The Death of Jane Lawrence(32)

They sat down at the table in silence, and a few minutes later Mrs. Luthbright emerged from the kitchen and laid out several steaming dishes for them. Augustine murmured a few words to her about sending the carriage away. Jane hid behind her meal, eating without taste. Each bite went down hard, scoring her throat.

How to begin?

When the cook had left, Jane decided to come at it from the side, the way it had struck her. “You know, Mrs. Luthbright believes the house is haunted.”

His fork scraped against the ceramic of his plate as he gathered up more morsels of stewed venison. Sitting back in his chair, he chewed, swallowed, without expression, without hurry.

Jane’s heart beat harder.

“I didn’t know she was the superstitious type,” he said, once he’d washed down his food with wine. “Do you agree with her?”

She resisted the urge to glance at the nearest window, searching for a woman with red eyes. “I don’t really know,” she said. “I haven’t given it much thought.”

“And does Mrs. Purl share Mrs. Luthbright’s fears?”

“No, she doesn’t,” Jane said slowly. “Though she did say her husband has asked several times if you entertain guests.”

“Mr. Purl is a notorious drunk,” he said.

“So I’ve heard.” Now. She must ask him now. Steeling her spine, she leaned in slightly. “Who is Elodie?”

His face went still and ashen, the way it had when Mr. Renton’s life had slipped away beneath his scalpel.

When he gave no answer, she pressed the attack with dispassionate logic. “I finished going through your ledger books. Mr. Lowell included your personal expenses, I suspect not at your explicit request. The payments to the Pinkcombes—what are those for, Augustine?”

She expected him to beg out of answering, to tell her it wasn’t appropriate dinner talk or that it was personal. Not suited to their potential lurking audience. But Jane didn’t care; better to keep on, to corner him. She reached for one of her earliest hypotheses, ridiculous though it felt.

“Is she your child?” Jane asked.

His eyes shot open, and he … laughed.

“Lord, no,” he said, shaking his head.

She flushed, embarrassed. He was keeping something from her; what did it matter if an explanation seemed out of character? What did she know of his character at all, really? “Well,” she said, struggling to keep her composure, “who is she, then?”

“Was,” he corrected, laugh failing in an instant, his expression turning to a grimace. “She was a patient I wasn’t able to help.”

“A patient,” Jane repeated.

The way his face fell. Like when Mr. Renton died.

“I feel uniquely responsible for what happened to her. I’ve been trying to make amends with her family ever since, but they always turn it down. I suspect they hate me for trying, but I can’t leave it.”

“Was she the woman who lived here for a time? Who died?” Jane asked, desperate to prove to herself that something here was amiss.

His brow furrowed. “Where did you hear about that?”

“The servants,” Jane said.

“Yes, she was,” he said, running a nervous hand through his hair. “She’s also the cause of that burned doctor’s bag. She died of a terrible fever.”

“A patient, here?”

He hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “She was the daughter of a close family friend. They didn’t feel they could care for her at home, and they didn’t trust her to the local physicians. I told them it was foolish, that I was ill-suited to care for her, but they insisted.”

“And she died here.”

“Yes. To my great shame.”

Shame. Well, they had that in common.

She sat back in her chair, body softening. She was ill-suited to such isolation, it seemed, and returning to the surgery in the morning sounded more and more appealing. A little distance, and she’d stop jumping at shadows.

“A patient,” Jane repeated, and she rubbed at her temples, willing her blood to leave her enflamed cheeks. “And here I thought you had some grand, dark secret.”

“Really, a child?”

“A child, or—some standing arrangement with a mistress, who stopped accepting your payments years ago?”

That drew another laugh out of him. Leaning across the table, he reached out and took her hand. She gave it over to him gratefully, sheepishly, needing the warmth of his touch, the solid connection of it. “I promise, I have no such sordid history for you to discover.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.” He came around the table to her side, never letting go of her, and she rose to meet him. Gently, he cupped her face with his free hand. “I know our start these last few days hasn’t been the most auspicious, but I swear to you, I am yours. Every inch save what this house demands of me.”

Their lips were almost touching. He looked at her with longing, as if her suspicion had not disrupted anything between them. Jane’s breath caught. Her heart quickened.

“I think I have been very foolish,” she murmured.

He smiled. “No. Not foolish—cautious. Cautious but bold. Traits I admire greatly.”

His thumb traced the line of her jaw. She was melting at his touch, in happiness and relief. Relief that, perhaps, she had not been foolish after all, that she had not let herself be misled.