“I am not sure he said ‘speedy.’” I felt pedantic correcting her, but Liam’s medical reputation was at stake. “He is certain recovery will be complete. But it may be slow.”
“Your brother is kind to take such a lively interest in someone he has known so short a time.”
This stung, though I wasn’t sure it was meant to. “Mr. Austen’s warmth and candor make him seem a far older friend than he is,” I replied. She inclined her head to acknowledge the truth of this. “Does he seem better this morning?” I went on. “Less yellow?”
She frowned. “He was not so very yellow, surely.”
“Yellow?” Mrs. Tilson brought a hand to her mouth. “You did not mention he was yellow. It cannot be yellow fever, can it? Ought you to be visiting a house with children?”
“I had no thought of such a thing—” Jane began.
“He does not have yellow fever,” I interrupted, before this could go any further.
They both looked at me. “How are you so certain?” Mrs. Tilson asked.
“I just am.” This did not seem to satisfy them, so I went on: “I have seen yellow fever in Jamaica; that is not what Mr. Austen has. And even if he had it—which he does not—we would not fear contagion from him.”
“Why not?” Jane demanded.
I hesitated. People got the disease from mosquitoes, but no one knew that in 1815. “It is contagious only in the tropics. The few, rare cases seen in temperate climates have never displayed this characteristic.”
“You seem very sure of this.” Mrs. Tilson sounded doubtful.
“I often assisted my brother in the infirmary, madam, that we established on our plantation.”
“Ah, indeed?” Mrs. Tilson said. “You were a true Lady Bountiful, then. I hope you may find similar opportunities for good works in London.”
“From what I have seen, there is no shortage of wretchedness and despair to relieve.” I glanced at Jane, who was suppressing a yawn. Mrs. Tilson would be inviting me over again to read the Bible if we went on like this. “But I do not mean to hug myself as some plaster saint, Miss Austen, do not misunderstand me.”
“What an alarmingly Papist metaphor. I should hope not.” Her eyes brightened with amusement, though. “Henry has assured me you and your brother are both very agreeable, and a welcome addition to his circle. Though he had little to say for himself yesterday. Is the doctor usually so disinclined to speech?”
“Not in the least!” Mrs. Tilson said.
“Perhaps he was overset by meeting you,” I offered.
She looked blank for an instant; then she smiled. “You are cruel. Whether I ever in my life struck a gentleman dumb with admiration, I leave for others to determine. But I shall surely never do so again.”
“Ah, Jane!” Mrs. Tilson surprised me by laughing while I was still extracting meaning from this tangle of words. “Miss Ravenswood, upon my word, she was a great beauty—”
“And an outrageous flirt,” Jane added.
“—and broke hearts by the dozen, in her day. And I happen to know she still—”
“Soft, no more!” But Jane was laughing too.
I had been there twenty-five minutes by then, bordering on too long, so even though this was just getting interesting, I prepared to make some polite remarks and leave. Before I could, the servant came back into the room.
“A Dr. Ravenswood, madam,” he said to Mrs. Tilson. A look of surprise crossed both women’s faces; morning calls were mostly the realm of women. I was surprised too, since Liam and I had agreed to meet at the carriage outside, where Wilcox waited, when done with our respective visits. Perhaps Henry had mentioned his sister had come here, and Liam had decided to seize the opportunity to make a better impression on her than he had yesterday. I hoped he could; I felt nervous for him just thinking about it.
The moment Liam entered the room, expression meek but posture confident, I saw he had assumed yet another persona for the occasion, and was determined not to be intimidated. He shook Mrs. Tilson’s hand, nodded to Jane, and folded himself into a chair with an air of humility. “I would not intrude, Mrs. Tilson,” he began, “had I not wished to reassure Miss Austen that her brother seems to me much improved this morning.”
“I suspected as much myself,” Jane said.
“Your medical acumen, madam, puts my own to shame,” he murmured. “But I am not confident he is entirely out of danger. I must ask you to keep a close watch on him, and try to help him avoid excess fatigue. His nerves—Mr. Austen does not strike me as a nervous man in general, but he has lately been under some considerable strain, has he not?”
His voice was soft, his tone confiding, and as he gazed earnestly at Jane, I feared he was too insinuating, that he would annoy her with presumption of an intimacy they had not achieved. But I was wrong; it seemed to be working. She tilted her head slightly and blinked rapidly a few times. Was it possible she was blushing? “So fortunate that you are here in town with him now,” he continued. “I know he has the very highest regard for your cool judgment and strength of understanding.” Shameless flattery, innocent delivery; could she possibly have her head turned so easily? If she was laughing at him, though, she hid it well, but then I would expect nothing less from her. “May I return tomorrow, madam? Just to see how he fares?”
She was silent a beat too long. “We had invited some friends to tea, before this recent episode. Please join us, sir, if you are at liberty.” Her eye fell on me, as if she was suddenly remembering I was there. “And you, of course, Miss Ravenswood. About seven, if you will.”