Page 29 of The Missing Page
Had Mr. Trevelyan known about the state of Rose’s finances twenty years ago? Had he, perhaps, had something to do with her missing money? What if Rose had found out? Before James could decide whether these were reasonable suspicions, Sir Anthony cleared his throat.
“I wonder, James,” said Sir Anthony, breaking the quiet, “that you’re still practicing medicine, even in such a modest way.”
James kept his gaze on the photograph album, which was open to a picture of Camilla in tennis whites. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Martha’s needle had stilled. “I’m a doctor. It would be a wonder if I didn’t practice medicine,” he said when he could trust his voice to remain even.
“But—well, it can be a trying profession. When you came to see me in ’45, I believe I counseled rest.”
Mostly, James was furious that Sir Anthony was doing this in front of Martha and Lilah. “I believe you did,” James agreed, flipping the page so he now saw a photograph of Rupert Bellamy and some men James didn’t recognize. “But I sought a second opinion.” Somewhere behind him, he heard a sound from Lilah that could have either been a laugh or a gasp. “Feeling useful is its own therapy.”
James didn’t have to look at Sir Anthony to know the man was furious. It radiated off him so James could feel it as surely as he felt the heat from the fire.
“By exposing yourself to situations that bring on your fits, you risk a relapse. You probably heard what happened to Peter Mayhew. Went stark mad after hearing a gun discharge during shooting season. Quite insensible now. Worse than your father ever was.”
He wanted to say that he didn’t have fits, that he wasn’t going to go mad, that he was no longer afraid of turning out how his father did. But there was a glimmer of truth in the poison Sir Anthony tried to pour in his ear. Sometimes a case that was particularly bloody or violent did bring him close to the edge of panic. He would always worry about ending up like his father.
But now he knew those worries were baseless; where another person might lie awake worrying about burglars or housefires, James worried about his mind. The worry would always be there, but he knew it to be far-fetched.
Two years ago, though, he hadn’t known. He had fainted while attempting to put in stitches and was terrified that his career as a surgeon—and his life as he knew it—was over. He had been vulnerable and frightened when he sought Sir Anthony’s help.
He had spent years thinking that Sir Anthony must have meant well. But now he knew that this wasn’t the case. Sir Anthony meant to make him feel as bad as possible. He didn’t know why, and at the moment he didn’t much care.
“I wonder that you speak so freely about your patients,” said James, finally lifting his gaze to look at the darkened countenance of Sir Anthony. He got to his feet and tucked the photo albums under his arm. “I also wonder if my father might have fared better with a different course of treatment.”
That parting shot might have been unfair, but James was beyond caring. He needed fresh air. He stowed the albums on top of the wardrobe in his bedroom, out of sight, and decided not to think too much about why he thought this precaution was necessary. He grabbed his coat out of the wardrobe and went downstairs, then stepped outside just in time to see Leo walking down the drive.
“Why on earth do you look so surprised?” Leo asked. James supposed his face was just that readable. Or maybe Leo had simply learned to read it.
“Not surprised, just pleased to see you,” James said in a wild understatement. But the truth was that James was always a bit surprised when Leo returned. Not because he didn’t trust Leo or because he thought Leo didn’t care enough for him to come back, but because it seemed completely fantastical that a person like Leo came to James not only once, not only twice, but again and again. It was as if some rare bird had alighted on James’s finger—it would be mad to expect it to become a regular occurrence. “I’m delighted, if we’re honest.”
Leo gave him a startledwe’re in publiclook even though James’s voice had been pitched low, and even though a heated homosexual affair on the front steps would be the least peculiar thing to have occurred at Blackthorn in the past twenty-four hours.
“Do you fancy a walk?” James asked, shoving his hands in his pockets so he didn’t accidentally touch Leo.
“I would indeed,” Leo responded, in a tone suggesting that he understood exactly what James meant by a walk.
While James buttoned his coat and put on his gloves, Leo watched him, as if making sure he did up all the buttons properly, as if he wanted to check for himself that James was sufficiently bundled up. The thought made James’s heart squeeze in his chest.
As they walked, they told one another what they had learned that afternoon. James told Leo about what he had seen in the photographs and his uncle’s bedroom. He told Leo what Sir Anthony Marchand had said to him, and Leo had responded with a gratifying string of profanities and darkly glinting eyes. Leo in turn told James about the contents of the newspaper, his talk with the grocer’s wife, and his certainty that Madame Fournier was in fact Camilla’s former lady’s maid, who had disappeared from Blackthorn at around the same time as Rose.
“In short, you probably flirted with everyone from the owner of a tea shop to an elderly librarian—” James began.
“—and I hardly learned enough to fill a calling card,” Leo lamented.
James had seen Leo gently pry information from people, and it wasn’t exactly flirting, but it wasn’t far from that either. “What do spies do when they’re less accomplished flirts than you?”
“Must be tedious.”
“Is it ever more than flirting?” James had perhaps let himself wonder about this once or twice, or maybe a few dozen times.
“Not really. Not lately, at least. My specialty is rooting out information, and taking people to bed is really not the most expedient way of going about things.” He cleared his throat. “Would it bother you?”
“No,” James said immediately. It was mostly a lie.
“Liar.”
“I mean, to be perfectly frank, I don’t want you to…” He made a vague gesture.
“To fuck other people?”
