Page 20 of Again, Scoundrel

Violet was stunned into silence. So, when Alistair next asked, “Could we speak of something else?” she only nodded her acquiescence and stepped closer to him. Her thumb twitched, wanting to press the furrow she’d seen between his eyes and soothe him.

She clenched her fist at her side to keep it still, but her hand rose of its own accord despite her efforts, and her fingertips briefly stroked his arm.

At least it isn’t his face.

She wasn’t sure what he would have done had she touched his face, because the gesture meant to soothe made Alistair growl instead. He looked down at her hand on his arm—and then at Violet—before he stepped resolutely away from her touch.

“Perhaps you could tell me about your home, Miss Goodwin,” he said from his newfound distance.

Violet noted the sudden plummet in temperature of the room. How his shoulders were set tense and straight, and his voice became clipped and formal.

The pendulum of Alistair Crawford swings again. When will I learn that he does not suffer my touch?

“There is nothing to tell,” she said, embarrassed. “Good day, my lord.”

She turned to go, but this time his hand whipped out lightning fast and landed on her arm. “Don’t,” he said. “Tell me about yourself. Please.”

“Why?” Violet asked. “I’m sorry to say that I cannot see the point of our conversations. They are too much of this and too little of that.”

“You are angry with me, and I don’t know why.”

His fingers were warm on her arm, even through his gloves and the thick layers of her modest dress. They caused a flush to creep into her cheeks.

“I’m not,” she said and made to leave again, but his hand still clutched her.

“You do not have to like me, Miss Goodwin.” His eyes focused their intensity on hers. “But I’d very much like it if you would.”

Violet stared at him, once again unmoored by the sudden vulnerability and sincerity in his eyes and words. “I—” She stopped, unsure what to say next.

“You…” he prompted and smiled at her, “…were saying something about your home, I believe?”

Violet gathered herself and tried again. “My family lives in a townhome in New York. Not unlike Chester House, I suppose.”

“And do you have more family? Siblings?”

She paused. She rarely spoke of James to anyone but her parents, but she felt compelled to be truthful with him. Perhaps because he’d told her of his dislike for the diamond and the East India Company. “I had a brother,” she said. “My twin brother, James. He passed away from a fever after I returned from England.”

Understanding lit Alistair’s face. “He is why you study medicine.”

“He is.” Her eyes drifted upward as she remembered his death. “I sat with him day and night, while he became sicker and sicker. It was horrible, the shivers and the confusion he suffered. And especially the sheen of sweat that came to blanket his skin at all times. I promised us both that I would never sit by helplessly again and watch someone pass in front of my eyes. Not if there was a way I could help them.”

“And so, you became a nurse,” Alistair said. “It is a hard and bloody profession.”

“It need not be as bloody as the surgeons make it. But I’m prepared to do what needs to be done. There are too many ill and dying, especially in Lower Manhattan, where the poor are clustered together. It’s like your Covent Garden, I understand. Your rookeries. The last cholera epidemic…” she shook her head. “Thousands died.”

Alistair nodded. “The same was true here. The Irish Plague, they called it.”

“They called it the same in New York. Always blaming the poorest for what befalls them. It’s those among us who have the least who suffer the most.”

“And you believe that being a nurse will be helpful?”

“I know it will. The age of medicine is dawning, and I will be part of it. I’ve read the recent research and theories, and I’ve trained with the nursing brigades. There is much thought given now to drainage and plumbing. Both appear to help tremendously. As does at least one solid meal a day and a serving of meat. And some of the new theories on the spread of contagion are quite convincing.”

She glanced up at him, expecting to see either the same glazed look her family members wore when she discussed nursing with them or the look of revulsion she often found on the faces of others when they learned of her medical practice. She found neither. Lord Alistair Crawford was staring at her with a look that, if she didn’t know better, she might describe as genuine interest.

“And why not practice medicine as a physician? I understand they are more lenient of such occupations for women in America.”

Violet practically snorted at him. “In the first place, they certainly are not. And in the second, what do you imagine the difference is between a doctor and nurse? Other than anatomy?”