“Does the ear trumpet have articulated joints?” Thorn asked her, after which he and Lala got into a long discussion about whether it would be possible to create a flexible tube, using Thorn’s galvanized rubber, that would preserve sound better than the current model.

Eleanor had invited Dr. Hatfield to dinner as a thank you for his faithful attendance on the convalescent Lady Rainsford; once he arrived and they were all seated at the table, Thorn brought up the ear trumpet again.

Secretly—and shamefully—India became rather cross as she watched Lala become a shining, smiling woman who easily held the attention of her end of the table. Vander had made no bones about finding the subject boring—that is, until Lala pointed out that if the trumpet was modified to have a longer tube of rubber, one might be able to listen to horse’s hearts. Or even stomachs, to see whether they might have colic.

Thorn wasn’t seated beside India tonight; he was across the table. Their eyes met once, and he gave her a little frown. She turned away and managed to get into an interesting conversation with his father about the recent income tax Pitt had established.

When supper concluded, and the women retired to the drawing room, India tried to decide whether she could sneak away to pay another visit to Rose. If she went to the dower house once again, Thorn might assume that she was sending him a message. Flirting with him.

Instead she sat down and wrote Rose a little goodnight story about Lord Parsley, which she gave to Fleming with a request that it be delivered to the dower house.

She felt a bit wistful, remembering how she had told Rose that she would tell her more of the story in person.

But it was better this way.

The last thing a motherless little girl needed was to form an attachment to a woman she’d never see again.

Chapter Twenty-five

After breakfast the following morning, Lala went upstairs and seated herself on a hassock in her mother’s bedchamber, appearing to be a dutiful daughter while in reality she dreamed of being a country doctor’s wife. It wasn’t as if Dr. Hatfield lived in a hovel. He had pointed out his house to her, and it was a perfectly respectable house in the middle of the village, with a picket fence and likely a garden in back.

If they were married, he would help her with the accounts. True, he’d said she would never learn to read, but he didn’t make it seem like a criticism; his words didn’t lash her the way the various tutors her father had hired had done.

No one ever understood that she had spent hours and hours trying to memorize letters that twisted into little dragons and leapt off the page, or slid sideways as if water had suddenly drenched the ink. No amount of staring or repetition would stop them from moving.

“If you don’t do something, you will lose Mr. Dautry,” her mother remarked, from the bed.

Lala started.

“Did you hear what I said?” Her mother’s voice was rising, which was never a good sign. “My maid has told me everything that’s going on in this house!”

“I did hear you, Mama,” Lala said. “You are concerned that Mr. Dautry is no longer interested in me.” She couldn’t bring herself to point out that a few days ago her mother had been appalled at the very idea.

The problem was that Mr. Dautry was a terrifying man. The idea of marrying him made her shudder, though she was not afraid that he would say cruel things to her. He was frighteningly large, overly masculine—but not cruel. He might feel silent scorn for her, but he would never speak the words aloud.

“I think that Mr. Dautry and I are forming an acquaintanceship,” she said lamely.

“Apparently the servants think that Dautry is tupping that hopeless excuse for a lady, Xenobia St. Clair,” her mother replied acidly.

“Mother!” Sometimes her mother was the perfect embodiment of a royal lady-in-waiting, and one could not imagine a vulgarity crossing her lips. And sometimes . . . she wasn’t.

“Don’t be a fool, Lala. You’re not a child in the schoolroom any longer. Even in the short period I was downstairs I saw the way his eyes followed her across the room. And Brody’s as well. She’s had Dautry, mark my words. No man looks at a woman that way unless he’s known her between the sheets.”

“Mama, you mustn’t,” Lala cried. “Don’t say these things. Lady Xenobia is all that is good and kind. I know that she supports Mr. Dautry’s courtship of me. She as much as told me so!”

“She’s playing a sly game. She doesn’t want the bastard, of course. She can do better, and she’s going for the duke. I wouldn’t be surprised if she were sleeping with both of them.”

Lala gasped.

“At the same time,” her mother added.

There are times in a woman’s life when she has to make a stand. But years of feeling stupid and fearful crowded in on Lala, and she couldn’t think of anything to say that would have an effect. Her mother wasn’t even looking at her; she was propped up in her bed, looking at her face in a small hand mirror.

Without a word, Lala got up and left the room, closing the door precisely behind her. She went downstairs and asked Fleming for her pelisse. “I shall accompany Dr. Hatfield on his rounds,” she told him. “I would like a carriage brought around immediately.”

Lala never said imperious things like that. Never.

She did not permit herself to cry in the carriage on the way to the village, and when she reached the doctor’s house, she stepped out and waved the carriage away, even though the groom wanted to approach the house for her.

Her heart was pounding. He had to be home.

He was not home.

A harassed-looking maid opened the door, and almost screamed, “I’m sorry, but the doctor can’t help right now, miss. He’s gone out on a birthing, and the waiting room’s full.” Lala heard a cacophony coming from the room just off the entryway, a baby wailing and people barking at each other.

He wasn’t there. Still, he would have to return at some point, and she had nowhere else to go but Starberry Court—and she did not want to do that. Besides, without a carriage, she had no way to return until the doctor appeared.

She walked past the maid into the entry, and took off her pelisse. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Sarah,” the maid said, taking Lala’s pelisse. “But, miss, really, unless it’s an emergency, you mustn’t wait. The doctor’s been out all night, and I don’t know when he’ll be back. It wouldn’t be proper for you to be in there with the rest of them.”

“I shall see if I can help,” Lala said briskly. “Why don’t you bring some tea?”

“Tea?” Sarah was clearly at the end of her rope.

Lala opened the door to the waiting room and took a quick glance. Then she said, “Please bring some hot water, Sarah, and some cotton bandaging. Let’s see if we can get that boy’s knee cleaned up before the doctor returns.”

Dr. John Hatfield was weary to his very marrow. He’d been up all night and had nearly lost the child. Even now, he wasn’t sure the infant would survive.

His house would be erupting with patients, as it always was on a Sunday. The poor of West Drayton waited as long as they possibly could to see a doctor; when they had their half day, they skipped church and the public house, and came to him instead.