His Badge, Her Baby...Their Family?. Stella Bagwell

got in the habit of chewing on them when I was first apprenticed to my uncle. His apothecary was a treasure of spices and sweet-tasting lozenges for a kid. He told me to eat these instead of the sweets. Better for my teeth and breath, he advised.

      “During the war, they helped alleviate the boredom on long marches across the plains of Spain and fooled the stomach into thinking it had been fed.”

      “You were with the army?”

      “As surgeon.”

      Jem stopped in front of a booth with a dartboard. The hawker immediately challenged them to try for the prizes. The children clamored for Jem and Ian to win them one.

      Jem was unsuccessful after three attempts. Ian paid the man in charge and took his three darts. Like Jem’s, his darts landed far from the bull’s-eye. He turned to the children with a shrug. “Sorry, no prizes today.”

      Mrs. Neville gave him a coy smile. “I hope your stitches in surgery are better than your aim.”

      Her silvery-gray eyes were looking up at him in teasing challenge, and it occurred to him she was flirting with him.

      He was accustomed to receiving unwanted attention from the many street women he attended in his practice, but they were derelict and only incited his pity. The heartfelt gratitude he received from other female patients or mothers of children he’d treated humbled him and made him all the more aware of the sacred trust between physician and patient. The only other women he dealt with were at the mission or chapel, modest and respectful in their comportment toward him.

      Mrs. Neville’s behavior was different. It was direct and demure at the same time, elegant and playful in one.

      “Mr. Russell is the finest surgeon.” Jem defended him immediately. “You wouldn’t want anyone else if you were going under the knife.”

      She chuckled, a sound rich and charming like warm caramel. “I’ll try to remember that when I need someone to cut me open and stitch me up. Now, I’ll show you how to win a prize.” She turned to the children. “Let’s see, how many are there of you?” she asked the children as if she hadn’t seen already. “Three only? That means one prize for each.”

      They yelled in excitement. Calmly, she turned to the man at the booth. “I shall need three darts, if you please.” She gave him a coin and received her three darts.

      The children began hopping up and down, pointing to the things they wanted to win.

      “Now, you must hush.” She put her finger to her lips and bent toward them. “Be very, very still so I can concentrate and win your prizes for you.” Wide-eyed in wonder, they promptly fell silent. Ian couldn’t help smiling at the immediate obedience Mrs. Neville’s words invoked in the children. At the same time he wondered if it was wise getting their hopes up.

      She turned to the dartboard and hefted the three darts in her hand, as if determining their weight. She chose one and brought it up level to her face, pointing it toward the round board. The crowds behind were forgotten as the attention of their party was focused on the black center of the dartboard.

      Breaths held, they watched as, after an interminable few seconds, she threw the dart.

      It arced, then descended and, with a soft thud, landed firmly within the bull’s-eye. The children erupted in shouts of triumph.

      She paid them no attention, as her hands once again toyed with the remaining darts.

      “Beginner’s luck! Beginner’s luck!” the owner of the booth chanted. “Let’s try for two in a row. Can’t make two in a row.”

      Other patrons, waiting for their turn, took up the chant. The noise brought more people to the booth.

      Mrs. Neville ignored them as she took aim again. The crowd fell silent as if collectively holding its breath.

      Another tense few seconds went by, before whoosh and bull’s-eye.

      The cheers were louder this time. Some of the children couldn’t contain their excitement, but jumped higher, clutching at the railing of the booth. Ian glanced at the owner of the stand, who was the only one not looking pleased at the victory.

      “Here, now, you watch it,” warned the owner sternly to the boisterous children. “I don’t want my stand comin’ to pieces.”

      Ian gently held them back from the railing and told them to be still for the last turn.

      Mrs. Neville moistened her lips briefly, the only sign that she was feeling anything other than perfectly calm. The last dart was held lightly in her fingertips. Slowly, it rose to eye level.

      It flew through the empty space and landed at dead center, right between the other two darts.

      The crowd shouted and applauded.

      “I never seen such an aim. And a lady, too!”

      “That’s the actress, Eleanor Neville.”

      “She’s a wonder.”

      “Amazing.”

      As if oblivious of the compliments being thrown around her, she bent down to the three children and asked them to tell her which toys they wanted. They pointed to the desired objects. She turned to the stern-faced proprietor, who had taken out the darts and held them in his hand, and calmly told him her choice of prizes.

      With a jerk, he took the toys off the shelf and slammed them on the counter, a Bartholomew baby doll for the girl, a wooden dog covered with patches of fur for one of the boys, and a yo-yo for the other.

      The children grabbed them and chattered happily as they were led away by the adults.

      “You’ve made a few children happy for the day,” Ian remarked as they continued down the street.

      “You say they hang about the dispensary.”

      “Yes. The whole neighborhood is full of children.” She made no reply. “Mrs. Neville, where did you learn such an accurate aim?”

      She smiled. “Oh, I’ve thrown a lot of darts in my life. I told you I started out my career at street fairs.” She nodded up ahead. “See the acrobats? I was cutting capers and walking on ropes since I was fourteen. We traveled from village to village and town to town. There was ample time to play darts at taverns or just nail the board to a tree when we had to camp out on a meadow.”

      He listened, finding it hard to imagine such a fashionably dressed young lady up on a makeshift stage doing acrobatic tricks.

      They ambled down the street, stopping frequently. The children watched in awe a juggler tossing balls in the air. Another player balanced a ball at the end of a stick.

      “I’ve done it all. Even equestrian feats. That’s how I started at the Surrey.”

      “And now?”

      “Now? I have lead roles in the melodramas, only we mustn’t call them melodramas, only burlettas, or we might lose our license. The royal theaters at Drury Lane and Covent Garden are the only ones permitted to put on straight dramatic works.”

      “I didn’t think there was much difference,” he said drily. He knew enough of the theater to know that in recent years the Drury Lane and Covent Garden were known to put on bigger and bigger extravaganzas instead of pure classical dramas.

      “Strictly speaking, anything the minor theaters put on must be set to music, with no spoken lines permitted. But you’re right, there is less and less distinction between the majors and minors. Still, we must watch how we bill our performances or we could be shut down.”

      A pastry vendor came by, swinging the tray suspended from his neck back and forth. “Tasty hot pasties. A ha’pence each, penny for two. Come and have a meat pasty!”

      Ian stopped the man and bought the children each a bulging meat pastry. He turned to Mrs. Neville. “Would you care for one?”

      “No, thank you. I eat