across his forehead – in the front. He looked impatient.
She grabbed her bag and ignored the coat Sarah was holding out to her. Old people always thought you had to wear a coat or you’d catch a chill but she never felt the cold. For a moment she wondered what sort of state Sarah would be in when she got home but she pushed the thought away. It would good to be part of a proper family even if it was only for one evening. Perhaps Jessie’s mum would make shepherd’s pie and they could all sit around the telly and maybe she might even be asked to stay over.
She sat in the back of the car beside Jessie and looked at the little silver charm in the shape of padlock that was attached to Jessie’s mum’s handbag. It was a pretty little thing and Fen badly wanted to take it, so badly it felt as though her fingers were itching. In the end she never got the chance but when she went to the cloakroom later she found another silver charm just lying on the windowsill, this one shaped like a letter A. She took that instead. She didn’t like taking things from Jessie’s house but the urge was just too strong and in the end there was nothing she could do to resist. By the time Mrs Ross took her home she had also taken a little leather notebook and a nerdy-looking digital watch that probably belonged to Jessie’s brother. She didn’t like the watch; it was ugly, so she threw it in the bin as soon as she got home.
Chapter 2
Isabella
London, Late Spring 1763
‘Dr Baird is here, milady.’
Constance, my maid, held the bedchamber door wide for the physician to come in. Her gaze was averted. I knew she did not care for doctors, viewing them as akin to magicians. She would not meet Dr Baird’s gaze in case he cast a spell on her. Nor could she look at me that morning. She could not bear to see the effects of Eustace’s beatings. I did not mind for I had no desire to see pity in the eyes of a maidservant.
‘Good morning, Lady Gerard.’ Dr Baird, in contrast, had no difficulty in greeting me as though everything was quite normal. Perhaps this was his normality, tending to the battered wives of violent and syphilitic peers across London. I had no notion. It was not a matter I discussed with my acquaintance.
Only once had my cousin Maria confided that her husband had beaten her and then she had looked so mortified to be so indiscreet that she begged me to forget she had spoken.
‘Dr Baird.’ I did not try to smile. It hurt my face too much.
‘I was sorry to hear of your indisposition.’ He was sympathetic but brisk, placing his bag on the upright chair, crossing the room to come to my side. Dr Baird and I shared many secrets but he was not a man with whom I felt comfortable. He was too urbane, too accommodating. Often when he had been to visit me he took a glass of wine with Eustace in the library. Eustace was the one who paid his bills. I often wondered what they talked about, the viscount and the doctor. They were of an age, but their lives were so very different. Dr Baird was from a good family, I seemed to recollect, but they were poor.
He turned my face gently to the light that streamed in through the window so that he could see my injuries more clearly. His hand was warm against my cheek. It was quite pleasant and I forgot for a moment why he was there. Then I saw Constance flinch at the sight of my face and immediately I felt ashamed of how I looked and of people knowing.
‘Another fall?’ Dr Baird asked.
‘As you see.’
This was the fourth time he had been called to see me. On one occasion I had severe bruising to my arms, necessitating the wearing of unseasonably warm clothing all through a very hot June. On another I had been pregnant but thankfully had not lost the child.
‘Do you have any other injuries?’ His tone was bland, revealing no emotion. I studied his face, so close to mine, wanting to see a hint of something. Shock, perhaps. But Dr Baird had, I imagined, seen far worse sights than the one I presented and there was nothing to see there but professional concern.
‘Fortunately not this time,’ I said.
He nodded, opening his bag to take out a jar of ointment.
‘This should help you heal. It will take a few weeks.’
I did not reply. The scent of beeswax reached me, not quite strong enough to conceal the smell of something more rancid beneath. Dr Baird approached me, pot in one hand. As he leaned over me I could smell the scent of his body beneath the elegant clothes. It was not unpleasant but it felt too intimate being so close to him. It seemed my senses were too sharp today, as though my skin was too thin, my body vulnerable to a bombardment of sensation as a result of Eustace’s assault. The call of the birds outside was too loud, as was the rustle of cloth as Constance moved over to the window so that she did not have to watch the doctor ministering to me.
‘Lady Gerard. I feel you should…’ Dr Baird hesitated. In the waiting silence I thought: Do not let him say that I should be more careful, or I may have to break my teapot over his head, thereby requiring the physician to treat himself. But perhaps he would be right. Perhaps I should tread more quietly, turn a softer answer to Eustace’s fury, placate him. Yet if I did he would probably hit all the harder. He was perpetually angry and everything I did only served to feed his fury.
‘You should, perhaps, spend some time in the country.’ Dr Baird was not looking at me but was concentrating on delicately applying the ointment to the bruises and abrasions. I forced myself to keep quite still though it stung horribly. ‘It would be good for you, the fresh air, the change of scene.’ He stopped, his hand upraised for the next dab. It reminded me unpleasantly of Eustace and I recoiled instinctively.
‘Your pardon.’ Dr Baird resumed the dabbing. ‘Your husband…’ He paused again. ‘Is he away?’
‘Lord Gerard left for Paris this morning.’ With his latest mistress. Last night he beat me and forced himself on me, and today he takes his doxy abroad. I wondered about her sometimes; who she was, whether he treated her as he did me. I hoped he did for it would be intolerable to think there were women he cherished.
‘Then this is an ideal time in which to take some rest.’ Dr Baird smiled at me encouragingly. ‘Perhaps a family visit—’
‘No.’ I did not want to go to Moresby Hall, with its huge dark rooms cluttered with the spoils of war. I had hated Moresby as a child and even now as an adult, that dislike persisted. It was a vast, echoing barn of a house that was no home, only a mausoleum to my grandfather, a dead war hero. My brother lived there now but he had changed nothing and the house offered no comfort.
‘Perhaps not.’ Dr Baird had misunderstood me. ‘I appreciate that you might not wish to see anyone at the moment. But some time in the country might be restorative after the bustle of London.’
I glanced towards the window. Constance had pulled back the drapes and was looking out over the gardens now in order to avoid having to look at me. The window was open and a light summer breeze stirred the air. It was very quiet. I could hear no carriage wheels, nor voices; nothing to connect me to the world outside. London was light of company in the summer, of course, when most people were at their estates, and what company there was I could not be seen in, not with a face like this. Dr Baird was correct. The heaviest veil would not conceal Eustace’s handiwork and the most convincing story could not account for it.
I felt so tired all of a sudden. To go anywhere, to do anything, would be the most monstrous effort. Merely to think of it made me want to close my eyes and sleep.
‘Lady Gerard.’ Dr Baird’s voice prompted me. I wished he would cease nagging.
‘I will consider it.’
There was a crease of concern between his eyes. They were hazel in colour with very thick, dark lashes. I had not noticed before but now that I did I realised that he was a good-looking man.
‘I do feel,’ he said slowly, ‘that for the sake of your health you should consider speaking