The Marriage Scandal
of the Season
Preview
CHAPTER ONE
Sophia Von Ross had six books open in front of her. She was reading them all at the same time, flitting between the pages with exuberant enthusiasm, and knew that if her father caught her at it again, he would be very displeased.
The library’s high ceiling necessitated that she brings a shawl to wrap around her shoulders; there was no fire in the grate yet, and the chill in the morning air was seeping through the thin window behind her.
In the street outside, the typical sounds of London’s sprawl filtered into the room. The shouts of delivery boys, the clip-clopping of horses’ hooves, and the rumble of carriages were a constant backdrop.
Sophia huffed irritably, looking back at the offending window, wishing that she were in the country and the world were silent. Nothing could drown out the noise of the city, and although she ordinarily loved the bustle and movement of it, today she found it rather trying.
Returning to her books, she let her gaze drift down the pages of Thomas Bewick’s A General History of Quadrupeds. It was a fascinating volume that examined a multitude of species, ranging from anteaters to brown bears.
The author spoke of the animals in a way that appealed to Sophia’s sensibilities, describing each subject with a reverence and respect that she appreciated as a fellow animal lover. The illustrations captured her imagination, fuelling her desperate wish to travel and see the world.
Her eyes drifted to another volume that she had pulled from the shelves —the Encyclopedia Britannica, a book she had examined for much of her adult life.
She traced a finger over the illustrations, which depicted the curious variations of so-called “Animal Flowers” in zoological study. These peculiar specimens mimicked the appearance and fragrance of true blossoms, cunningly luring unsuspecting insects to their demise.
Sophia sat back, a small smile tugging at her lips as she smoothed her fingers over her muslin gown and stared at the empty fireplace before her.
How can my friends believe that attending balls and finding a husband is the greatest achievement of our lives?
Sophia longed to see the world. She yearned to embrace all that life might offer a young woman—and she fully intended to do so, society’s expectations be damned.
She leaned forward and closed the books, knowing that her parents would expect her to be on time for breakfast, and her eyes were aching from reading.
When she had woken up that morning, she had been seized with a desire to learn something new, a feeling that often came upon her in the early hours. She had tiptoed down to the library, with a candle as her only means of light, and begun to read, pulling nooks from the shelves at random. As a result of reading in such low light, her head was pounding, and she could feel the beginnings of a headache throbbing behind her eyes.
Sophia ran her fingers over Metamorphosis Insectorum Surinamensium, a book that filled her with hope and a passionate joy whenever she held it in her hands. Published in 1705, it had been a seminal publication by Maria Sibylla Merian—a woman Sophia had long admired.
Sharing Sophia’s German heritage, she was a woman who had travelled the world alone, winning the respect and admiration of scientists worldwide for her studies of the flora and fauna of South America.
Sophia sighed. As much as she longed to explore those distant lands of South America herself and see the things Maria had seen, she was not naïve enough to think that her future could be so carefree.
Travelling as a woman alone had many challenges, and although Sophia lacked any real interest in marriage, she did understand the practicalities of having a man attached to one’s arm.
Marriage afforded women freedoms they could not hope to possess on their own. The idea of her parents allowing her to travel the world without a companion was laughable, and it was inevitable that one day she would have to take a husband if she wished to pursue her passions.
All I have to do is find someone who either shares my love of the natural world or is too in love with me to deny me anything.
The creak of a floorboard above her head reminded her that she was still wearing only her nightgown. Rising, she piled the books in a neat stack on the table, planning to return to them as soon as she could.
Walking swiftly to the door, she placed her ear against the wood panelling, listening intently, and compressed the handle as gently as she could to make her way up to her bedroom.
She stopped as it opened fully to reveal her maid, Heike, standing with her hands on her hips and an expression of exasperation.
“Miss Sophia, you will catch a cold without a fire in the room.”
“Good morning, Heike,” she whispered. “Is Mama awake?”
Heike sighed heavily. “Yes, Miss Sophia, Her Ladyship is awake, and His Lordship is already up and dressed. He’ll be coming down to break his fast shortly.”
Sophia closed the library door, giving Heike the mischievous grin, she always used to get her way. Heike rolled her eyes, but suddenly surged into action as a loud male voice rang out from the top of the stairs.
The maid gripped Sophia’s hand and tugged her, none too gently, to a side door and onto a narrow staircase along the west wall of the house. Sophia’s bare feet stung as she scampered up the steps behind Heike, and she was relieved when they arrived on the landing to find it empty.
“You will get me into trouble,” Heike said, her soft German tones coming through more strongly when she was irritated.
“I am sorry, I did not realise the time.”
“You never realise the time, Miss Sophia, I believe you will be the very death of me,” she admonished as she pulled Sophia into her room and closed the door.
Sophia smiled tenderly at her maid. Heike had a touch of drama about everything she did, constantly reminding Sophia of her responsibilities while tacitly supporting her through every indiscretion. She had accompanied the family to England when Sophia was but eleven and had been a steady, unwavering presence ever since.
“I promise I shan’t do it again,” Sophia said, chuckling as Heike gave her a sharp glare.
“You fib,” she grumbled, walking to the tall wardrobe and pulling out Sophia’s gown for the day.
As Heike helped her dress, Sophia mused on what she had learned that morning, storing the knowledge away for future use. She believed that her mind was her most precious possession and spent a great deal of her time expanding it. There were far too many debutantes and ladies of the ton, who were entirely empty-headed, and she refused to be among their number.
The pale pink gown was pulled over her head rather more violently than usual, and Sophia looked to Heike as the maid settled it, placing a hand gently on her shoulder.
“Do not be angry with me today, once I have broken my fast, I will bring you some toast and honey as a treat.”
Heike gave her a glare, but there was less heat in it than before. Her maid adored anything sweet, and she huffed loudly.
“I suppose I can forgive you,” Heike muttered, “but if you catch a chill from sitting in these frozen rooms all day, I shall not be the one to nurse you.”
Sophia watched her stalk out of the room, a fond smile on her face.
Heading down to the breakfast room, Sophia watched the servants of the household scurrying about before her, smiling at many of them in greeting as she went into the room where both her parents were already seated at the table.
Her father, Sigmar Von Ross, was reading a letter at the table. He was a slender man, very tall and regal-looking, with a thick frown line between his brows. Sigmar’s bushy eyebrows made him look distinguished, his long moustache even more so.
Her mother, Anna Von Ross, a beautiful woman in her own right, with silky blonde hair and emerald eyes, watched her husband reprovingly as Sophia took her seat.
“Good morning, Mama,” she said warmly, as a servant came forward to pour her tea. her mother glanced reprovingly at Sigmar, but he simply turned a page in the letter he was reading, as Sophia hid a smile.
“Good morning, dearest, did you sleep well?”
“Very well, Mama, what are you reading, Papa?” she asked, in an attempt to drag her father back into the present.
His dark brown eyes crinkled at the edges as he glanced at her.
“It is a letter from my brother. There is much to report.” He turned the page again as her mother’s lips thinned further.
“Were there any letters for me, Mama? I was hoping to receive Olivia’s invitation for her engagement ball this week.”
“Nothing yet, my love. But surely that is rather soon to be sending out the invitations—Olivia only became engaged last week.”
Sigmar scoffed. “Her mother has likely been planning it for years. Desperate to be rid of the chit, I am certain.”
“Papa!” Sophia said firmly. “That is not fair.”
Her father eyed her over the top of the letter. “You said yourself she is a silly creature.”
“Well, yes, but Olivia is happy now Lord Ferguson has proposed, perhaps she will become a little less…”
“Ridiculous?” her father offered.
“Excitable, now that her future is secured.”
Her mother sipped her tea, but Sophia could feel her looking at her.
“And what of your future, Sophia?” Anna mused. “Do the English gentlemen still hold no sway over you?”
It was a question that was broached every few weeks, and Sophia dreaded it every time.
She knew she should be interested in at least one man in society. Many of them were charming, and several were even earnest and kind, but none of them was particularly clever. She had been bored to tears by their conversation on more than one occasion. That was part of the issue Sophia had with marriage. It was not the institution itself that troubled her, but the prospect of endless years spent in the company of a dullard.
One man, the eldest son of a duke, had spoken to her for twenty minutes about the colour of the upholstery in his carriage. He had been in a state of agitation as to which shade would be the best to mask wear and tear and whether he should decorate all three of his carriages with the same one. Sophia had deliberately spilled her drink to escape.
“Nothing as yet, Mama, but the Season is not yet over.”
It was the end of the spring, summer months approaching rapidly. Smog and thick fog had plagued the London streets for weeks during the winter, and it felt as though they had only just managed to escape the recent gloom. The sun shining outside was a welcome sight.
“Perhaps you will find a nice German boy who takes your fancy,” her mother added, as she and Sigmar exchanged a look Sophia could not quite decipher.
“I do not think so, Mama; I would be far more interested in a man’s mind than his nationality.”
“His mind, eh?” her father said approvingly. “Then he will need sharp wits indeed to keep pace with yours, Sophia. I do hope you are not expecting that.”
“And why should I not? You have said that many men of your acquaintance are, in truth, very clever.”
Both Sigmar and Anna laughed at that.
“Indeed, my love, they are intelligent—but in other ways. In matters of politics and strategy, perhaps. But few could rival your knowledge of the world or the cultures within it. I daresay that the last time you spoke on the subject of India, your enthusiasm nearly had me dispatching someone to fetch you from the docks. I have never heard you speak with greater passion.”
Another look was exchanged between them, but more in the affectionate exasperation she had come to expect from her parents. They indulged her, Sophia knew, and allowed her liberties that many of her friends were not afforded. It was something she felt grateful for every day.
But she knew their indulgence would not last forever. At three and twenty, she was late in years not to have secured a husband—she had never even had a serious suitor, although she had been pursued many times.
Sophia had been pleasantly surprised when she had come out in society to find that she was considered an exotic choice. In her first season, she had been inundated with requests to dance, and dozens of young men had flocked to her wherever she entered a room.
Although her friends had been very envious, Sophia had hated every minute of it. She much preferred a book to a ball, and in her second season had taken to hiding as often as possible.
She buttered a piece of toast and covered it with honey, placing it into her serviette when her parents were not paying attention and folding it into her lap to bring to Heike later.
She glanced at her father, frowning slightly at the colour of his skin. He looked very pink this morning. She supposed he was just concentrating on the contents of the letter, but his neck was red too, as though his cravat were too tight.
“Are you well, Papa?” she asked.
Her mother turned to Sigmar with a flicker of alarm just as he looked up at Sophia, frowning.
“Of course, dearest. Why do you ask such a question?”
“Oh, it’s nothing, really. You simply appeared a little flushed. Is Uncle Alfred writing something particularly stimulating?”
Sigmar chuckled. “He writes of a recent marriage between Herzog von Mecklenburg-Strelitz and Charlotte von Hohenzollern. Would you care to read the particulars?”
Sophia sighed heavily and shook her head as her father continued to laugh at her expense, but the frown did not leave her face. He did not look quite himself today, and when she glanced at her mother, she could see the same expression of concern marring her pretty features.
I wonder if there is something happening at the embassy that is causing him to worry.
Sigmar Van Ross was a diplomat, instrumental in retaining relations between Germany and England and liaising with the families of the nobility. Usually, the role was a complex one, but without any particular strain on his person—her father was an accomplished negotiator and prided himself on having defused many contentious situations throughout his life.
“Come, Sophia, are you breakfasted?” her father asked as she finished the last corner of her toast. She never ate a great deal in the mornings and preferred to drive the cook to distraction by hovering around the kitchen at luncheon for a sweet treat to sate her appetite.
“Yes, Papa.”
“Good. Walk with me, there is something I wish to discuss with you.”
Her father rose, and Sophia followed, glancing at her mother, but Lady Von Ross gave nothing away, watching her husband with a strange sadness in her eyes that Sophia had not seen before.
CHAPTER TWO
Mr Leonard Hawthorne stood at the threshold of his daughter’s nursery, watching her play without being observed. Her long golden hair curled in ringlets down her back as she chattered away to herself while playing with her dolls.
She looked like her mother, Alma, who had died from a fever when Joanna was four. His daughter had the same lightness of being, the same vibrant soul. Leonard often looked into her eyes and thought he could see the spark of excitement Alma had possessed reflected there.
He shifted his weight, a floorboard creaking beneath his foot, and smiled as her dark brown eyes met his as she turned. She smiled broadly, looking up in excitement that he had come to visit her. Her nursemaid sat opposite, nodding her head to him as Joanna rose, running over to him.
“Papa, are you leaving already?”
“I am, but I shall return later tonight. ” Do you promise to be good for Miss Morningside?” he asked, and she nodded vigorously. Miss Morningside, though severe in appearance, possessed a quiet temperament that swiftly endeared her to others. Joanna had her nursemaid wrapped about her little finger within days—but Leonard did not mind.
He wanted Joanna to have a happy childhood, unburdened by expectation. She had endured enough with the loss of her mother, and at six years old, he saw no reason to govern her too strictly. Even so, he noted Miss Morningside’s weary expression, her grey hair neatly pinned behind her ears as she offered a faint smile down at the child.
“If you wish to go out today, simply inform Jennings. I shall return in the early afternoon. I hope you both enjoy a pleasant day together.”
“Yes, sir,” Miss Morningside replied as Joanna turned to her, golden curls bouncing wildly about her head.
“May we go to the river?” she asked eagerly.
“Perhaps, but you shall practise your spelling first, Miss Joanna—and then you may read to your father when he returns.”
Leonard left them to it, kissing Joanna on the head before he made his way to the front door. As he left his townhouse, he looked up and down the street, comforted by the well-to-do passers-by and the comforting image of the green trees in the park at the end of the street.
After Alma’s passing, he had chosen to remove himself from the bustle of city life and settle in Barnes. It was quieter there—especially during the week—and afforded Joanna and Miss Morningside greater freedom to move about without the constant need for a male chaperone.
He loved the street he had chosen, and although their townhouse was modest, he was pleased with that too. His wealth had grown steadily over the past decade since he became a physician. With several high-paying and wealthy clients, he had been able to accumulate his wealth in a way that allowed for a steady living. It was all he needed in the world, and as he set off on foot to Guy’s Hospital, he had a spring in his step and a lightness in his heart.
The sun was out, but he was glad of his coat as he trotted across the street, feeling a chill in the air as the wind came off the river in the distance.
A few children ran past him begging for a coin, and he flicked a penny up in the air, watching them cry out in surprised delight as they chased it along the pavement. He watched them, ensuring one of them was able to retrieve it so he wouldn’t get his pocket picked, and continued on his way.
As he reached the entrance to Guy’s Hospital, he nodded to several men who were heading in before him, likely to hear his lecture, which was due to start in a few minutes.
Leonard recalled how intimidated he had felt on his first day working there, the façade of the hospital presenting an imposing image, with white pillars against white brick, looking more like a stately home than a hospital.
He made his way through the main square and into the central arch, turning immediately right toward the teaching rooms where he had been instructing the next generation of medical men for some years.
He was pleased to see that the auditorium was already packed, the benches straining under the weight of those who had come to see him speak. Leonard had developed a considerable reputation over the past three years as a gifted speaker. His lectures on treating sores and blisters had spawned several papers on the subject, which were also widely read among his colleagues.
He walked quickly across the lecture room floor to the lectern, nodding to a few of the students whom he recognised. One young man, a Samuel Pevensey, looked just as pale and nauseous as he had the first time Leonard had met him.
I can always tell when a man is not suited to medicine, and yet, here he remains!
It appeared Pevensey was persevering with his studies, through the horror of the blood and guts that so disagreed with his temperament. Thankfully, Leonard did not have anything too gruesome to show them today. His lecture was entitled “The Principles of Wound Care,” and just as he laid his bag down beside him, the subject of it made his way into the room.
Mr Nathaniel Stern was a naval officer who had been badly wounded in an accident at sea and had kindly agreed to allow Leonard to use him as an example in today’s lecture when he had met with him on his rounds.
A nurse wheeled him inside as he waved cheerfully to the students. Leonard had visited him the day prior to assess whether he was still fit to participate, and even within twenty-four hours, the man appeared greatly improved for a night’s rest.
So much improved, in fact, that Leonard experienced a brief pang of anxiety—had he recovered entirely? But a glance at the wound swiftly dispelled the thought.
The man’s shoulder was still bandaged, and Leonard could see pus seeping through that morning’s dressing.
“Gentlemen, may I introduce Mr Stern to you all, who has kindly allowed me to use him as a prop for today’s lecture. I would therefore thank you all to be forthright and rambunctious in your questioning. The man has been through an ordeal lately, and I will give a shilling to any student who can make him laugh.”
There was a titter of laughter from the back of the room as Nathaniel, who had been grinning happily around at them all, suddenly affected a pained expression and began moaning miserably, clutching at his shoulder.
Leonard chuckled at his antics, proceeding to gently unwrap the bandage around the site of the wound. A large piece of timber had been lodged in Mr Stern’s shoulder for the best part of a day on the return voyage, and the man had been most fortunate not to lose his limb.
With the application of several fresh dressings throughout the day—some soaked in diluted vinegar—the angry redness had subsided somewhat, and the surrounding flesh had begun to crust over. To a physician’s eye, it was a far more agreeable sight than the inflamed mess that had greeted him upon the patient’s arrival.
“Who can tell me the correct properties of Laudable Pus?” Leonard asked, moving through the room as hands went up and various scholars tried their hand at a suitable answer. The ineptitude and idiocy that still existed amongst the youth of the day were astounding to Leonard, and it took five attempts before they were on the right track.
Mr Stern was exceedingly accommodating, allowing several volunteers to come forward to diagnose the ailment. He also suffered from a rather unpleasant case of scurvy, which the students were able to analyse to a decent degree. Pevensey looked as if he might swoon throughout the lecture, but he also took a prolific number of notes. Leonard felt rather affectionate toward him when he walked past, listening to the students speaking on the topic of scorbutic constitution, and he noticed that Pevensey had scribbled in the margin: “Ask Dr Hawthorne if he offers apprenticeships.”
He loved teaching, no matter how many simpletons he came across, and felt very privileged to be in his position. If his father had had his way, Leonard would have been sent to the naval ships, just like Mr Stern—and who could say what might have become of him?
As the students began to bicker about whether eating raw meat or the application of citrus was the best remedy for Mr Stern’s scurvy, Leonard’s mind wandered to his father and what he might make of how his son was spending his time.
The Earl of Mackleford, Lord William Hawthorne, had never wished for any of his three boys to study medicine. The earl believed that practical learning, as well as the barbarism of war, would put Leonard in better stead than faffing about with limp-wristed wives and endless cases of dropsy.
Leonard had strongly disagreed with the earl’s view, and they had almost come to blows before he had left for Oxford.
It was only after Leonard’s fortuitous presence at a house party—attended by those of the highest rank and consequence in the ton—that relations between him and his father began to thaw. When the entire party was stricken with illness, Leonard’s swift judgment and medical skill saved not only the earl’s closest friend but also his wife and infant son.
From that day forward, his father had grown somewhat more amenable to the idea of having a physician for a son.
The lecture concluded, following Stern’s departure, with a continued lively debate across the crowded room. Leonard was suitably reassured that the new cohort of medical students was not entirely hopeless and left the room chuckling as they continued to argue about whether pickled cabbage or salted Sauerkraut would eventually eradicate scurvy for good.
After his lecture, he went to his office, where several letters awaited him on his desk in a neat stack, which was a contrast to the rest of the room. He shared it with another physician, by the name of Clegg, who was extremely irritable and untidier than any man alive.
Leonard looked despairingly at the man’s desk opposite his own, the surface of it positively heaving with discarded papers, quill pens, and wax seals that had been removed and thrown haphazardly on top of the curled pieces of parchment cascading over the edges.
If there were a fire, this man would ignite the entire west wing of the hospital.
He sat down, reviewing the envelopes on his desk with some interest. He had received no less than five letters about a recent paper he had published on angina. Three of them were very complimentary, one contradicted everything he had said in favour of the writer’s own theories on the topic, and the fifth invited him for lunch.
Leonard spent a happy hour replying to them all, listening to the chatter of the students through the corridor beside his office and the occasional wail of a patient in pain as they passed his room.
Half an hour later, Clegg burst through the door, muttering furiously.
“They’ve rejected me again,” he snapped, not even glancing at Leonard. “It would be better if the Royal College concerned itself with actual medicine rather than the quality of a man’s coattails.”
Leonard didn’t look up. “Denied, was it?”
Clegg snorted. “Of course, it was. Whole place is full of pompous fools.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” Leonard said with just enough sympathy. “Perhaps next year.”
“Hmph,” Clegg muttered, frowning vaguely at the desk.
After a pause, he pulled a mass of papers from his bag and dropped them heavily on top of the desk.
“There,” he said, nodding in satisfaction. Then he turned and marched out of the room.
Leonard watched the stack tip slowly to one side, then slide—one sheet at a time—onto the floor, parchment fluttering over the rug.
Sighing with frustration, Leonard decided to go for a walk during his lunch and perhaps stop at his favourite tavern, a few streets away from Guy’s. It was a less-than-reputable place that his father and older brothers would be appalled that he frequented, but it did the best steak and ale pie he had ever eaten.
He rose to his feet, debating whether he ought to address the mountain of paperwork now strewn across the floor. After a moment’s consideration, he concluded that since Clegg had created the chaos, it was only fair he be left to resolve it.
Leaving the office, Leonard stepped out into the open air. The scent of blossom drifted on the breeze, and the warmth of the sun touched his face now that the skies had cleared. He passed through the hospital gates, crossed London Bridge amidst the press of carriages and beggars, and made his way toward Westminster at a steady pace.
Sometime later—having enjoyed an excellent pie and feeling thoroughly content with the world—Leonard was strolling along a busy street approaching a bustling thoroughfare when the scene ahead changed abruptly.
A man collapsed in the road, perhaps fifty yards ahead, and beside him, a young woman with wild, dark brown eyes began to cry out for help, her voice rising in panic.
Without hesitation, Leonard broke into a run.
CHAPTER THREE
The walk that Sophia’s father suggested began at their townhouse and continued at a brisk pace toward the river, and there was very little conversation as they navigated the busy London streets.
On occasion, he would remark on the state of the roads or the sheer quantity of horse dung mingled with the mud beneath their feet, but by the time they reached the river, Sophia still had no notion of the true purpose behind their walk.
Sigmar proceeded to talk about the boats, the swans that had landed nearby with a loud honking, and the number of people in their path.
Why had he insisted upon a walk such as this? Why couldn’t we stay in the house?
The more her father refrained from speaking to her on any specific topic, the more nervous she became. As they headed away from the river towards a particularly busy side street, the hubbub all around them made her heart leap alarmingly in her chest.
Glancing at her father, she saw that he was sweating profusely, and she could bear the waiting no longer.
“Do you have something you would like to discuss with me, Papa?” I confess you have me worried. Is there something wrong?”
He looked ahead of them, as the shouts of hawkers and tellers continued to sound loudly and obnoxiously before them. A large man with a rotund belly pushed his way in front of them, declaring that a slight individual surrounded by urchins was a pickpocket and hollering madly at him as he lurched into pursuit.
Her father mopped his brow, a frown marring his features, but he did not answer her.
“Papa?”
“Mm? My apologies, dearest. Let us get out of this crush.
Sophia took his arm, looking along the street to calculate a safe path through the jostling bodies all around them. The pavement to the left was relatively clear and would help them get out of the mud on the street. She could see a shop’s awning ahead, beneath which they could shelter to get their bearings.
She put some pressure on her father’s arm to move him in that direction, but to her dismay, found that his body had become rigid. His breathing was rapid, accompanied by an unpleasant rattling sound at the back of his throat.
With an alarming, sucking intake of breath, his right arm moved convulsively beneath her and gripped his left shoulder, the knuckles white. He shuddered, struggling to breathe, and after a few terrifying, frozen seconds, toppled forward into the mud and squalor of the street.
Sophia pulled at him ineffectually, trying to get him to his feet so that she could at least move him out of the way of the wagons and carriage wheels passing by within inches of his fingers, his body sinking into the filth beneath.
Where his skin had been clammy before, now long lines of sweat were pouring from his forehead and his mouth was open in a ghastly, silent scream as he rolled onto his back, his eyes staring upward, his fingers clutching at the fabric of his coat, squeezing and releasing it as though in a great deal of pain.
“Help!” Sophia shouted, knowing in her heart that this was far more serious than she had first supposed. “Someone call a physician! Please!”
The dead-eyed Londoners who passed them stared at her or pushed her out of their path as though she were a common criminal. She saw no kindness, no sympathy in their faces at all, and for a few desperate seconds was quite alone with her terror.
Then, through the bodies before her like a beacon of light, a man appeared at a run. There was something in his eyes that reassured her in an instant. His gaze was fixed upon her father, his hands clutching at a bag at his waist. Everything in his demeanour screamed of someone capable, someone who understood her plight.
“What has happened?” he asked, his voice sharp and businesslike as piercing blue eyes met hers.
“M-my father, he collapsed,” she stammered frantically, looking down at her father’s prone form and feeling utterly helpless.
Without a care for his clothing or the pedestrians all around them, the man was suddenly on his knees beside her father.
“Support his head for me, please,” he barked at her, and Sophia could not help but obey, kneeling in the mud, her fingers finding the back of her father’s head.
“Are you a physician?”
“Madam, my name is Dr Hawthorne. Keep him still, please.”
His manner was brisk and perfunctory as he felt her father’s pulse, speaking to him in hushed tones.
“Have you any pain, sir? Try to remain as still as you can.”
Her father was conscious, able to answer his questions in a hoarse whisper as Sophia held his hand, but it was the physician’s attitude towards the crowds that astounded her the most.
Every now and again, he would shout at them in a most direct and alarming way, and they obeyed him just as readily as she had done.
“Have you a pain in your chest, sir?” Dr Hawthorne asked as the passers-by began to give them a wide berth.
Her father nodded, swallowing and making an unpleasant gurgling sound that made Sophia’s chest tighten.
“Is he dying?” she asked desperately.
“We must get him away from this busy street,” the physician said, without looking at her and ignoring her question entirely.
“Our townhouse is not far. I will fetch the servants.”
“Yes, that would be helpful. Why have you not already done so? I will stay with him. Fetch two able-bodied men, quickly now!”
Sophia opened her mouth to say something indignant. She was not accustomed to being instructed in such a blunt manner, but when she looked down at her dear father’s eyes and saw the pain in them, she remembered her priorities and quickly jumped to her feet, pushing through the crowd and running as fast as she could back to the house.
The journey felt interminable, each street a thousand times longer than it had been on their outward journey, but finally she saw the familiar door ahead of her and could not help a cry of relief.
As she ran up the steps, the butler opened the door with a look of alarm on his face, and in very short order, after Sophia had blurted out her instructions, two footmen were dispatched to accompany her back to where her father had collapsed.
The return journey was the worst part for Sophia. She had not been gifted with an innate sense of direction and could not recall the exact route she and her father had taken. Thankfully, John, who was a younger footman in their household, knew London like the back of his hand.
Upon inquiring what she had seen around them at the time, Sophia told him there had been a pub called The Golden Fox opposite, and he confidently told her it must be on Harlow Road. Sophia almost fainted with relief when they turned the corner and she saw the physician kneeling beside her father, who had been moved to sit against a shopfront on the right, and looked altogether a better colour than when she had left him.
“Ah, excellent, here they are, sir,” Dr Hawthorne was saying, as Sophia ran to them with the two footmen jogging behind her.
“Sophia? Sophia!” her father cried, holding out his hand, and she clutched it quickly.
“We will take you home, Papa, are you alright?”
“Come along,” Dr Hawthorne said swiftly. “You there, take him beneath his arms and move him gently. Stay at a slow pace, do not jostle him.”
The two footmen followed the physician’s instructions to the letter, and Sophia had to let go of her father’s hand as he was lifted from the street.
The physician grabbed his bag and followed behind, speaking in a low murmur to the footmen, and Sophia was forced to walk behind him, watching her father’s unsteady footsteps as they retraced their steps at a painstakingly slow pace.
Once they arrived at the townhouse, Sophia saw her mother standing in the doorway, her expression worried and pale, as her husband made his way toward her.
As they reached the steps, the physician moved forward, taking the place of one of the footmen, demonstrating his strength as he shouldered almost all of her father’s weight up the stairs of the house. Once he reached the entrance lobby, he did not pause, instructing John to help take her father up the central staircase also. When her mother protested that Sigmar be brought to the drawing room, Hawthorne insisted that it would be better for him to be in his bed as soon as possible.
Sophia followed, entering the room behind them, and called for a servant to fetch some hot water. She was about to sit beside the bed when the physician looked up at her, their bright blue eyes meeting hers with a sternness she was not used to.
“I need to examine my patient, please, Miss…?”
Sophia blinked at him. “Von Ross,” she replied, glancing at her mother, who was hovering beside the door.
“Very good, Miss Von Ross, you will need to leave me with him, please. I must examine him and determine the cause of his illness. Please leave the room.”
Sophia’s anger rose immediately, but her mother stepped forward before she could protest, gently taking her arm and tugging her gently toward the door.
I have never been so ordered about in my life as with this man.
As the door closed behind them, Sophia frowned at it, hoping that the physician would change his mind and open it again to apologise and insist that she should be with her father in his time of need. But the door stayed closed.
“What happened?” her mother asked, her voice strained as she wrung her hands together worriedly.
“He collapsed in the street, Mama. I asked him a question, and then he was on the floor. I called for help, and Dr Hawthorne appeared out of nowhere.”
“Collapsed?”
“Yes, but when I returned with the footmen, he looked a little better. He was very red in the face at first, and now he looks far paler. That must be a good thing, surely?” She looked at her mother, whose eyes were wide and alarmed.
“He was complaining of a pain in his chest at breakfast,” her mother muttered, her voice quiet and small. There were tears in the back of her eyes, and Sophia reached for her hand.
“He will be alright. The physician will know what to do.” Sophia insisted, recalling her father’s lack of conversation on their walk and his agitated state. “Do you know what he wished to discuss with me, Mama? I wondered whether that topic had caused him distress.”
She did not wish to trouble her mother with it now, but she could not separate the two thoughts in her head.
Why did he suddenly collapse when I asked him what he wished to discuss with me? Was he going to tell me something important—perhaps that he is unwell?
Her mother’s face clouded with a look that Sophia found difficult to read—was it guilt? She seemed suddenly unsettled; her lips thinned, and her gaze flickered restlessly about the room.
“When your father is recovered, I am sure he will wish to continue that conversation, and he will speak to you when he is better.”
Sophia did not feel reassured by that. It meant that her mother knew what her father wished to say, but did not want to speak of it herself.
Whatever can it be?
Looking at her mother’s furrowed brow, Sophia fell silent, leaving that discussion for another time. She kept hold of her hand as they sat outside the room, her mother either sitting beside Sophia or pacing in agitation.
The servants hovered at the end of the landing, bringing up tea that neither of them could drink, the very atmosphere of the house taking on a darkness and a gloom that chilled Sophia to the bone.
Finally, after almost an hour, the door to her father’s bedroom opened, and Dr Hawthorne emerged. He closed it behind him, giving her mother a stiff bow.
“Madam Von Ross, my name is Dr. Leonard Hawthorne. I apologise for the brisk nature of our first meeting, but I was very concerned about your husband’s well-being.”
“It is no matter,” her mother said, walking toward him urgently. “Is all well?”
“Your husband is resting comfortably, madam. I believe he has a touch of angina, or a spasm of the heart, which has caused the pain in his chest. It is an issue that, with proper management, can be improved; however, it could become more severe if not taken seriously. He needs lots of rest and a light diet. Once he is feeling more recovered, I would suggest that you travel to the country, at least for the short term, to ensure that he gets plenty of fresh air and sunshine.”
“We are deeply grateful for your assistance, Dr Hawthorne, but I hope you will not take offence if I request your credentials. You understand we are not personally acquainted.”
“Do not apologise, madam, I understand I could be a beggar on the street as far as you are concerned. I am a physician and instructor at Guy’s Hospital, and I would be happy to provide letters of introduction if you require them. I have tended to the Ainsley and Trammell families, if you wish for my references.”
Her mother’s shoulders slumped with relief at his confident proclamation, and she nodded vigorously before continuing.
“Do you have a recommendation for a physician who could care for my husband? I would not presume—”
“But Dr Hawthorne must be that physician, Mama. He must! No one else will do,” Sophia said heatedly.
Their own physician was a simpering sort of man who had only attended her parents a few times in the year they had lived in London. He was a whimsical sort, never wishing to commit to a diagnosis, and had angered her father on more than one occasion.
Sophia could not explain it, but she trusted Dr Hawthorne already. He was so certain—so sure in his manner and beliefs, that she could not imagine anyone else being given leave to care for her father.
“Papa needs the best!” she continued as they both turned to stare at her. “Dr Hawthorne, I would ask that you care for him until he has recovered enough to make the journey to the country as you have suggested.”
Dr Hawthorne’s eyes widened slightly, his brow furrowing as Sophia stuck out her chin.
It is not only you who can make demands, my good fellow.
“We will pay whatever is required of you,” she said, as sternly as she could.
Dr Hawthorne’s expression soured, but as he glanced at her mother, it was clear that she was in agreement with Sophia. Dr Hawthorne cleared his throat, a crease appearing between his brows that reminded Sophia of her father when he was troubled by something.
Eventually, Dr Hawthorne gave a slow nod of acceptance.
“Very well,” he said, exhaling heavily. “I can assist you for the short term.”
I hope you enjoyed the preview of my new novel“The Marriage Scandal of the Season” It will be live on Amazon soon…
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