The Irish Healer (20 page)

“You are very fortunate to be coming to live here, Peg,” Rachel said, the charm of the countryside making her feel pleasantly disposed toward everyone, even Peg.

“Work’s work. Don’t much matter where it takes place.” Peg grunted as she shifted the mattress off the bedstead. “Miss Dunne,” she appended without a hint of respect.

“But it is much better for your health to work out in the countryside, away from the filth and grime of London. Don’t you think?”

The girl cocked a narrow eyebrow. “I haven’t a choice one way or ’tuther, have I?”

Rachel blinked back at her. “I suppose not.”

“Are you thinkin’ you’d a-like to live here, miss?”

“I haven’t a choice, Peg,” she echoed. “I intend to find work in London, since Dr. Edmunds does not need an assistant here.”

“No, he doesn’t now, does he?” Peg heaved the bed away
from the wall, the legs of the frame scraping across the boards. “Doesn’t need you at all.”

Rachel lifted her chin. She should have stayed in the kitchen with Mrs. Mainprice, where she wouldn’t be treated like an interloping pariah. “Mrs. Mainprice suggested I ask the doctor if he has a position in the household for me.”

“As a servant, miss?”

“What else, Peg?”

Peg’s lips quirked. “I dunno.”

Rachel did not mistake the implication behind Peg’s words, and her cheeks flared with heat. Peg believed she had designs on Dr. Edmunds. Hadn’t even Joe thought as much? Did everyone believe that had been Rachel’s true reason for coming to Finchingfield House today, to stay near the doctor?

To be near him out in an open meadow, just the two of them, the scent of grass and earth running in her veins, the sun burnishing his hair . . . She flushed anew at the memory of her own thoughts.

Well, Rachel Dunne, it is a wonder the entirety of London hasn’t discovered all of your secrets, because you are as transparent as good glass
.

Throwing the final panels onto the pile, Rachel jumped off the chair she stood upon. She bundled the brocade in her arms and glared at Peg, who returned the look with an expression so sour it seemed she’d bitten into a handful of lemons. “I believe I am finished up here.”

“Yes, miss. I think you might be.”

Without another look at the girl, Rachel marched out of the room and down the stairs.

Straight into James Edmunds’s arms.

CHAPTER 18

Miss Dunne!” James retrieved the dusty curtain that she’d dropped. Rachel had plunged headfirst through the kitchen entry and right into his arms. The weight and warmth of her body didn’t stay there for long. She had squirmed in his grasp and, reluctantly, he’d had to let her go. “I was just looking for you.”

Pink blushed her cheeks. This close, he could spy the freckles peppering the bridge of her nose like flecks of cinnamon atop a sugared cake.

“Our meeting in your father’s library” She shifted the weight of the curtains to better balance them. “I was busy upstairs, but I hadn’t forgotten.”

He took the curtains from her arm, surprising her. She was so petite, she looked as though they would swamp her beneath their weight. He knew, though, she was strong. Enviably, admirably, strong. “The roof leak ruined the chambers up there, didn’t it?”

“Not too badly. The plaster has fallen in spots, and some
of the furnishings got wet, but these curtains have only a small stain along the top. Easily fixed by a quick brushing with hot water.”

“Now that’s a pity. They’re so ugly I hoped for an excuse to burn them.”

His teasing brought out a smile. He liked her smiles.

James glanced around the kitchen, quite bare but for a few stray pots hanging over the cold fireplace. Cavernous in its emptiness.

“You know, Miss Dunne, I haven’t been in this kitchen since I was a lad.” So very long ago, when the house hummed with activity and life was still full of promise.

“You haven’t?” she asked.

“Father was insistent that the family keep separate from our staff,” he explained. “Only my mother would occasionally come down to check on the stores or confer over the menu, but I was such a favorite of Mrs. Mainprice, I often visited. When I used to sneak down here to get away from my lessons, she would fill me up with treats, samples of the evening’s dessert or Tonbridge biscuits she would make just for me.”

“Have you ever had barmbrack, Dr. Edmunds?” Miss Dunne asked.

“No. What is it?”

“The best treat I know of. Sweetened flour cakes studded with raisins or currants.” Her fine eyes shimmered happily. “My little sisters love them as much as I.”

“They sound wonderful.”

“Not as wonderful as a good tart made with butter and fresh fruit, I would guess, but wonderful enough for us.” She snatched the curtains from his arms. “Here, let me take
these back to the scullery. No need for you to dirty your clothes with them.”

With ease, she moved through the kitchen as if she belonged there. Comfortable in a way James’s mother had never been, drifting from room to room in the house, the murmur of her skirts never more than a ghost’s whisper. Whereas Miss Dunne . . . just the sight of her bright hair set a spark to the space, eye-catching among the whitewashed kitchen walls and massive plate shelves.

He would miss that spark. Miss her.

Miss Dunne returned, wiping her hands across the yellowing apron she had tied around her waist. “Those are taken care of, and I am ready to examine your father’s library now.”

James led the way. This time when he entered, the scent of pipe smoke was less noticeable. As if Miss Dunne had not only the power to brighten a room but banish joyless memories as well.

Miss Dunne released a long breath as she strode the length of the library and back. “And I thought you had a great deal of books back in London, Dr. Edmunds.” The wall of glass-covered bookcases dwarfed her.

“My father and I shared a love of the written word.”

She looked over at him. “You must have had a great deal in common.”

“No. Not at all, really. Other than medicine.” The key ring jangled as he pulled it from his coat pocket. “Let me get these cases unlocked so you can start measuring the shelves and see if there’s any space. I think it’ll take an act of God to merge the two collections.”

“You will find a way.”

“Are you always so certain, Miss Dunne?”

Her gaze met his. “No. Not at all, really,” she said, an ironic smile touching her lips.

She joined him, her shape imperfectly reflected in the wavy glass door fronts, standing far enough away that there wasn’t any risk that sleeve would touch sleeve or hands would share warmth.

Reach out and grab her, fool, and let her pull you free
.

Of course, he didn’t.

Mrs. Mainprice was in the kitchen, recording the contents of the pantry and storeroom, making note of needed supplies.

“I have finished in the library, and I thought I would take a stroll around the grounds, Mrs. Mainprice.” Rachel fetched her bonnet from the hook where it hung. “If you do not need my help in here, that is.”

“Nay, not a bit of it.” She waved her hand. “You get away with you. ’Tis a lovely day out there and fast fading. Get in a walk, and when you’re back you can help me pull together a bit of dinner.”

“I shall not be long.”

Rachel stepped out into the sunshine and strolled across the weedy kitchen garden and onto the lawn, the brilliant green grass crushing beneath her half boots, releasing its scent. She inhaled the warm bright air, the sweet scent of some yellow-blooming plant, fresh hay thrown to a cow standing in a distant shed. She let the aromas ease through her.

A shepherd doffed his cap as he passed on his way to
tend his flock, his black-and-white dog dancing circles around his legs. “Good day to ya, miss.”

His deferential treatment, the sound of his country-rough voice, the happy bark of his dog, made her smile. “I am in search of a walk that can give me a view of Finchingfield’s property. Do you know the best way to go?”

“Yer headed in the right direction, miss.”

After thanking the fellow, she continued on, up a gentle slope. She found the view. And, as fate would have it, Dr. Edmunds as well.

One hip resting on a crumbling stone wall, he was looking over his fields. From somewhere he had unearthed a simple straw hat with a broad brim, and he had stripped down to his shirtsleeves, the thin linen revealing in detail the width of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest.

She dawdled overlong, and he noticed her standing there. Maybe she had intended him to.

Hastily, he stood. “Miss Dunne.”

“I did not mean to intrude on your solitude.”

“You’re hardly intruding.” He opened then closed his mouth and cleared his throat. “I take it you’re finished in the library.”

“I have accomplished what was needed, Dr. Edmunds, and have drawn up a plan for how you might accommodate your collection.”

“Then would you care to see the property?”

With him alone, out in an open meadow, the sun burnishing his hair . . . She could refuse, turn back now, claim she had only sought a breath of fresh air and scamper off to the refuge of the kitchen. Not be accused of wanting more.

Never know what it would feel like to be near him.

The time together might come to nothing, but at the moment, Rachel did not care.

“If it is no trouble, I would love to be shown around,” she answered.

He smiled, the rarest gift he had to offer, the one she always craved. “It’s been so long since I’ve been here, I need a tour myself.”

They started out at a crisp pace, back toward the house. He squired her past the barn and the milk shed, over to an old dovecote and the yard where they had kept chickens when he was young. They moved across the lawn, skirted a pond hidden from the house behind a small knoll. They reached the stream Mrs. Mainprice had mentioned, its waters burbling over rocks. Dr. Edmunds’s private place, a willow licking the surface, the flow moving too quickly to skip a stone across.

Using a rickety bridge constructed of flimsy beams, Dr. Edmunds took her elbow to help her across. Though he withdrew his hand quickly, his touch lingered while they found the path that led to the fields of hops and summer wheat.

“I’m told we had a good rye crop earlier in the year,” he said, pausing at another low wall that separated his property from his neighbor’s.

“Your estate is very impressive,” she said, clasping her bonnet to her head against a sudden stiff breeze, the wind rippling the young wheat in long, rolling waves. “And very beautiful.”

“Does the land remind you of Ireland?” He had taken off his hat to keep it from blowing away, and strands of
his dark hair fell forward over his face. She was reminded of the first time she’d seen him like this, his hair tousled. This time, she had no wish to straighten it. The slightly unkempt Dr. James Edmunds belonged among the stalks of wheat and hedgerows and purple flowering thistle. And yes, the sun did burnish his hair, bringing out golden strands among the dark, colors she would never see beneath a smoky London sky.

“It is like Ireland in that the sky is overhead and the earth is underfoot,” she answered. “But the green there is a vibrant shade, soft and deep, rich as an emerald. The hills rise rocky and are shrouded in violet, and the sky overhead is the gray-blue of misty mornings . . .” Her voice cracked.

“I shouldn’t have asked.” His gaze brought warmth to her cheeks. “We should talk of less unhappy things. Such as my plans for raising sheep.”

“Sheep?”

He let out a low, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m trying to learn everything I can about this farming business, and apparently part of my holdings involves a flock of sheep. My steward, Mr. Jackson, thinks cattle would be more appropriate. He’s an excellent man, good at what he does. I suppose I should listen to him.”

“My father once had a partner he relied upon like a strong staff. A wise man to provide counsel is hard to find.” Words Father often said . . . until he and his partner had squabbled and parted ways. The business and their lives in Carlow began to unravel then, a slow unwinding of the thread of their security and happiness.

Rachel sighed and stared out across the fields.

“A true sentiment, Miss Dunne.” Dr. Edmunds followed
her gaze. “I’m fortunate to have someone like Mr. Jackson to rely upon as my steward. My father was unwell the past few years, and he didn’t oversee the maintenance required. For instance, the few laborers I have need new housing. Some of them have been living in cottages built over fifty years ago. The roofs leak and there are dirt floors. Wretched conditions.”

“At least the air is clear. Unlike London’s.”

He turned to face her. “Would you like to live here?” he asked, eagerness lifting his voice.

Her pulse sped. “What do you mean?”

“Would you like to come live in Finchingfield?”

“As your . . . as your . . .” As what?

“I’m sure we could find a position for you in the house. I’m certain we can.”

Her heart plummeted to her feet. What had she thought he’d been asking? “I thought you did not consider me a servant, Dr. Edmunds.”

The mistake he had made registered on his face. “That wasn’t what I had in mind.”