Jane jumped, screamed.
Lillian patted Jane’s arm. “We can check in on my parents first if you like, but as you’ve surely noticed, there’s at least one explosion a day here.”
“I had noticed that.”
“Shall we go, then? We don’t have much time if you insist on returning home tomorrow. I don’t see the reason for haste, however. The snow turned to rain here, but if it continued falling as hard as it was when we left Whitwood, they are all surely snowed in. The snow will keep them for you. Send a letter to your brother and see what it is like.”
Jane looked at the tightly folded letter burning her hand. “Yes. Excellent points. I’ll do just that.” She hooked her arm through Lillian's. “But first, research.”
Perhaps she’d learn something that would help her help George. Just because he did not wish to marry her did not mean she could not help him. At the very least, it might help her understand his fear better, understand, as she’d told him the last night they’d spoken, the myriad ways love could hurt you.
But first… Should she post the letter? What would it solve? It was still goodbye. A last lick of passion before she faded back to the country. She must still return to Whitwood and find another way to escape her stepmother’s circle and begin her own life. She could not live with the Clarkes indefinitely. If she did not marry one of the men who had offered their hands, there would be no other offers.
In the hallway, a door swung open, emitting smoke and the shadowy, looming figure of a man. Mr. Clarke stepped out of the fog, waving a hand before his robust, beet-red face and coughing.
“Is all well, Papa?” Lillian asked.
He leaned forward with the force of his coughs, placing his palms on his bent knees and hacking some more. Then he popped up to his full, considerable height with a grin, revealing large, white, but soot-streaked teeth to match his soot-streaked face. His steel-gray hair whipped about his head in a wild halo. “Perfection, Lilly-weed. Perfection! I’ll be knighted in no time, just you wait. Afternoon, Lady Jane.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Clarke. Are you sure you have not been hurt?”
His laugh boomed down the hall. “A small explosion isn’t enough to stop a strong man. Or woman, mind you.” He winked. “Write that down.”
“Always do, Papa,” Lillian said, pulling Jane toward the front door.
They stepped onto the street, and Jane inhaled the air, not much better than the foggy stuff from the hall. “So, your father truly does say the things you say he says?”
Lillian nodded. “All the time. Every day a new adage.”
A small explosion isn’t enough to stop a strong man. Or woman. Was a dangerous, opium-addled uncle a small explosion or a big one?
“Lillian?”
“Hm?” Lilian looked both ways down the street.
“Does your father have much to say on the matter of big explosions?”
Lillian swung her gaze to Jane with a smile. “Run like hell and hope you survive. Then get back in there.”
Run like hell. That’s exactly what it felt like she was doing, saying goodbye and leaving George for good. But would she ever return? Sometimes you couldn’tget back in thereto use Mr. Clarke’s colorful expression. Sometimes the place you’d been before was completely destroyed, and there simply was no going back.
She held the letter up, though it felt heavy as lead. “I need to post this first.”
* * *
Dr. Abbott's Mayfair practice was more an elegant home than a medical space. Lillian’s family physician had lived in more spartan accommodations, more practical, and he’d said Dr. Abbott was the only man in London to speak to about opium.
But Jane couldn't imagine anyone being sick here or uncomfortable even. Dr. Abbott himself complimented his home well with impeccable manners, elegance, and polish. They waited for him in a stylish drawing room with striped wallpaper, a pot of steaming tea at hand.
A door swung open, and a man of no more than fifty years bustled in, the corners of his eyes crinkled with mirth. Introductions were made formally yet amicably, and the doctor settled into a seat with a sigh after Jane and Lillian took their own seats once more.
“What is it that brings two such young and innocent misses to my doorstep?” Dr. Abbott asked. “Perhaps one of your mothers is in need of my services? I hope not yourselves.”
“Neither,” Jane said. “We are not here for the particular help that you give your patients. We have come in search of knowledge only.”
“Fascinating. Do continue.” Dr. Abbott settled his teacup on a saucer with the daintiest of tinkling sounds, like the echo of fairy bells ringing in the distance.
“We heard,” Jane said, “that you cure people of their laudanum habits when they have grown too reliant upon the drug.”
