The Visitor (2 page)
London
Preston Manor
January 1812
Dr Harvill stood patiently in the hallway outside of Alexander Tate’s bedroom. Several maids entered the room, a manservant behind them, all of them seeing to their tasks and exiting one at a time. Tate’s man, Hastings, as well as his business manager, Charles Pierrepont, were among the parade of people. Not accustomed in his line of work to being asked to wait, the good doctor remained silent to see what would happen.
“Mr Tate will see you now, Dr Harvill,” Mrs Thorpe, Tate’s aunt, finally appeared to say. She bid him enter. The doctor did so without comment.
“How are you today, Mr Tate?”
“I have a headache,” the gentleman said quietly.
“I don’t wonder,” the doctor stated mildly, but the comment was not lost on the injured man.
“What do you suggest I do?” Tate asked, his voice still quiet.
“I suggest you get out of London. It may be that you’ll regain your sight if all you do is keep those patches in place, but if my vision were in question, I’d do everything I could to aid the healing.”
“And what exactly will leaving London accomplish?”
“If done properly, it will give you peace and quiet. Make it clear to your staff that you’re not to be disturbed. Leave all your business affairs behind, and rest without interruption or demands on your energy. Let your body heal without all this tension.”
Such a thing had never occurred to Tate, and now the very thought of it caused him disquiet. That the fall from his horse had caused his vision to become dim and blurred was difficult enough, but now to give up all sense of a normal life? That was going to take some thought.
“How long?” he finally asked.
“No less than six months—possibly a year.”
Six months?
Tate’s mind questioned as his hand came to his head. Had the ache intensified, or was he imagining it?
“I’ll check your eyes now,” the doctor said quietly as he went to work. Tate had not expected to find his vision clear when the patches were lifted, but the horrible blur of dark and gray, now six weeks old, was disheartening.
The painless yet thorough examination complete, the doctor stepped back, closed his bag, and pulled a chair close.
“We’ve known each other for years, Tate,” the older man ventured with quiet respect. “I’ve long admired your family’s faith, but even God needs a little help now and then.”
Even with the eye patches, the doctor saw Tate’s brows rise.
“Yes, yes, I might not have stated that well, but you know what I mean. You can’t stay here in the name of faith in God and pretend that everything is fine. That fall could have killed you, and we both know it. Do yourself a favor and be reclusive for a time. Go away, and see if your eyesight doesn’t return to you.”
Tate couldn’t argue. He was hoping for a miracle, but miracle or not, the doctor was right: He had done nothing to aid the healing process. Indeed, other than doing business from a comfortable chair in his bedroom, he had not slowed down at all.
“I’ll take your advice, Harvill. Will you be able to recommend a physician for me?”
“When you decide where you’re going, let me know. I’ll do whatever I can.”
Thanking the man and shaking the hand that suddenly found his, Tate found himself alone a moment later. When the door opened after a few minutes, he was quite certain it was his aunt.
“Aunt Harriet?”
“Yes, Alex. What did the doctor say?”
In an abbreviated version, Tate explained the situation, his voice calm, not resigned or anxious.
“I don’t expect you to trail after me,” he finished, “but you’re certainly welcome—not that I know where I’m headed.”
“Are you open to suggestions?”
“You know I am.”
When Harriet spoke again, he could hear the smile in her voice.
“I know just the place, my dear,” she reassured him warmly. “Leave everything to me.”
Collingbourne, England
Newcomb Park
March 1812
Elizabeth Steele, Lizzy to family and friends, worked her way through breakfast, correspondence around her. She had letters from both her sisters, her brother—whose last letter had said he was somewhere in Africa—and even one from an elderly relative in London.
The temptation to tear into her brother’s letter was great, but she made herself save it for last. Even as she did this, a conversation came back to her, a conversation during a visit with Anne Weston in a Collingbourne shop just days after she’d arrived back in town.
“Anne, is that you?”
“Lizzy!” Anne exclaimed with delight as she rushed to hug the friend who had entered the aisle. “How are you?”
“I’m very well,” Elizabeth Steele told her, smiling in delight of their meeting. “How are you?”
“I’m married,” Anne told her, her smile lighting her whole face. “I’m Mrs Robert Weston.”
“Oh, Anne, I’m so pleased for you.”
“But tell me, Lizzy!” Anne rushed on. “Are you visiting or have you moved back?”
“I’m back.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Only a week.”
“And what brought this about?”
“Several things, but mostly that my brother has left England to travel for a time.”
Anne’s brows rose in surprise. “Which brother?”
“Edward. He left in August, but it feels like forever. I told Henry that I wanted to return to Collingbourne, and surprisingly enough he wanted to move as well.”
“And is it just Henry, or are all your siblings back?”
“Everyone save Edward,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “A little peace and quiet at Newcomb Park would have been lovely, but we’re all home.”
“It’s so wonderful to see you, Lizzy. Things are busy just now, but when the holidays are over, I want you to come and visit.”
“I want you to do the same. I must meet your Mr Weston.”
“And you shall. We’ll be in church tomorrow.”
“I shall seek you out.”
That conversation had been in November, four swift months earlier. In that time Lizzy’s sister Charlotte had married John Barrington, and her sister Cassandra had accompanied a friend on a trip to northern England. Cassandra was scheduled to arrive in Collingbourne within a week, but when she would see the new Mrs Barrington or her brother Edward again was in question.
Thinking back on it, Lizzy wondered that Anne hadn’t questioned why Edward’s departure would precipitate her moving back to Newcomb Park, but right now she was very glad that part of her heart had remained a secret.
Henry, the oldest of the Steele family and by far the most reserved, arrived just then, helping to remove Lizzy’s mind from the unread letter as well as her current thoughts.
“Breakfast, Henry?”
“Please.”
Lizzy knew very well that if she didn’t push the point, he would be happy to utter only that word to her all day. A man who simply did not need spoken words to live, Henry took his seat at the breakfast table, prayed, and calmly began to eat.
Lizzy knew she could draw him out with an effort, but at the moment she didn’t have the energy. Her mind was on someone else, someone who had traveled with her brother, unaware that when he’d left England, he’d taken Lizzy’s heart with him.
Collingbourne, England
Brown Manor
Robert Weston walked slowly along the garden path, his eyes scanning the lush greenery for signs of his wife. He knew she was out here—the early blooms were irresistible right now—but hadn’t spotted her just yet. When he did, he stopped, just taking time to study her.
Anne Weston stood in profile to her husband, the breeze pressing her dress against her and giving full evidence of her condition. Weston watched as she placed a long-stemmed blossom in the basket that hung from her arm before reaching to snip another one. Not until she straightened did she spy her husband and smile.
“This looks fun,” Weston commented as he joined her.
“It is, but I’m almost finished.”
“Are you getting tired?”
“A little.”
“Let Sally do the arranging and take a rest,” Weston suggested.
“Actually, I was thinking I might play the piano for a time.”
“Can you reach the keys these days?”
Anne couldn’t stop her laugh.
“You are incorrigible.”
Weston grinned. “I was hoping you would think so.”
Weston took the basket, and the two walked toward the house. Work on the conservatory behind them continued at a good pace, but these things always took time. Married just nine months, Mr and Mrs Weston were both delighted that Anne was expecting their first child.
“Oh, that’s right!” Anne stopped just as they neared the door. “I was going to gather some herbs from the kitchen garden.”
“Sally can do that, or Cook.”
Anne nodded in agreement, but her heart wasn’t willing to give up one of her passions. Puttering in the garden was one of her favorite activities, and the spacious walled-in kitchen garden never ceased to delight her. Nevertheless, Weston held the door for his wife, and she entered the mansion they called home.
“Is this your luncheon day with Judith Hurst?” Weston asked just after he’d passed the flower basket to Sally.
“Yes. She’s coming at noon.”
“Will you rest before then?”
Anne, who had still been thinking about the herbs, finally looked at him.
“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned resting.”
“I just don’t want you to overdo. And if my memory serves me correctly, the last time you had company, it wore you out.”
Anne had forgotten about that.
“Do I look tired?” Anne now asked.
“Not tired, but a little flushed.”
She saw the concern in his eyes and decided to take it easy.
“Good,” Weston said when she told him. “You might actually fall asleep.”
Anne, sure that she would do no such thing, only smiled and moved to the yellow salon to put her feet up and read for a while. When Weston checked on her some 30 minutes later, the book lay open in her lap, but her eyes were closed in sleep.