The Death of Jane Lawrence(17)

And Augustine seemed to agree; they hadn’t been alone together since.

She had spent the rest of the week setting up an account book for him and going through two months of patient records to start filling out who had received what treatment, and she had done as much of the work at home as was possible. She had come round only when he had several patients to see in the surgery, and he had insisted on her sitting in to observe. He’d kept a respectful distance, and there had been no more … indiscretions.

But she hadn’t been able to keep her eyes off him. She’d watched how gentle he was with his patients, how firm when it was needed and how solicitous when compassion was called for instead. A few mornings, he’d arrived looking like he hadn’t slept at all, though she knew from his notes that there hadn’t been any house calls during the night. She hoped only that he had not been kept up by thoughts of her.

He looked the same now, as they emerged from the ceremony hall into the blinding sunlight of an unseasonably favorable day, surrounded by a bustle of activity that seemed too great for the scant number of guests they’d invited. Jane stopped in the doorway, staring, the size of the crowd far too much. Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham led the charge as it converged in on them, and she went rigid as they were both hoisted into the carriage that would take them to the surgery. The gathered crowd cheered, growing as people she did not know, drawn by the commotion, circled the carriage itself. The horses threw their heads at the attention and the noise, and Jane retreated into the marginally quieter, very much darker interior of the cab, shutting the door firmly behind them.

“Well, Dr. Lawrence,” she managed.

“Well, Mrs. Lawrence,” he responded, voice a little huskier than usual. He stole a glance at her in her bright blue wedding dress. A boyish smile curled his lips, then fell as he looked out the window. “There are so many,” he said.

She shrugged helplessly. The carriage lurched into motion, and Jane waited for the sound of the crowd to fade.

It didn’t.

As they rattled through the streets, the wedding guests and the accumulated onlookers kept pace, shouting and laughing and hugging one another. Jane turned bright red as she stared out the small window in the cab door. She’d seen these parades before, friends and family escorting the newlywed couple to their home, some wearing masks, others playing loud music intended to celebrate, to confuse, to mark the transition from independence to marriage, but the thought that they could do the same for her seemed alien. Terrifying, the weight of their attention on her far too much. What was she meant to do, how was she meant to act?

“I truly didn’t think anybody would care about the wedding,” he said. “And yet we have an audience, and just this morning I received a letter from my colleagues in Camhurst, proposing that they come to celebrate the nuptials in person. I turned them down, of course,” he added hastily, as she tensed still further. The crowd outside was bad enough—hosting house guests would have stressed her far more.

Across the small gap between them, Augustine seemed to feel much the same. He grew paler with every second the noise outside did not abate, and he clutched the edge of the seat, knuckles white.

“They mean us well,” she said, trying to reassure them both.

But with the crowd around them, the carriage wasn’t able to make the turn that would take them to the surgery. Instead, the crowd bore them faster and faster toward the edge of town.

Augustine made a pained sound, and finally lurched toward the door, opening it even as the cobbled road gave way to dirt beneath them. “Mr. Lowell!” he called.

The older man appeared, grinning and doffing his hat in congratulations. “Dr. Lawrence! Mrs. Lawrence!”

“We are meant for the surgery!” Augustine’s cry barely surmounted the din of the crowd, which seemed to double, triple, with every passing minute. Jane couldn’t recognize half the unmasked faces in the crowd. She trembled, unsure of how to process such a great parade. It wasn’t for her; it wasn’t for him. Was it only for a marriage?

Were they all relieved to see her gone?

Mr. Lowell had lost his words and was turning a brilliant vermillion. “I, ah—” he stammered. “I had thought you would both be headed to Lindridge Hall tonight, sir. It being your wedding night and all. Mrs. Lawrence’s traveling case has already been sent on ahead.”

Augustine went very still, even with the jolting of the wheels, and Jane thought for a moment he might throw himself from the carriage. As she watched, he closed his eyes, as if fighting for control over himself.

Jane leaned into the open doorway. “It’s all right,” she said. “I can send home for another set of clothing. We just need to turn the carriage around. Can you help us?”

Mr. Lowell worried at the brim of his hat. “So you mean to live at the surgery … regularly?”

“Yes. I will be living there full time. Dr. Lawrence will continue living at … what did you call it? Lindridge Hall?”

“Aye, Lindridge Hall.” He struggled to keep pace with the carriage and stay close to the door, the crowd pushing on him from all sides. Frustrated, he hopped up onto the rail below the door, grabbing on to the top of the carriage to brace himself. Well-wishers cheered, grinning at Jane, waving and shouting and dancing. Somewhere behind them, a full band had begun to play, a cacophony of off-tempo brass and flutes. She was trapped in a nightmare.