The Irish Healer (12 page)

Thaddeus groaned. “I don’t like any of this. The decision to quit your practice, flee London, and take up puttering in the countryside because your father requested on his deathbed that Amelia be raised there . . . Don’t mistake me, I respect your father’s dying wish, but none of this feels right. I had hoped when you didn’t rush up to Finchingfield immediately that you agreed with me. But farming . . . It isn’t what I ever thought you would do with your life. What happened to the James I used to know? The one who used to be ambitious, confident. The most promising physician I had ever met.”

He died three years ago, Thaddeus
. “You should be pleased I’m leaving London. You’ll profit handsomely from taking over my practice.”

“I’m hardly pleased. Just do me a favor . . . make certain you know what you’re doing.”

“I am retiring to the countryside. The last time I checked, that is not a criminal offense.” James stubbed out his cigar, barely smoked, and tugged hard on his waistcoat. “Let’s join the ladies before I regret having you take over my practice. Those patients of mine just might be right about worrying that you’ll become their physician.”

Rachel smiled nervously at Miss Castleton, perched on a sofa placed at an angle to the large drawing room window. She could hear Dr. Edmunds’s voice, loud in the dining room just below them, his words but not his tone muffled by the thickness of the wood between. She imagined Miss Castleton could hear him as well, though her expression was a calm and unruffled flatness as if she were deaf to the world. Sipping her coffee with practiced elegance, Miss Castleton looked around the room, though Rachel suspected she had been there before.

Unease stretched between them, pulled tight as the warp on a loom, until Rachel feared her nerves would snap.
What am I doing here?
She wished she could leave, her curiosity about Miss Castleton well sated, but leaving would be unpardonably rude.

Downstairs, the voices stopped. Certainly Miss Castleton had noticed, for the sudden silence below caused her shoulders to visibly relax.

“Would you care for more coffee, Miss Castleton?” asked Rachel, looking to fill the void with something resembling polite conversation. Miss Castleton hadn’t said a word to her other than “yes” or “no” since they had been alone together. To expect she might say more was unrealistic. A woman who was the sister of a gentleman, who aspired to be the wife of a gentleman, would not readily converse with someone she viewed as her inferior. Although Rachel evidently intrigued her. Miss Castleton had watched her closely when Rachel had poured the coffee for them both. “Or perhaps a bite of seedcake?”

“More coffee would be pleasant.” Miss Castleton stared
down the length of her fine nose while Rachel refilled her cup. “Can you remind me what your position is in this household, Miss Dunne?”

“I am Dr. Edmunds’s assistant.”
And right now I feel as insignificant as a bug
 . . .

“I thought he already had an assistant. Miss Guimond.”

“She is no longer with Dr. Edmunds, but I have not replaced her. I am cataloging the contents of his library and helping pack his office. A temporary position until I find a place in a school as a teacher.”

Miss Castleton’s eyes, a gorgeous violet fringed by fair eyelashes, peered at her. Rachel decided they were her best feature and made her quite amazingly lovely. “So you’re not to go with the rest of the household to Finchingfield.”

“No.”

“Yes, I remember that is what James . . . oh, I mean, Dr. Edmunds, told us.” She attempted to look embarrassed at having so familiarly dropped Dr. Edmunds’s Christian name, though Rachel suspected it was no accident. “It must be hard to find respectable employment, coming as you are from Ireland.”

The barb found its mark, but Rachel ignored the temptation to react to its sting. It was likely Miss Castleton meant to be spiteful; it was just as likely she was merely speaking the awful truth as she knew it. “I am fortunate that my cousin, Miss Harwood, will assist me. She knows of several charity schools where I might find a position.”

“Ah, a charity school. Of course, that would be perfect for you, Miss Dunne. I’ve visited many of them myself, when I’ve been able, and the children are so pitiable.” A moue of
compassion attempted to fix itself upon her mouth. “Perhaps I can assist in founding such a place in Finchingfield, if there is a need.”

The stupid pinch of jealousy returned. “You are also moving to Finchingfield?”

“Oh, I should not have stated it so plainly, but I believe I shall be.” She began to whisper conspiratorially, “Between us, Miss Dunne, I do expect that Dr. Edmunds is about to ask for my hand in marriage. If he has not already broached the subject with my brother, who acts as my guardian in place of our father, long deceased.”

“You must be very excited by the prospect of such a marriage,” replied Rachel, vividly aware that she did not want to be party to Miss Castleton’s expectations. She would prefer to know absolutely nothing about Miss Castleton and Dr. Edmunds’s matrimonial plans. “Dr. Edmunds is a fine man.”

“Indeed, I am thrilled,” said Miss Castleton, dreamily. “I have always longed to live in the countryside.”

Rachel bit back a hasty rejoinder.
You should be thrilled to be with him
. That sentiment should be Miss Castleton’s uppermost thought. How could Dr. Edmunds wish to marry Miss Castleton? They were as opposite as the poles of a magnet. He was serious and she decidedly frivolous. He needed someone who could understand him. Who knew what it meant to be drawn to an injured child in a road. Miss Castleton seemed more likely to stride away, eyes averted from the street urchin, than to bend down to offer aid.

“Congratulations, Miss Castleton.” Rachel scraped together all the goodwill she could gather and found sufficient to truly mean her words. “I wish you great joy.”

Miss Castleton’s eyes widened, taken aback that Rachel—a
poor Irish girl—could be gracious enough, well bred enough, to extend sincere felicitations. “Why, thank you.”

The men entered the drawing room. Dr. Edmunds’s gaze sought out Rachel before looking anywhere else. Before drifting to the woman who intended on moving to Finchingfield with him. Drift to Miss Castleton, though, they eventually did.

Rachel stood. “It was very agreeable to speak with you, Miss Castleton. Good evening to you.”

“Good evening, Miss Dunne. I wish you success with your endeavors.”

Dr. Castleton went to join his sister on the sofa. Rachel attempted to slip by Dr. Edmunds, still waiting just inside the doorway. He lifted a hand to stop her. “Please stay, Miss Dunne. It’s early yet.”

“I cannot, Dr. Edmunds. Because of my unfortunate fainting spell earlier, I still have work to attend in the library and must leave you to your guests.”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

“Always sensible, Miss Dunne.”

“That I am.”
For I know where I do not belong
.

“Dr. Edmunds,” called out Miss Castleton possessively, “please join us. Thaddeus has started to tell an amusing story about a hot potato seller he encountered today, and you must hear it.”

Dr. Edmunds bowed his head and ceased attempting to convince Rachel to stay, strolling away to take a seat across from Miss Castleton. He made a remark to her that was out of Rachel’s hearing and she smiled. The sight constricted Rachel’s chest for no particular reason she could name. Miss
Castleton was of Dr. Edmunds’s world. Maybe she would make him happy. She obviously enjoyed his company and wanted to be his wife. They would have beautiful children and be blessed by God.

Rachel turned slowly on her heel and closed the door behind her.

CHAPTER 11

Morning didn’t bring an announcement of an impending wedding. In fact, the day was progressing much as the past few days had, with Joe bustling around the house or out by the outbuildings, Mrs. Mainprice in the kitchen, Peg and Molly cleaning and washing and tidying. And Rachel at work in the library, with nothing to disturb her save the twirling of her thoughts, fast as the feet of a dancer.

Had Dr. Edmunds not asked Miss Castleton to marry him, after all? Was that what he and Dr. Castleton had been discussing after dinner?

“Miss Dunne, you’ve a letter.”

The voice at the library doorway—Molly’s—jolted her, and Rachel plucked the end of the dip pen out of her mouth. She had been chewing it absentmindedly while she’d fretted over matters irrelevant to her.

Molly stood in the library doorway, a folded bit of paper in her outstretched fingers.

“A letter?” Rachel asked, setting the pen aside and taking
the note from the maid. She glanced at the outside and recognized the handwriting—her mother’s. Rachel tucked the letter into her apron pocket to send the clear signal she was not about to read it while Molly stood there. “Thank you for delivering it.”

“Do you have the postage, or do I have to ask Dr. Edmunds for the money?” Rachel paused long enough to generate a sneer on Molly’s face. “That’s what I thought.”

Molly briskly strode out. Rachel hurried over to the window, retrieved the note from her pocket, and broke the red wafer seal. It was filled with the expected greetings and words of love, news of the twins and Nathaniel, even the cat, making Rachel’s chest ache from nostalgia. She could hear her mother’s voice reciting everyone’s antics, her words light and happy. Did Sarah and Ruth not notice that their older sister was gone? Was Nathaniel so occupied with being the eldest child of the household that he didn’t miss Rachel? Or was Mother masking the reality to keep Rachel from fretting?

Rachel rotated the note to follow the twists and turns of Mother’s message, her cramped handwriting making the most of the single sheet of paper to economize. She nearly skimmed right over the most critical lines, the reality that couldn’t be masked:

I don’t wish to distress you, but Mr. Ferguson is still angry. He is claiming to all who’ll listen—which is a greater number than ought be—that the trial was a sham and justice wasn’t served. Do not worry for us. We can weather it. Thankfully, by the time you receive this letter you should be safe and settled in London
.

My deepest love,
Mother

Heart in her throat, Rachel pressed the note to her face, fancying it carried the soft scents of home—bundled herbs, stew in the pot, heather. All she loved and missed was in jeopardy, placed there by a vengeful man. She had to get her family away from Carlow immediately, before Mr. Ferguson destroyed what was left of the Dunnes’ reputation.

Or did worse.

The Harwoods’ London home stood in a part of town that spoke of gentility in hushed and ancient tones, echoing disdain for the new neighborhoods with their boring symmetry and stubby fresh-planted trees, disdain that Rachel could hear among the tall maples crowding the square and the decorous clip-clop of horses’ hooves on cobblestones. Even the street sellers’ banter was subdued, as if afraid to disturb the perfect order.

Rachel hurried down the pavement, her rough twill skirts slapping against her half boots, drawing the condemning glare of a neighbor descending from her carriage. How could Claire tolerate the constant scrutiny? Claire, however, would pass inspection, Rachel reminded herself.

A pert maid in a crisp black uniform answered Rachel’s knock, reluctantly taking Rachel’s message before leaving her to idle outside on the steps.

At last, Claire arrived at the door, shutting it behind her. Hastily, she brushed a kiss across Rachel’s cheek. “Rachel, how unexpected.”

“I would not have disturbed you, except I have received a letter from home that has me very worried.”

“I see.” Claire guided Rachel down to the pavement. “I would invite you in, but . . .” Her cousin glanced up at a first-floor window. “It’s easier for us to talk out here.”

Claire led her across the street to the gated park filling the neighborhood square. The trees and clipped hedges would shield them from the view of whoever it was Claire seemed so anxious to evade back at the house. Probably Aunt Harriet. She disliked Dunnes as much as Uncle Anthony had.

Releasing the park’s gate, Claire ushered Rachel inside. She looked about her, as if the park might be concealing spies. A nursemaid wheeling her charge past did not even look their way.