His eyes jerked from side to side. At the alarming motion, Jeanne started. He seemed to lurch forward. She looked down and saw his hands gripping the chair back. The knuckles were white. The ache in her throat increased.
“Paul.”
Jeanne glanced back at Mrs. Cook. The woman wrinkled her forehead. “Go fetch Dr. Miller.”
Paul walked to the door.
“Quickly now.” Mrs. Cook’s voice carried urgency and she made a shooing motion.
A doctor.
Memories rose in Jeanne’s mind. Her father screaming, his face contorted in torment as the doctor painted yet another mustard plaster on his skin in an attempt to draw the poisonous humors out. The endless purges and emetics. The excruciating blisters on his skin and the agonizing dry heaves. None of it did anything to cure Papa’s mad fits and mental lapses. And then finally, the insane asylum.
It is how they would deal with this obviously touched gentleman. As though her stays had suddenly shrunk, her chest constricted. No, no, it wasn’t her place to step out of her way to aid this gentleman. He wasn’t her responsibility. She owed him nothing. Her breathing came shorter, faster. It wasn’t safe to stick one’s neck out. And yet the words rose. She tried to hold them back but they burst out, “There‘s no need for a doctor.”
Mrs. Cook frowned deeper. “But he called you Thérèse. That’s a French girl’s name, not yours.”
“He is calling me by my middle name.” Jeanne held her breath and waited to see if this lie would be accepted.
Mrs. Cook blinked several times. “You have a French middle name?”
“Yes. My mother’s mother was French.” Another lie.
The matron’s eyes narrowed. “Just how does this gentleman know you? He seems very well off to be on familiar terms with a decent girl from around here.”
Jeanne caught herself biting her lip. She quickly released it and gave the first answer that came to mind. “He’s my cousin, on my mother’s side, twice removed.”
Again, Mrs. Cook blinked a few times then her mouth twisted until she looked like she’d just tasted a particularly sour lemon.
“My cousin is not well.”
“Apparently. More likely drunk as a lord.” Mrs. Cook’s tone became sourer than her expression. “I don’t like this.”
“Pardon me?” Jeanne tried for genteel outrage.
Mrs. Cook’s tone became sharper. “I have known you since you started coming here on Saturdays with your Papa. I always thought you were such a dedicated daughter. A good girl. But I don’t like having fancy pieces courting trade in my shop.”
“Mrs. Cook, this man is my cousin.”
“A wealthy relation who didn’t help you when your dear Papa was ill?”
“My cousin was out of the country at that time—he was in India, making his fortune.”
Mrs. Cook looked from Jeanne to the gentleman and back. Several times. “I don’t see any family resemblance.”
Jeanne swallowed against a tightening throat. Could everyone hear the pounding of her heart? “I favor my father’s side. He—he is my cousin.”
Her voice came out so strained that she cringed internally.
The matron’s expression hardened. “I think you met this gentleman under less than respectable conditions. Perhaps in a place where you’re known by a false name, a fancy French name to make yourself sound more interesting to wealthy gentlemen.”
Jeanne’s mouth dried and anxiety twisted her insides. “That’s not how it happened.”
“I’d appreciate if you took your cousin and left. I’d also appreciate if you never came back. I run a decent shop here, not a place of disorderly assignation.”
Jeanne sucked in a deep breath. That had hurt. More than she wished to admit. This was her place of comfort and respite when her isolation became too much. And she was a horrible liar. But what else could she have done? Consigned this poor soul to Bedlam? Oh God. She’d known he was dangerous. Why hadn’t she listened to that inner voice?
She glanced up at the gentleman. He was gazing at her with an odd, confused expression. Might he be ill, instead of insane? Surely, if he were that ill, he’d be in bed.
She reached a hand to him. “Let’s leave.”
The gentleman released the chair then took her hand and laced his fingers with hers as naturally as though he’d always done so. “Come, Thérèse.”
They walked sedately out of the coffee shop, just like that, with their hands intertwined.
The rain had let up yet the wind still gusted. With her free hand, she readjusted her scarf. His hold remained firm on her hand until they had traveled a block away. The strength of his grip sent prickles of fear darting into her. He could easily overpower her, if his insane whim so dictated.