Page 6 of The Marquess of Secrets

“I’m not Catholic, but my mother was.” But not a practicing one.

The nun gave her a sympathetic look. “Was? Past tense? Do you have any family?”

With difficulty, Lydia swallowed the lump in her throat and whispered, “I have no one. At all.” She lowered her head in sadness and shame.

The nun tsked, patted her arm, then bustled away to the stove.

Lydia exhaled a shaky breath. The air down here was not the best. The odor of damp earth mingled with the redolence of humanity.

A child cried in the distance. But despite the wail, this somber place was eerily quiet.

What was there to be jovial about?

There were people here of all ages and no doubt from various backgrounds. Entire families with children and babies. Undoubtedly they would be given top priority for assistance.

As they should be.

In her capacity as a nurse, she’d observed the best and worst of humanity. What the nuns were doing here was the best, to be sure.

Sister Monica returned and passed her a bowl of broth and a wooden spoon. Lydia was surprised to see a goodly amount of vegetables swimming about, along with small pieces of ham.

A true feast.

With tears in her eyes, Lydia profoundly thanked the nun. She nodded in reply, then moved off to attend to others.

Lydia returned her attention to the soup. It was her first hearty meal in days.

Slow and easy.

Though tempted to shovel the stew down her throat, she savored every spoonful. It warmed her insides and calmed the hunger spasms. When finished, she placed the bowl and spoon on the floor as exhaustion overcame her.

Using her bundle as a pillow, she curled up on the bench and drifted into a deep sleep.

“Miss?”

Lydia snapped awake, and her head turned in the direction of the deep male voice. A man all in white stood before her.

She struggled to sit up, and he clasped her elbow gently to assist her. A jolt of heat moved through her at his brief touch.

Rubbing her eyes, she took a closer look. Tall and broad-shouldered, the man wore white shirt, coat, and trousers. A large apron, adorned with small spatters of blood, covered most of the clothes. He wore strange white gloves, his face obscured by a white mask and his hair hidden under a white cap. A stethoscope hung about his neck.

All she could see was large silver-gray eyes studying her closely.

This must be Doctor Damian. Dressed all in white, he certainly resembled an angel of mercy.

“I’m a physician here to determine your state of health and how long you are to remain here.”

Quality.

Though his voice was muffled from the mask, he possessed the unmistakable tone of a well-to-do man. If he spoke the truth and was an actual physician, he must be doing charity work.

The medical profession in England was divided into three layers of care. At the bottom was the apothecary who mixed drugs and looked after the poor.

Next was the surgeon who did the manual work, such as setting broken bones.

At the peak of the hierarchy was the physician, the gentlemen’s doctor. University trained and a member of the Royal College of Physicians, he would listen to your chest, prescribe a nostrum, and charge you twenty pounds for the pleasure.

A physician would not lower himself to attend patients needing boils lanced or to treat a prostitute with venereal disease.