The Healing Season. Ruth Axtell Morren

Royal Circus,” his uncle repeated with a fond smile, taking a seat on a high stool across from Ian. “My parents used to take me there as a boy when it was an amphitheater. It rivaled Astley’s equestrian acts. It’s not too far from here, on Surrey. Haven’t you ever been?”

      “No,” Ian replied shortly. His uncle well knew he never went to the theater. He had little time for acrobats and tumblers.

      His uncle rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Now they put on melodramas and musical operas—burlettas, I think they call them. It was renamed the Surrey for a while under Elliston. Then Dibdin took over its management a few years ago and gave it back its original name.”

      “You sound quite the expert on the theatrical world.”

      “Oh, no, although I do enjoy a good comedy or drama now and then.” His uncle gave him a keen look under his graying brows. “It wouldn’t do you any harm to get out and enjoy some entertainment from time to time. You’ll kill yourself working and found you’ve hardly made a dent in humanity’s suffering.”

      “I’ll tell that to the queue of patients waiting for me at the dispensary the next time.”

      Uncle Oliver chuckled. “Just send them over to me. Jem and I will fix them up.”

      “Most of them can’t afford the hospital’s fee.”

      “So, tell me more of Eleanor Neville. I imagine she is young and pretty.”

      Ian shut his case and set it on the floor. “Yes, you could describe her as young and pretty.”

      His uncle folded his hands in front of him and leaned toward Ian as if prepared for a lengthy discourse. “You are making me envious. To meet a renowned actress who is both young and pretty. What did the two of you find to talk about?”

      Ian frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

      “Well, I can’t imagine your telling her about your latest dissection, much less the doctrines of Methodism. And I feel you wouldn’t want to hear too much about what goes on in the theater world.”

      “So, you think I have no conversation?” He took up the black marble mortar and pestle and began pounding at the chamomile flowers his uncle had left in it.

      “Not at all. I’m just curious how you spent your afternoon with Miss Neville.”

      “She introduced herself as Mrs. Neville, but she explained later that she wasn’t married, that it was merely a stage name.” His pounding slowed as he thought about it again.

      “Unmarried, eh? It gets more and more interesting. You know, Ian, I’ve told you before, you need to find yourself some female companionship. It’s time you were married and settled in a real home and not just some rooms next door to your dispensary.”

      Ian couldn’t help laughing. “When did we get from meeting an actress to settling down?”

      His uncle didn’t return the smile. “Perhaps when it’s the only young woman I’ve heard you mention in I don’t know how long. I’m grasping at the proverbial straw.”

      “Well, you can let it go. I met Mrs. Neville purely by chance and, I assure you, I’m unlikely to see her again, except in the course of my work, if our—er—mutual patient takes a turn for the worse.” Ian began explaining the events that had led up to their meeting, in an effort to divert his uncle’s attention from Mrs. Neville.

      After Ian finished describing the night’s struggle to save Miss Simms, his uncle got up from the stool and rummaged in his various drawers and Albarello jars, mixing together a variety of dried herbs. He came back with a small sack for Ian.

      “Mix an infusion of this and have her drink it as often as possible throughout the course of the day. It should help with the bleeding.”

      Ian took it and put it with the other prescriptions. “Thank you.”

      “Speaking of your life,” his uncle continued. “I’ve been thinking of talking with the board here at St. Thomas’s. They could use another instructor in pathology. Why don’t you curtail some of your patient load and take on additional teaching work? It would leave you more time for research.”

      Ian rubbed his temples. It was a familiar suggestion. “I am satisfied with my work as it is, as you well know.”

      “You would ultimately help more people if you could continue working in the laboratory and at the dissection table.”

      Ian walked away from his uncle and stopped at the small dormer window overlooking the courtyard of the great hospital. He munched on a cardamom seed he took from the bag in his pocket as he watched a few students crisscrossing the courtyard’s length on their way to an evening lecture.

      It didn’t help that his uncle knew Ian almost better than he knew himself. Uncle Oliver had become like a second father to Ian, when as a lad of thirteen Ian had begun his apprenticeship under him. Except for the war years and his time spent walking the wards at La Charité in Paris, Ian had been primarily under his uncle’s tutelage since he’d left home.

      He turned back to Uncle Oliver. “I must be going. I still have to look in on the young woman before calling it a day.”

      His uncle, as usual, knew when it was time to end a conversation. The two bid each other good night, and Ian descended the stairs. With a final wave to Jem, who was sweeping the floor before leaving for the evening, Ian exited the apothecary shop.

      When he reached the main road, he saw the mist rising on the river in the distance.

      He turned in the opposite direction and continued walking but soon his steps slowed. If he turned down any one of the narrow streets on his right, they’d take him to Maid Lane. It would be less than a mile to New Surrey Street. There Mrs. Eleanor Neville was probably preparing to step onto the stage. He pictured the lights and raucous crowds. He imagined her cultured voice raised above the audience.

      Giving his head a swift shake to dispel the images, he picked up his pace and headed on his way.

      Life was full enough as it was. He had no need to go looking for trouble.

      When Eleanor finally left her dressing room that night, exhausted yet exhilarated after her performance, she walked toward the rear entrance of the theater where she knew her carriage awaited her. She gave her coachman instructions to stop at Betsy’s before going home.

      She was afraid the landlady wouldn’t open, but after several minutes, someone finally heeded her coachman’s loud knocking.

      “It’s late to be paying calls,” the woman snapped.

      “I’m looking in on my friend.”

      “That Betsy Simms? She ought to be thrown in the magdalen! This ain’t no house of ill repute.”

      “I’m sure it isn’t,” Eleanor replied acidly, walking past the slovenly woman, who barely made room for her. She quickly climbed the foul-smelling, narrow stairs and opened Betsy’s door without knocking. She found her friend awake.

      “How are you feeling?” Eleanor asked softly, crouching by the bed.

      “As if I’d been run over by a dray,” she answered weakly.

      “You might as well have been. Thank goodness that surgeon was nearby and came as soon as he was called. I had no idea what to do.”

      “He stopped by a little while ago.”

      “Did he?” A warm flood of gratitude rose in her that he’d kept his word.

      Betsy gave a faint nod. “He said I was doing all right but that I needed to rest for several days. He told me how foolish I’d been.” Tears started to well up in her eyes.

      Eleanor pressed her lips together. Why couldn’t his lecture have waited a few more days, at least until Betsy was a bit stronger? “Don’t pay him any heed. He was just concerned about you.”

      “I