parents don’t need houseguests. And you already have some.”
Aleda sighed. “I’ll just put them up at the inn until we figure out what to do with them.”
“Yes?” Gabriel’s brows lifted. “And have it bandied about that you’ve an unchaperoned gent under your roof? That would hasten your father’s recovery. I’ll be happy with the inn. That’s what it’s there for.”
“Very well,” she conceded.
“And as long as I’m there . . .”
“Yes?”
“You might reconsider allowing me to read a chapter or two of your book?”
“Gabriel . . .”
“Just give it some thought. You have to put a toe in the water sometime, Aleda.”