Chapter Seven

What To Say

When Clara arrived at the Smith household the next morning, she found John almost as exhausted as he'd been yesterday. Bill seemed off, too, sitting quietly on the floor, lazily pushing around a toy horse. Clara set her bag in the nursery and then came back to find them unchanged.

She went to John, who was standing by the door closing his medical bag.

"Are you alright?"

"Mmhmm," he replied without looking up. "Just tired."

He flashed that fake smile up to her before turning to Bill.

"I best be heading off."

Bill rose silently and grabbed his waist in a hug. This one lasted longer than their usual goodbyes; and seemed a lot more solemn as well. She met John's eyes as he held his adoptive daughter, but he only gave her that ridiculous smile that meant he was actually not happy at all.

Maybe someday she'd understand him.

Maybe she would never.

When Bill finally let go, John picked up his bag and tightened the scarf around his neck.

"Have a nice day," he said to them both.

Clara gave him one of her own false grins as he headed out the door.

When he was gone down the street, Cara shut the door and turned to Bill with a brighter look on her face.

"Now; how about we do some drawing? I found some of the Doctor's old art supplies. That would be a lovely present for him when he gets home, wouldn't it?"

Bill seemed to perk up a bit at the idea, but still only nodded in response. Clara chewed her bottom lip.

"Bill," she said, kneeling down to the child's level and taking her hands in her own. "Is everything alright?"

Bill looked at the floor. Then, slowly, she shook her head. Clara encouraged her to sit on the floor beside her, clearing away the toy horse.

"Do you want to talk about it? I always feel better when I tell someone about what's bothering me."

Bill picked up the toy horse and fiddled with it unconsciously.

"The Doctor always seems so sad," Bill said softly. "Like there's something troubling him all the time. But he never talks about it."

Clara nodded.

"A lot of adults are like that," Clara explained. "They don't like to talk about things that are upsetting them."

Bill furrowed her brows.

"Why not?"

"Well, some people are taught that it's immature to show feelings. Or that they shouldn't make other people worry about them."

"I worry about the Doctor," Bill admitted. "Does he not want me to?"

Clara rubbed the girl's arm with a gentle smile on her face.

"It's good that you worry about him. That means that you're kind."

Bill looked at the toy horse again.

"He has nightmares," she said quietly.

Clara's heart ached for both of them. She reached out and stroked Bill's hair with her thumb.

"Did he have a nightmare last night?"

Bill paused in her playing, and then nodded silently. Clara went through a dozen possible responses in her head. But none of them sounded right. Ultimately, she decided to let Bill speak next.

"I didn't know adults had bad dreams."

Clara smiled sweetly.

"Adults have bad dreams all the time. We get scared, too, you know. All the time.

Bill thought this over for a while, and then seemed to accept it. Clara rubbed her shoulder again and then got to her feet.

"Now, how about we look for those art supplies? If we're lucky, maybe we'll even find a few of the Doctor's drawings."

Bill smiled at that, and followed happily after Clara.

. . . . .

When John returned that evening, he seemed almost like a different person. Yes, there were lines of exhaustion drawn on his face, and his shirt and coat were certainly rather ruffled. But he was smiling, grinning, and moved into the front room with energy he hadn't had that morning.

"Good evening, Clara," he said joyously, setting down his medical bag.

She smiled, too, puzzlement quirking her eyebrow.

"Good evening, John. Good day at work, I presume?"

The edges of his smile twitched, but the brightness remained in his eyes.

"Work was as usual. But I did receive these…"

He held two tickets triumphantly in his hand. The way he was looking at Clara, her heart skipped a beat.

"Are you a fan of Dickens, Miss Oswald?"

Clara nodded, speechless. He wasn't going to…no, of course not. No use getting herself excited.

"I am, John." She replied simply.

He faltered again, looking at her as if she'd asked something absolutely ridiculous.

"Er, actually, I was wondering, Clara, if, er...if you would like to accompany me?"

Blood rushed to her cheeks, an unstoppable smile breaking out across her face. John handed her one of the tickets hastily.

"Mr. Dickens is doing a reading of A Christmas Carol next Friday evening. One of the nurses at our hospital gave me these tickets as an early Christmas present."

Clara smiled ear to ear, almost speechless.

"Oh, John; that sounds wonderful."

He gave her another boyish grin before calling Bill, who was in the nursery.

"Bill, Clara and I will be going out next Friday. Would you like to stay at the hospital for an evening with some of the ladies you met last month?"

Bill gasped, a joyous smile written all over her face.

"Will Miss Jones be there?"

"I would expect so."

"And Nardole?"

John rolled his eyes.

"Nardole is always at the hospital, Bill. I can't seem to keep him away."

Bill pursed her lips at him, in such a stern way that Clara and John couldn't help but laugh.

"What is it darling?" He asked, stifling a chuckle.

"I like Mr. Nardole."

John sighed.

"I like him, too. But he can be quite strict when it comes to certain things."

"You should be kinder to him. He makes the best tea."

John turned to Clara, almost rolling his eyes again.

"Nardole likes to add coffee to everyone's tea. It keeps this one up all night."

He tickled Bill until she wasn't cross with him. Then, he gave Clara her ticket and saw her to the door.

Before she opened the door, Clara paused.

"John, I can't thank you enough. But I don't even know what to wear, or how to carry myself...I've never been anywhere as exquisite as the theatre before."

John smiled, and her worried suddenly melted away.

"I never really fit into that crowd either," he admitted. "Don't worry about anything. You've helped so much, with Bill and everything. It's the least I can do."

Clara smiled bashfully again. Half of her was thrilled. Half of her was utterly baffled as to why he would do all of this for her, a mere governess.

And a small portion of her was, if she had to admit it, a little bit embarrassed. She'd lived on the East end her entire life. She'd prepared the children of her previous employers for formal occasions, yes; but never herself.

As Clara walked home that night, she pondered over all of these things, plus something else.

John had seemed so happy tonight; happier than she'd ever seen him before. But, as Bill said, he'd been up the night before with a nightmare that left him terrified.

What was this strange man's story? Why was he so kind, and so brave, and so hurt and sad? What had life done to him in the past that made him feel so much tenderness, but also so much heartache?

And what on earth had led this doctor to asking a governess to a reading by Charles Dickens?