The Death of Jane Lawrence(2)

“We are both unmarried, and at an age where that is beginning to raise questions,” she said. “A man of your standing and appearance could choose whichever woman he wanted. You haven’t. For whatever reason, you do not wish for a normal marriage. I’m not asking for one.”

She watched him, trying to measure his response. At first, there was something very much like want in his eyes, but then it was replaced by the fear again.

Why?

She took a small sip of her brandy to keep herself from fidgeting.

“I cannot marry you,” he said.

The brandy burned in her throat.

“I don’t mean it as a slight against you, Miss Shoringfield,” he added. “But while your logic is—impressive, it is not appropriate for me to take a wife. Any wife.”

“You are unmarried,” Jane repeated, confused.

“I am not married,” he agreed. His jaw tensed as he considered his next words. The fear in his eyes had been replaced with something else. Something more distant, more pained. “Please, Miss Shoringfield. I understand that you have thought through your proposal at length, but I do not wish to cause you more pointless effort. I cannot accept.”

The polite, proper thing to do was to apologize, accept his refusal, and subside. Approach the next man on the list she had drafted, another who met her criteria, who might be more amenable. She needed to sit, and to smile, and yet she found she could do neither.

“Dr. Lawrence,” she said, gripping her glass tightly, “please.”

He ducked his head.

“My parents died when I was very young, when Ruzka began gassing Camhurst during the war,” she started, then stopped, hands shaking. She hadn’t meant to say it; she never spoke of her parents. But her honesty worked a change in him; he lifted his chin, brows drawing together in concern. She pushed forward. “They left me in Mr. Cunningham’s care, along with an annuity to support me. Here in Larrenton, it has been more than enough to cover my costs, even as I’ve grown into marriageable age. There is, however, no dowry, and now the Cunninghams leave for Camhurst within the month.”

She fought to keep her voice even as she spoke.

“Were I to accompany them—and they have requested that I do just that—my expenses would outstrip my annuity even if I were to largely avoid society, which would be impossible given Mr. Cunningham’s new judgeship.” And she would be surrounded by shell-scarred buildings and new construction that tried to replace what had been destroyed, none of which she could stomach even the thought of. But that was too personal to share, by far. “They are willing to pay the difference, but I am not willing to let them.”

The doctor’s mind worked. “But as you can’t remain here unmarried…”

“Exactly. If I’m to stay, I have to find a husband, or things will be quite a bit more difficult than even the capital would be.”

He shook his head, finally looking at her again. “I understand your plight, and I feel for you, Miss Shoringfield, but you do have other options. Surely there are other options. You are…” His cheeks colored, and she remembered again how he’d looked at her from the doorway. Fear, fear that had been caused by her proposal hanging above his head like a sword, knowing he would have to decline. But perhaps it wasn’t just fear—or if it had been fear, it had been fear of a different sort than she’d first thought.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I can’t imagine you will have much difficulty finding a more suitable husband.”

“You are a perfectly suitable husband,” she said, steeling herself and stepping forward again. She could hear his breathing, they were so close. The wariness in his eyes was entirely gone now, replaced by fascination. “And I am not asking you for charity, Dr. Lawrence. I have skills that would be useful to you.”

“Skills?”

“I attended Sharpton School for Girls until I was fifteen,” she said. “And I have kept Mr. Cunningham’s books for the last six years. I maintain the ledger, I work with the banks, I help him set his fees and collect on them. I can only imagine work of the same sort must be done at a surgery.”

He sucked in a surprised breath. “You weren’t speaking in metaphors when you said this was a business arrangement.”

“My remaining annuity funds are not so large as to directly benefit you, I suspect,” she said. “But I do bring mathematical skill, and a methodical nature. I can run the business of being a doctor, and you can focus on the medicine.”

“You know nothing about a doctor’s life, about the business or the medicine.”

“I can learn. I want to learn.”

He hesitated, stunned, then fumbled out, “There is blood, and great sadness, and terror. Being part of it—it won’t be easy.” But it sounded less like a warning and more like a test. An invitation. “It is a calling, not a skill.”

“Ledgers and sums are my calling, just as medicine is yours. The rest I can learn, when the most important element is fulfilled.”

“It is thankless, and I often won’t be home. Night calls, and—”

“But if this is a business arrangement,” she interrupted, “then it is more employment than marriage. I won’t mind your absence. You are suitable.”

She had brought him to social concerns, down from professional; she was making progress. She held her breath.