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So intent was he on focussing his gaze upon Miss Brightwell’s serene visage while she was engaged in conversation with her aunt that when her name was borne upon the lips of a gentleman in conversation only a foot from him, he leapt as if stung. He strained to listen.
“Miss Brightwell is well aware of the dangers. If only she’d heed her doctor’s advice.”
Sylvester eased a little closer to the ginger-whiskered gentleman who spoke with such authority.
“It was you who advised her to take the waters, was it not, Dr Horne?” His rotund companion tilted his head. “Aye, she does not always take your advice, does she?”
“She’d live a good deal longer if she only did, but stubbornness has served her well thus far. I’d have predicted she’d be in her eternity box a good many years ago.”
As soon as the rotund gentleman had moved away Sylvester took his opportunity. He couldn’t believe his luck.
Introducing himself, he cleared his throat and frowned, giving the appearance of trying to tackle a difficult topic, which indeed it was. “Excuse me…Dr Horne? Ah yes, I hoped I was right. You’re the eminent physician whose fine reputation I’ve heard so much about.”
The gentleman’s wary look was replaced by one of smug acquiescence of the compliment. He stroked his whispers and puffed out his chest. “There are some ladies who greatly inflate the value of my contributions to the health of this town but I can’t help but admit it pleases me to hear it, sir.”
Sylvester smiled. “While I would not dream of mentioning names, sir, I would appreciate a word of advice from you on how I might tackle the delicate health of a person who…means a great deal to me.”
Dr Horne inclined his head, a little more guarded now. “I’m afraid I cannot discuss matters of a personal nature.”
“Nor would I expect it,” Sylvester assured him hastily, “but it’s on account of wishing to prolong Miss Brightwell’s good health—oh dear! I did not intend to name her— that I’ve sought you out.”
Dr Horne looked surprised. “You have an interest in…that eminent woman’s good health?”
Sylvester floundered a little here. “It is in fact…er…a friend who has an interest and who has asked me, on his behalf, to ascertain what he might do to facilitate the…individual in question’s…er…pleasure during the remaining time allotted to her.”
Dr Horne’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Your friend is an admirer?”
Sylvester nodded. “Yes, my friend has in fact admired her from afar, and unbeknownst to her, for many a year. Now that word has filtered through to him of her delicate health, he confided to me that if he only knew how to please her, he would do it. But he is driven distracted by worry that he will make a blunder of it. He’s not declared himself and he fears that if he should surprise her too greatly, it may be fatal. My friend demanded of me, how far he could go before his attentions become dangerous to her health but I know nothing of such matters. And then I overheard that you were the eminent physician, Dr Horne.”
Dr Horne pulled at his ginger moustache. Words seemed to have failed him. “I am flattered that you should have heard of me. But…you say your friend wishes to pay his attentions to Miss Brightwell?” He blinked rapidly before saying in a rush, “I did not mean to mention names, sir.”
“Of course not.” Sylvester nodded, understandingly.
Dr Horne’s expression became cynical. “The person of which we speak has no desire to marry.”
“Indeed, marriage was not what my friend had in mind. He wished merely to extend to her the hand of friendship, to offer her the admiration he has long kept secret. Would she be amenable to receiving such declarations? Or would they cause perhaps palpitations of the heart, which would have the opposite effect of that desired by my friend? That is what my friend has asked me to ascertain.” Sylvester waited hopefully.
Dr Horne contemplated him through narrowed eyes. “My patient is stronger than she looks. If she felt the recipient worthy of her regard, I’ve no doubt she could entertain him with no risk to her health whatsoever.”
“Perhaps you would be so good as to broach the matter with her,” Sylvester suggested cautiously.
Dr Horne raised his chin. “Your friend ought to do his own work rather than send someone else. Certainly not her physician.”
Sylvester sighed. “Alas, his acute shyness has been the reason the gentleman of whom I speak has never found the courage to address Miss Brightwell but has instead held a candle to her charms for many a year. That is why I offered myself as proxy. I would hope to see some happy resolution to his unfortunate situation.”
Dr Horne continued to stroke his whiskers and look contemplative. After a long pause he said, cautiously, “This is an interesting situation I had not considered. Perhaps such unexpected admiration would be conducive to an altering in my patient’s disposition.” He tapped his fingers upon the side of the glass he held, his frown deepening as he added, “Indeed, perhaps what you suggest could in fact work in favour of her health.”
Sylvester allowed himself to hope. “I assure you, my friend would hate to cause offence. His motivations are entirely honourable.”
Dr Horne nodded and pursed his lips. “All right then. If appropriate, I shall endeavour to elicit the good lady’s feelings on being approached by a secret admirer who has held a candle to her since she was barely out of the schoolroom, as you seem to infer.”
Sylvester gave a silent sigh of satisfaction. He’d been deeply shaken by the dire prognosis Bertram Brightwell had issued regarding Miss Brightwell’s health, but if she could be encouraged to accept his attentions—or if her aunt could be persuaded by Dr Horne that his attentions were in lovely young Miss Brightwell’s best interests—Sylvester was more than amenable to doing what he could to facilitate her…pleasure, as Bertram called it. Pleasure? The gleam in that other young gentleman’s eye had conveyed a broad interpretation of the word, though Sylvester could see that poor Miss Thea Brightwell enjoyed very little pleasure of any kind with that terrible relative forever rattling the keys of her incarceration by her ear.
Helping himself to another champagne from a passing tray, he tried to reconcile the image of sweet-faced Miss Brightwell, the lively smile she’d shone on hi
m fading like a rose as the next few weeks passed. A sweet, gentle creature who’d be quite dead in six months. That is, unless he could coax some more life into her for her remaining earthly tenure and thereby extend her existence by even a few weeks.
Pleasure? Again he mulled over the word and its meaning. He was a gentleman who’d not dream of sullying a lady’s reputation but of course Miss Brightwell would not be contemplating marriage in her delicate condition.
