Dearest Millie (The Pennington Family) Read online

  She’d risen early, as she usually did, and started the day telling her maid and the housekeeper and the butler and anyone else she crossed paths with that she would not be receiving any callers today.

  Neighbors seemed to know when one of the Penningtons had arrived in town, for the stream of guests and invitations always began immediately. Friends and even vague acquaintances were daily callers whenever Lord or Lady Aytoun or any of their children were in Edinburgh. But Millie was hardly in the mood for entertaining or being entertained. But, she admitted to herself, it wasn’t friends or acquaintances on her mind right now. It was Dermot McKendry, and she was still debating whether she should see him or not.

  Tired of Lord Byron and her own dark thoughts, Millie recalled the nonsensical scene the night of the ball. Before the man arrived, she hadn’t believed she would ever laugh again. He’d proved her wrong.

  If he came this morning and sent up his card, Millie mused, and she didn’t receive him, he would certainly see it as a rebuff. He didn’t deserve that. The footmen and the butler could certainly manage a lie for her, but perhaps it would be better if she wrote to him and explained...

  No. There was nothing she could say in a note that would make him understand what she was going through or what she was feeling.

  Millie paced the drawing room. She didn’t want to reject him. Not as a person. Not as a . . . as a what? As a friend? Her thoughts again returned to the night of the ball. She pressed a fist against her stomach, not wanting to dwell on the physical awareness that had rushed through her. Instead, she focused on the pig. The greased pig. The mayhem didn’t end in her room either. The animal made it down the stairs and into the ballroom where the roars of the guests were louder than the squeals of the terrified animal. Luckily, a footman had been able to catch it before any harm befell the little beast.

  She was surprised to hear a chuckle and realize she had been the one to laugh. She shook her head, still smiling to herself.

  McKendry’s reprisal had indeed been a good one. The devil.

  A carriage rolled to a stop in front of the house. Millie hurried to the open window, and her gaze fixed on the man stepping out onto the sidewalk, carrying what looked to be a satchel under one arm.

  Her sister Jo had certainly not exaggerated Dr. McKendry’s fine looks. Two nights ago, she’d been caught off her guard, but now she stared at him, appreciating the details of his face. The finely wrought cheekbones. The straight nose. The high, intelligent brow. Confidence was written in every line and in his stride as he walked toward the house. He was an enticingly handsome man, and she felt the flutter deep in her belly.

  Her ogling came to a quick halt when he directed his eyes upward to the window where she stood gaping. He stopped and lifted his hat to her. Millie, overwhelmed by the heat that rushed through her, remained locked in place for a moment but then quickly backed away.

  Oh, no. He’d seen her, and in a moment the butler was going to tell him she wasn’t home. That wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do, at all.

  As the knock sounded on the front door, she hurried out and was able to cut off the footman before he opened it. She quickly gave him her instructions. Retreating to the drawing room, Millie tried to compose herself before he was shown in. What was a visit of twenty minutes or so, anyway? Their personal history demanded she give him that courtesy. He was simply calling on her to ask after her health. Nothing more than that. She took several deep breaths.

  There wasn’t much time to fret as a soft knock was quickly followed by the footman announcing the caller.

  “Dr. McKendry, how kind of you.” A curtsy and a bow were exchanged. “What are you delivering today, if I may ask?” She gestured to the satchel he had tucked under the arm. “A hive of bees? Adders, perhaps?”

  “I don’t know what would possess you to think I’m capable of such callousness.” He surveyed the room. “But now that you mention it, what did you do with my gift?”

  She arced an eyebrow. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Please don’t tell me he was delivered to the kitchen and used as the main course for dinner yesterday.”

  “Hardly. At present, I believe he’s terrorizing the kennels at Baronsford, for I decided to keep him as a pet. In fact, I’ve already named him.”

  She motioned to a chair for him to sit. He shook his head. “Named him?”

  “I’m calling him ‘Dermot.’ Don’t you think that’s a fine name?”

  His laugh warmed her, and she smiled.

  “I’d say that is a fine name. I hope he wears it with pride.”

  Millie gestured toward a chair again. “May I offer you some refreshments, Doctor?”

  “I’d like to stay, but I can’t.” Pulling the satchel from under his arm, he opened it and began to reach inside. “I have lecture notes here that were entrusted to me by a friend of mine who teaches at the Royal College of Surgeons. I need to comment and return them today. I didn’t want you to think less of me for making this such a brief visit.”

  Millie frowned at the thick ream of paper he was struggling to remove from the leather bag. “How could I think any less of the one person who successfully brings mayhem into my life?”

  “Very kind of you . . . I think.” He shifted the satchel to get a better grip on the papers.

  “You don’t need to show me. I believe you.”

  “Nay, I insist.”

  Clearly frustrated, he yanked the stack of paper from the satchel. An instant later, pages were flying in every direction, descending like autumn leaves.

  Shocked by the suddenness of it, Millie stared as a breeze from the window compounded the chaos, riffling up the papers and sending them skittering away as if they’d grown legs.

  WHILE MILLIE CHASED pages into the back corners of the drawing room, Dermot busied himself kicking as much of it as he could under every table and chair he could reach. When she turned around, he stood with two handfuls, looking as sheepish as possible.

  When, after closing the window, she got down on her hands and knees to gather pages together into piles, he knelt on the floor with her, pretending to help while actually spreading the mess whenever she looked away.

  She sat back on her heels. “I’m going to call the servants. We need help.”

  “Oh, please don’t.” Dermot sat back as well. “I’m already banned from Baronsford after the Great Piglet Invasion. This will surely seal my fate on Heriot Row too. If this keeps up, I won’t be allowed south of Aberdeen.”

  After bumping into her in Edinburgh and learning her plight, he’d set out to help her through a potentially difficult time, to brighten the dark moments he feared she was suffering through. And she’d barely left his thoughts for a moment since they parted.

  “You’re not banned from Baronsford. I learned later that you never even entered the ballroom.”

  “The tragic disaster involving a certain article of my clothing prevented me from indulging in the celebrated Pennington hospitality. And then, of course, there was the pig.”

  “Indeed. The pig.” She rearranged her dress around her. She appeared perfectly comfortable seated as they were on the floor. “Incidentally, little Dermot was rescued just as the frightened creature emerged from beneath the skirts of a dowager duchess who, I understand, was highly entertained in spite of the uproar around her. By all reports, my father had to sit, he was laughing so hard. Cuffe and I decided afterwards not to admit to having any knowledge of the invader. And later on, no one seemed at all curious about where the pig came from.”

  “That may be due to the fact that I saw your sister and Wynne Melfort on my way out. I took full responsibility . . . and then dashed for the carriages before a vengeful mob could form.”

  “That showed wisdom, Dr. McKendry. We keep our pitchforks sharpened for such occasions.”

  He nodded his head graciously. “Thank you. My family is noted for its honorable retreats.”

  After leaving Millie’s room, Dermot had sought out his pa
rtner and Lady Jo to make sure that no youngster on the estate would be blamed for the ruckus.

  Millie picked up a few more pages within her reach.

  A shaft of morning sun bathed her in a white glow, and Dermot stared. He’d known of Millie’s beauty and engaging disposition long before his evening at Baronsford, but there were other things that drew his attention now. Her eyes were a magical shade of grey with flecks of silver. And she had a way of looking out from beneath her long, dark lashes that could make a man’s heart race, but she was no seducer of men. He guessed the serenity of her disposition had allowed her to go unnoticed in social circles for much of her life.

  She was slow to smile—with good reason, considering the news she’d recently received—but when her lips quirked at the corners, her entire face lit up, and in beauty, she rivaled Venus herself.

  She inched over a little to gather pages from beneath a chair. A surgical drawing on one of them caused her to hesitate, and her expression darkened. He was wondering when she’d notice the topic of the lecture notes.

  “Your sister Phoebe. Will she and Captain Bell be staying at Baronsford until the bairn comes?”

  She looked up, immediately brightening like sunshine. “No, she’ll be having the baby at Bellhorne Castle. They dropped me here yesterday on their way back to Fife. Neither of them wishes to leave Captain Bell’s mother alone for any extended period of time. Phoebe is still a month away from delivering.”

  Dermot stretched his legs out, watching her. “I assume she’d want you with her, wherever she is, when the time comes?”

  “There is my mother. And Jo. Of course, my brothers’ wives are far more qualified.”

  “From what I understand, you’re her closest friend. Lady Jo always brags the two of you as well could have been twins. You’ve always been inseparable, she told me. There’s nothing that one of you goes through that the other is not part of.”

  Millie looked down and made a production of straightening the papers in her lap. “Were these pages in any order?”

  “Unfortunately, they were. A precise order.”

  “And when did you say you needed to return them?”

  “Today, if possible. My friend asked me to offer some comments on the lecture.” Dermot looked about him and tried to give an impression of distress. “I know it’s too much. I have no right to impose on your time . . .”

  “Please ask.”

  “Might I organize the notes here? I’ve taken a room at Boyd’s Inn, in White Horse Close, but the tavern has very bad lighting.”

  “I’d be delighted to help.”

  Dermot was relieved that he’d judged correctly. Perhaps, he’d hoped, she would find comfort in the familiar impulse of asserting some element of control on a world that had spun away from her.

  Jumping to his feet, he extended his hand to help her up. Her soft, cool fingers nestled in his. His thumb caressed the softness before letting go. He was happy to see her face maintained a healthy hue. She directed him to a table where they could deposit the pages and work on either side.

  “There’s an index in this mess somewhere. If you don’t mind, while you’re putting the manuscript back together, I can peruse the content and consider what recommendations to make.”

  The notes did belong to a friend of his, but there was actually no urgency as to when to return them. They were from a series of lectures his colleague had given a few years ago, and Dermot had spent an hour this morning shuffling the pages out of order. His input would be pointless, of course. For more than a decade, he’d been serving in the Royal Navy and then establishing his hospital in the Highlands. But he’d sought out these notes specifically because the topic was particularly relevant to Millie’s situation.

  Despite his efforts to spread the notes as widely as possible in the room, he hated seeing her bending and picking them up.

  “Why don’t you start putting them in order and allow me to gather the rest?”

  In a few moments, Dermot had piled them all on the designated table. A footman brought in tea and sandwiches, and they sat across from each other. Just as Dermot had hoped, collating the material required some scrutiny on her part, and she started asking questions.

  “You said the lecturer is a friend of yours?”

  “Indeed. Robert Liston. A young fellow who is pioneering a new school of thought in surgery.”

  “How are his methods different?” She was looking closely at page of anatomical sketches.

  Dermot paused to gather his thoughts to say the right thing. He’d intended to raise her curiosity, and he didn’t want to botch this opportunity.

  “Liston advocates speed during surgical procedures. He believes this reduces pain, thus relieving strain on the patient. He’s shown this has a direct impact on rates of survival.”

  Millie kept her gaze on the drawings.

  “Other doctors connected with the university are pioneering new methods, as well. Surgeons like Archibald Drummond . . . and his wife, Isabella Murray Drummond, who is a German-trained physician and surgeon. Her father was a lifelong advocate of hygiene during surgery, and his studies show this effectively improves outcomes.”

  She casually laid the page down. “A female doctor?”

  “She practices medicine in her husband’s clinic on Infirmary Street, right here in Edinburgh.”

  Dermot tapped the papers on the table, trying hard not to reveal what he knew of her medical situation. Patience was called for here, he told himself. She had choices, and he wanted her to know what they were. Other physicians and surgeons in the city were far more qualified to provide the care she needed than the one she’d visited.

  “I know you’re quite busy, and I’ve already taken up too much of your time,” he said. “But would you be interested in accompanying me to the Royal College of Surgeons this afternoon?”

  She pushed the stack toward him. “For what reason?”

  “I’d hazard a guess that it’s like no place you’ve ever seen. Think of it as entertainment, in an odd way.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “The college has a teaching museum used by students and alumni to better understand anatomical issues and aberrations. The public is not allowed in, but as a fellow there, I can take you through.” He paused and laid his hand on the stack she’d put in order. “At the same time, I could return these.”

  “You don’t need my company.”

  He sat back in his chair. “Well, the museum is famous for its superior organization of artifacts, and as re-organizing things seems to be of interest to you, I thought maybe this might give you some ideas. Of course, I may live to regret it.”

  “You’re quite persuasive, Dr. McKendry. I believe I’ll join you.”

  Chapter 5

  MILLIE PAUSED IN THE corridor outside the double doors. Above the entrance, the words Anatomicall Theatre had been carved long ago in old-fashioned script in the dark wood.

  The decision to accept the invitation and come had been made on impulse, but the Royal College of Surgeons was far more fascinating than Millie would have ever imagined. Upon arriving, she realized Dermot McKendry intended to introduce her to friends who held classes in the college, but Millie insisted they begin by going through the museum.

  Dermot had already told her the old dissection theatre had housed the museum for as long as he knew. As he ushered her in, her attention was arrested by a framed, handwritten advertisement in a case, accompanied by an explanatory card. The cracked and yellowed paper had been inserted by the Edinburgh Gazette and was dated 16th September 1699.

  These are to give notice that the Chirurgeon Apothecaries of Edinburgh are erecting a library of Physicall, Anatomicall, Chirurgicall, Botanicall, Pharmaceuticall and other Curious books. They are also making a collection of all naturall and artificiall curiosities. If any person have such to bestow let them give notice to Walter Porterfield present Treasurer to the Society at his home in the head of the Canongate who will cause their names to be honourab
ly recorded and if they think not fit to bestow them gratis they shall have reasonable prices for them.

  Limbs, morbid specimens, diseased organs, abnormalities. Somewhat to her surprise, Millie found none of it disturbing, though the acrid smells permeating the air were like nothing she’d ever experienced.

  “Preservation spirits.” John William Turner, the Keeper of the Museum, breathed in deeply and shook his head. “I don’t even notice it anymore.”

  Millie moved with Dermot from aisle to aisle, her curiosity aroused at every turn. Mr. Turner strolled alongside them, explaining in detail the long history of the museum and the plans for expansion. As they walked, the bespectacled young man had the air of a laird proudly showing off his estate.

  Directors of institutions such as this always recognized the Pennington name, and Millie was accustomed to efforts to engage the family’s interest in becoming a benefactor. Her parents and each of her siblings had their own projects, and she was involved with all of those. She’d always imagined the time would come when she too would find a cause she could sponsor. Someday.

  Millie paused before a display of an amputated arm. Someday indicated an open-ended future she no longer possessed.

  A brush of Dermot’s hand against her shook Millie out of her gloomy thoughts. She glanced up at him and realized the touch was intentional. From the moment they’d walked in here, he’d been so aware of her, so attuned to her moods.

  Mr. Turner was explaining how the young students used the specimen to understand the connection of tendons and ligament and bone. Then the museum curator pointed out a knee with a gunshot wound and an embedded musket ball mounted on the next table.

  “Where did all these come from, Mr. Turner?”

  “Many places, m’lady. Since the decision to begin the museum, we’ve been accepting and acquiring specimens from any number of sources,” he explained. “The majority come from private collections, donated by the estates of former surgeons and professors who had assembled their own personal museums. Of course, some of the pieces have been rescued from the cupboards of the Royal Infirmary.”