And then the world came crashing back, and she heard the front door open. Laughter spilled in from beyond, of ten men, a hundred. And a woman, saying:
“We were invited.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE WOMAN WAS Dr. Georgiana Hunt, and she had brought with her seven of Breltain’s great surgeons and physicians.
Jane dug her nails into her palms, lurking in the hallway. The doctors filled the foyer with their valises and their laughter, running roughshod over Mrs. Purl. Jane tried not to cry with the confusion of it all, the disaster. She was in no state to remain in this house, let alone entertain guests, but she could think of no way to turn them out without humiliation.
As if hearing her thoughts, Mrs. Purl grew defensive. “I beg your pardon, Doctor, doctors, but Dr. Lawrence made no mention of house guests.”
“Just like him!” a man proclaimed, then laughed heartily. The sound was unnatural, bouncing off the arcing ceiling of the foyer. Jane recoiled, then bore up in reflexive defense of her husband. He had written to them, dissuaded them from coming—he had said as much to her!
And yet here they were. The thought sobered her. Had he lied about that as well? But to what end? No, she had grown too sensitive, too quick to blame, and these visitors were haughty, proud, and just the sort to ignore Augustine’s protestations.
Just as she had.
“Surely you do not want to stay in an empty country house for the day, doctors,” Mrs. Purl said, still desperately attempting to turn them away, and Jane was thankful for it even knowing it arose from shame at the state of the house. “We have no gamekeeper, no stables even. Larrenton is far more entertaining.” And a better place for them, where they would be Augustine’s problem, not hers.
The suggestion went unheeded. Dr. Hunt’s contralto boomed through the vaulted foyer as she said, “But what of Mrs. Lawrence? We would like to see her just as well!”
Jane went cold, cringing farther into the cellar hallway, where she had no excuse to be.
“I—Yes, she is in,” Mrs. Purl answered. Jane pictured the bobbing of her head as she curtsied, though she could hear the strain in the woman’s voice. “If you’ll come to the sitting room, Doctor, doctors, I’ll go and fetch her.”
More chatter, more indistinct words, moving away. Jane crept closer to the foyer, and caught the edges of their shadows as they entered the other room.
Pulling her skirts up around her knees and trying to move as swiftly and as silently as possible, Jane raced up the staircase. She stopped only when she reached the bedroom door. She quailed at the thought of stepping back inside, but she could not be found clutching her valise. Too many questions if she were, questions she could not answer in front of an audience. She forced herself to open the door once more, and, averting her eyes from the bed, she placed her bag back down.
She all but ran to the study, then, because it made far more sense for Mrs. Purl to find her there. But stepping inside was a new blow. She remembered Augustine finally taking her in his arms on their wedding day, his eager, bashful smile—but also the shock of a woman’s name in his ledger, her own uncertainty, the anger that she could not summon now. And there, in the window, was her reflection, so much like what she had seen the night before. But it was hers, through and through.
Her eyes were sunken, her hair limp, her lips pursed tight. Evidence of her distress. Jane had never cared much for her appearance, except when it would draw attention. This, among doctors, would.
She pinched furiously at her cheeks, trying to draw color up into her pallor. She stared at her reflection and willed herself to be placid and pleasant. She sought out the Jane that had been and wrenched her into the form of a mask.
In the window, a happier woman looked back at her. Jane smiled, and though it felt thin, it looked easy.
Mrs. Purl mounted the stairs below her, her footsteps echoing up as Jane threw herself into the desk chair and cracked open the ledger.
The tidy columns sickened her.
“Ma’am?”
Jane turned in her seat to look at Mrs. Purl, her face as pinched and drawn and clearly unhappy as Jane’s own had been. She wanted to throw herself down at Mrs. Purl’s feet and to beg the woman for a way out, for a way home. But instead, Jane said, “I heard a carriage. Is it Dr. Lawrence?” The lie sat ashen on her tongue but sounded smooth and calm enough. Was this how Augustine had felt when he had lied to her that morning?
“No, ma’am. It appears,” Mrs. Purl said, wringing her apron in her worn hands, “that Dr. Lawrence invited several of his colleagues over. Did he mention anything of the sort to you, Mrs. Lawrence? They intend to stay the week, but we don’t have the stores, or the beds, and…” She trailed off, helpless.