“Beg pardon?” he managed to protest.
“You’re like a brother to me, so I don’t think such is immodest,” she told him, not releasing his arm.
“We are like siblings in a way,” he conceded slowly as she continued to drag him along. “But that’s not what I was—where are we—”
“To discuss matters with Rebecca,” she informed him, leading him to—Roger squinted—his carriage? It ought to have been empty after his exit only a few moments prior, but now… the door swung open and, assisted by his coachman, out stepped an older man carrying a large bag.
“Ah, Dr. Maduro, how is our patient?” Isabelle asked as the elderly physician stepped forward to meet them.
“Unsatisfied with my diagnosis.” The man harumphed.
“Does she doubt it?” There was enough curiosity in her voice to give Roger pause.
“No.” Maduro scowled. “Though it’s clear whose medical expertise you trust.”
“Not at all,” Isabelle said smoothly. “We’re just a people of many opinions, and thus I was curious if there were more to this situation.”
“No, there is not.” Huffing, the doctor continued. “She’s merely unhappy with its reality.”
And Ellenberg thought he was the one causing discord.
Before Isabelle could irritate the man more, Roger cleared his throat loudly.
“And what is that?” he asked, stepping between the two. “Both the diagnosis and prognosis?”
“A badly sprained wrist and elbow, which must remain unused, bandaged, and contained in a sling for the next four weeks,” the doctor said, shaking his head a little. “Given the weather, it’s imperative that she spend her time indoors lest she slip and damage it permanently.”
Isabelle’s face fell with what appeared to be genuine distress. “Poor Rebecca.” She turned to Roger. “I must go to her.”
She darted around Maduro, adding an “Excuse me, Doctor” before disappearing into his carriage, where apparently Miss Adler was being housed and examined.
Not that he would have denied her access for such use, however it might have been thoughtful for someone to have asked him first.
Yes, such matterswereoften better accomplished by asking forgiveness rather than permission. After all, none of their ancestors would have survived if they’d waited for the goodwill of the gentiles before acting on their own behalf. Though one would’ve thought they were beyond that now.
“Thank you for your work,” Roger said as politely and deferentially as he could to the physician. After all, someone had tomaintain the relationship. Especially given the fact Maduro was his family’s first choice in care as well.
“Am I to send my bill to you?” Maduro asked in return.
“Yes.” Roger resisted an eye roll.
“Excellent,” the man said, threading his gloved fingers. “I shall deliver it when I follow up. Good day, Mr. Berab.” Moving past Roger, he trotted up the street to his own waiting carriage.
Did the man say follow up? With him? Why would he need to—
“What do you mean—” Roger called after the doctor before being pulled in the other direction.
“Please come join us, Roger.” Isabelle took his arm once more, guiding him into the carriage.
Rubbing his now freezing hands, Roger slid inside to find the last person he wanted to see, let alone speak with. However, now he did not have a choice.
“You know my good friend Rebecca Adler,” Isabelle said, seating herself next to the other woman, leaving him across from the two.
“We’ve met.” He kept his voice perfectly polite, endeavoring to stare at her face and not the rest of her, as Miss Adler had apparently run from the house wearing only a chemise and nothing else. Not even shoes. Or stockings. He blinked a little, his eyes drawn back to her form, against his better judgment—and willpower.
He was dutiful, not dead, making it nearly impossible not to stare at her surprisingly fetching, completely bare legs, which he’d once nipped and licked on the way to her—no. He would not think about that. He would not.
“On many occasions,” Miss Adler piped up to his surprise, disdain dripping from her shaking voice. “A pity, truly.”
