Culture, Correctness & Charles

By Liberty Stafford

Eliza Gordon is a beautiful, passionate, independent young woman drowning in the rigorous sensibilities of Victorian England. Her safe yet mundane existence is shattered suddenly one snowy night by the crashing arrival of Charles Frazer, a wild, handsome, untamed man.

Charles is the unwilling heir of the Frazer fortune which, without him, may be handed over to his evil cousin, Randolph, who also wishes to possess Eliza. Sent back from the Arctic after living peacefully with the Inuit, Charles finds repatriation and rules impossible to adhere to. His predicament is made worse by the close presence of Eliza as their desperate attraction is undeniable and forbidden. They can only steal surreptitious moments of furtive passion.

When Charles and Eliza are kidnapped and taken to the Frazer mansion, will either of them ever escape? Can Charles survive or will decorum crush his liberated spirit? Will love destroy them both?

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Dec 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781554872329

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Culture, Correctness & Charles

Copyright © 2009 Liberty Stafford

ISBN: 978-1-55487-232-9

Cover art by Martine Jardin

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

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Smashwords Edition

Culture, Correctness & Charles

A Victorian Adventure

By

Liberty Stafford

Dedication

To my very own hero, Jon, for believing in me.

Culture, Correctness and Charles

Don't be afraid, Eliza, reassured her father, Doctor Bernard Gordon, a stiffly set, fairly handsome man in his late fifties. He noticed her face was, as always, a picture of perfect composure.

Her concentration unbroken, her lips slightly open as she regulated her breathing, she pushed back one chestnut spiralled tress as it tumbled from behind her small ear. I'm not, she calmly replied and pressed a wad of towelling onto the patient's wound, which had begun to spill a thin yellow and red fluid.

Press down fairly hard, not too much to make him sore.

I know, Father.

Yes, I'm sorry. I forget sometimes how many times you have helped me in the absence of my colleagues.

Where is Randolph today? she enquired as she deftly swapped the soiled bandages for an application of fresh new ones she had positioned nearby.

Your guess, my dear, is as good as mine. Damn that man. Forgive me, dear, but his insincerity and complete unreliability have pushed me to the limit. How is the wound?

Quite clean. Are you ready to stitch?

Yes, Eliza. Thank you, he said benevolently as she passed him exactly what he needed--a container cradling an already threaded needle, spare catgut thread and sharp, silver surgical scissors.

While her father deftly stitched his patient, Eliza walked over to a pitcher of warm water, poured it tinkling into a large bowl and wrung out a small towel in it. Returning, she carefully dabbed the perspiring forehead of the man on the table who smiled gratefully, You are doing extremely well, Mr. Walker, she softly spoke, unsure of how much he could hear her in his semi-conscious, anxious state.

Dab just there, Eliza, so I can see. Thank you.

Father, she paused and whispered, could I sew the wound this time?

For a moment, Dr Gordon looked at her in a way that suggested an affirmative, but he frowned and continued with his work, You don't have the correct training, Eliza. Of course not.

I have watched you so many times and have read much about technique and type, I'm sure I could do it well.

Possibly, Eliza. Maybe. It is not proper. You should not be here, in all honesty.

Please consider it. I would do it well, Father.

Think about what you are asking, Eliza. You would have to touch the flesh of a stranger, of men unknown to you, directly. Pushing a needle through skin can take an amount of strength, which your fingers, though nimble, may not possess.

Well, all I ask is that you consider it. I could help you much more if you would allow me to. After all, I have learned from the best, have I not? Eliza gave her father a small kiss on the forehead, which made him smile despite his endeavours to sustain a serious mood.

Eliza was pleased, in a way that her father's latest protégée, Randolph Frazier, was as undependable as he had stated. In Randolph's frequent absences, she had the opportunity for some activity other than piano playing, painting, needlecraft or other banal Victorian task deemed suitable for feminine hands. Bored with such a sedentary lifestyle, Eliza relished the chance for any hands-on work with her father in his surgery at the front of their large home. Her mind quickly absorbed all the medical details--how to stitch a wound, simple anaesthesia, lancing, prescribing, everything a magical entity in her otherwise undemanding life without challenge.

* * * *

Dr. Gordon glanced at her. He relished his daughter's assistance. Secretly she was his favourite daughter and always had been. Eliza had been such an astonishing child. She learned very quickly and had a zest for life, which made him feel twenty years younger. He had noticed that, since her teenage years had begun, Eliza's appetite for life had begun to dwindle and he could not help but feel the life he had chosen for her was to blame.

As usual, and as proper, she would be trained to become a domestic goddess, a woman with talents befitting her future, which would ensnare a husband of paramount eminence. Only at times like this, in his dark little surgery, surrounded by bottles, disinfectant and syringes, did she seem to glow with vitality anymore. He did not feel he should encourage this side of her nature, but, similarly, did not seek to quash it either.

Sometimes he feared she did not have a place in this society--central London, amongst the highest leagues and circles, barricaded into position by rules and regulations, expectations and decrees, a regime where, somehow, she did not quite fit.

* * * *

Later that same night, all appeared to be perfectly wonderful as Eliza Gordon, dutiful doctor's daughter, gazed dreamily down into the street from her bedroom window. Needing some distraction after the excitement of her work in the surgery had come to an end, she sat in the window box to try and arrange her thoughts.

A powdery dusting of soft white snow had freshly fallen, which gave her a chance to indulge in one of her favourite games--guessing who the footprints belonged to. A policeman possibly as he trailed a