His skin and the whites of his eyes were only faintly yellow, but his eyes were too bright, his face drawn. He looked twenty pounds lighter and ten years older than when I’d seen him last. “I am glad to see you feeling better, sir. You have given us all a fright.”
“One must do something to attract the notice and sympathy of the ladies, after all,” he said, sounding more like himself. His gaze dropped to my chest, as if this were a sight he had resolved not to deny himself; he looked into my eyes again, smiled, leaned in a little closer, glanced down once more and back up. I inhaled his clean-linen smell and felt warmth spreading through my body, origin between my legs. I’d last had sex the night before I left for 1815, with Ezra Inverno, one of the coders on the Prometheus Server. More than two months ago or centuries in the future; by either reckoning a long dry spell. But then, no one had said time travel would be easy.
“This something of yours was a bit extreme.” As I studied him in the candlelight, I felt horniness giving way to compassion. Recovered from a dangerous illness, he could not know all that would soon go wrong: the collapse of his bank, the loss of his money and his home.
“Nothing risked, nothing won.” He paused. “How have you passed your time, since I saw you last? I expect you have found much to do in town, and made many new friends.” Male friends was the unstated subtext, or perhaps this was just my imagination.
“None I like so well as the old new ones, like you and your sister.”
“You are far too generous; you say only what I wish to hear. But do tell me, has my family been kind to you? Have they treated you as you deserve?” His glance went to Cassandra, who was talking with Edward by the window that looked down onto the street.
Only one answer was possible, and I gave it. “Oh! To be sure.”
But it was a strange question; I would have turned it over in my mind more, except that it was driven out by stranger things that happened later.
TEA AND SEEDCAKE AND MUFFIN HAD GONE AROUND, AND WE were talking about the theater. Somehow, Lovers’ Vows, which figures prominently in Mansfield Park, had come up, and Fanny, with more animation than she had shown before and a piece of seedcake in front of her, was making fun of a particularly overacted version she had seen in Bath. She was waving her fork in the air and declaiming: “I am well, only weak! Some wholesome nourishment!” when she fell silent and dropped the fork. It hit her plate with a clang.
“What is the matter?” her father cried. But she did not speak. Her eyes grew wide, and she brought her elegant hands up to the white column of her neck.
“Fanny!” Cassandra cried.
My eyes were on her upper thorax, which as fashion demanded was exposed, her breasts pushed up by her corset, making respiration easy to see. Fanny was not breathing. I observed this for what seemed a long time, until satisfied it was true, then I stood up.
“I am going to come behind you, and—and help. Do not be afraid.” She had stood too; she would be flinging herself around the room in a vain quest for air in a moment.
I struck her on the back several times with increasing force but no effect. Someone was screaming, “Fanny!”
I brought my arms around her torso, formed one hand in a fist just above the umbilicus, wrapped my other hand around the fist and jerked my hands up and back. The surprise of it sent a shudder through her frame, but the obstruction stayed. I did it again. Nothing happened.
Once more I pulled up and in, harder—I had feared hurting her, for she was insubstantial under the floaty muslin, and I had not allowed for how her corset, like body armor, was deflecting my force—and this time it worked. A piece of seedcake flew out of her windpipe and landed near the hearth. She drew a ragged breath and coughed into her handkerchief, tears filming her eyes. I patted her on the back, gently this time, and sat down, feeling dizzy.
Red in the face, she wiped her eyes, heaved a sigh, and sank into her chair. After a long moment, Cassandra poured her some more tea. Cup and saucer clattered in Fanny’s hands as she took a sip.
Finally Henry said in a low tone: “You saved her life. How did you know to do that? Truly, you are even more remarkable than your brother said.”
“It would have come out. I just helped.”
“No, but really,” Mr. Haden said. “I never learnt such a thing, Dr. Ravenswood. I should like to. Once, a cottager died before my very eyes, choking on a piece of turnip; I could have saved him, had I but seen this first! How ever did you learn it? Will you show me?”
He was addressing Liam, though I had performed the lifesaving procedure. I sat in silent indignation for a moment before I noticed Jane, who was looking at Mr. Haden. She glanced at me—an eye roll, a sarcastic twist of her mouth—for only an instant, but it was enough. To survive as a woman here and remain sane, it was essential to have a healthy sense of the ridiculous; that was the thing she had grasped before even out of her teens. I was way behind her, but then, weren’t we all?
“Later,” Liam said. “We will be happy to show you, but not at tea. It is enough excitement for one day.”
“But, Miss Ravenswood, tell us,” Cassandra said. “Where did you learn such a thing?” With that, everyone was looking at me, the same question in their eyes, except Liam, who seemed unsure where to look, and decided on the floor. I hesitated. Where could I have?
“My old nurse,” I began, “performed this on me once, when I was about ten and had inhaled a sugarplum. Do you remember that, William?”
I saw relief in the smile Liam gave me. “How could I forget? Later, you would not rest until she taught you—she said it was a secret of her Ashanti people, along with a charm for ensuring that the goat’s milk would not sour—”
“That one did not work very well, though—”
“And the cure for broken hearts,” Liam said, and I feared our improvisation had gone too far.
Jane broke the silence that followed. “Were you able to try that one, sir?”
“Never,” he said, and the conversation resumed more normal channels.
BUT I FELT A DIFFERENCE AFTERWARD. MAYBE MERELY IN ME; that finally, after weeks of sewing shirts and drinking tea and watching Liam flirt with Jane, I had done something useful. To my amazement, Cassandra sat down next to me on the other side from Henry and began telling me in a low tone about the challenges of keeping Madame Bigeon in line, and how hard Jane had been driving herself on the proofs of Emma. In Cassandra’s telling, she herself was the only thing at Hans Place standing between moderate disorder and utter chaos. I smiled and agreed with every word of it, as Henry watched us with a satisfied air.
Edward, who had seemed almost in tears after what happened, took Liam off in a corner for a long talk, which looked serious and ended in a vigorous handshake.
“SO WHAT WAS EDWARD SAYING TO YOU?” I ASKED ONCE WE WERE in the carriage and on our way home.