Page 84 of Mr. Darcy Comes to Town

Oscar. Will he ever notice me as anything more than a childhood friend? My fifty pounds a year will not tempt him. He cannot afford to marry a woman without a proper dowery. Fifty pounds—it is no more than a butler earns. Besides, I am not beautiful like Jane, or lovely, like Lizzy. I do not have the vivacity of Lydia or Kitty, either. Why should he look at me twice? I am no better than a sister to him.

Aunt Phillips said Mr. Wainright—a barrister in Meryton—has a daughter who is worth one hundred fifty pounds a year. She is pretty, too. Though, Aunt Phillips claims Miss Wainright has a weak chin. But why should a weak chin get in the way of living comfortably?

Oscar will inherit his father’s house and practice. That is something. Even so, his father is only one-and-fifty and might live another twenty years or more, God willing.

Mary squeezed her hands into fists. She hated thinking about money all the time. How nice it must be to be wealthy like Georgiana or Miss Bingley. They can look forward to a comfortable life as long as they do not marry spendthrifts or gamblers. Am I destined to be the companion of my parents’ old age?

Several fieldfares flitted across the road and landed in a sweet chestnut tree, whose leaves had begun to turn golden. The birds’ cheerful chittering lightened Mary’s mood. The afternoon, another warm one, had gifted them with blue skies and only a light breeze. Fallen chestnuts had split open, and she minded her feet as she walked. Mary took in a deep breath through her nose, reveling in the scents of early autumn, for soon she would be inside the infirmary with its myriad noxious odors.

The outskirts of Meryton came into view. Because it was Sunday, the roads were quiet and free of drays. Few carriages rolled along the dry cobblestones, making Sunday the quietest day in town. St. Michael’s infirmary, a squat one-storey red brick building, inhabited a bit of land overlooking the Mery river. A brick and iron railed fence surrounded the grounds. The gatekeeper, a tall, thin man of sixty, stood beside the gate, next to a small, brick booth.

“Good day to you, Mr. Ralph,” Mary said, nodding at the gatekeeper.

“Miss Mary,” he said, touching his billed cap. “‘Tis a fine day, it is.”

“Yes, indeed,” she replied. “Jem is coming inside today, Mr. Ralph, to visit his son.”

“Aye, Miss,” he said, nodding to her and her groom.

Mary continued on to the main doors, Jem behind her. Most Thursdays and Sundays he visited with Mr. Ralph while she busied herself with her duties. Once inside, she let the head nurse know she had arrived, discovered which patients might need her to help them with some correspondence, and was told that the male convalescent ward occupants were ready for her to read to them.

Coming out of the cloakroom, she bumped directly into someone. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” she gasped, glancing up to see who she had plowed into. Her heart did a somersault. “Goodness, Dr. Gregg.”

“Miss Mary,” Dr. Gregg said, smiling down at her from his medium height.

Some might have thought a taller man the ideal, but Mary believed his height perfect. The sun streamed through a high window and touched on his golden-brown hair. She had always loved his hair. This morning it looked as disheveled as usual since he had a habit of pushing his fingers through his hair while he thought.

Mary cleared her throat, and then said, “Good afternoon, Doctor.”

“Good afternoon,” he replied automatically.

Are his eyes twinkling? His beautiful, azure-blue eyes…

His smile turned into a frown of concentration. “Ahem…Have you brought something particularly interesting for the patients to listen to today? They could use some distraction.”

Mary looked down at the periodicals in her arms. “My sister leant me her copy of the British Scientific and Geographical Standard. There are some interesting articles featuring exotic animals.”

Dr. Gregg’s brow cleared. “Perfect, I should think.”

“I also have a sporting magazine and a sermon written by Theophilus St. John—from his Practical Sermons collection.”

His eyes narrowed. “A short one? They have already had the vicar in, and he spoke forever on the importance of paying tithes to the church.” He rolled his eyes. “To men who can scarcely put food on their tables.”

“I suppose he mentioned the widow’s mite?” she asked.

“I did not stay for the entire sermon, thank the good Lord,” the doctor said.

“The one I have chosen is on the parable of the Good Samaritan,” she revealed, and held her breath for him to condemn, or praise, her choice. His sudden smile eased her heart.

“An excellent subject. I am certain you will do the reading justice.”

Mary let out her breath in a long exhalation. “Thank you. Well, I had best be getting on.”

“Pray, excuse me,” Dr. Gregg said, nodding decisively and striding off with authoritative steps.

Keeping her expression impassive, Mary headed for the men’s convalescent ward. There, she found the twenty or so men either sitting on each other’s beds, or sitting on chairs placed between the beds.

“Good afternoon, miss,” Sam, the enormous orderly said, smiling so widely she could see all his yellow, rotting teeth. He looked like a bully, but he was nothing of the sort. “I’ve put yer chair in the usual spot.”