The Irish Healer (27 page)

Rachel was scraping off her plate in the scullery when Joe entered the kitchen with a young girl. Miss Amelia, she presumed.

“Here ya go, young miss,” Joe said, guiding the girl to the table. “We’ve toast already and I think I know where there’s a bit o’ currant jam.”

While Joe rustled about in the pantry, Rachel stepped into the kitchen. The girl looked to be around three years old, not much younger than Sarah and Ruth. She was much better scrubbed than they ever would be, however, and pertly pretty in her navy blue checked frock banded with a thick ruffle. Raised to keep her back painfully straight, Miss Amelia folded her hands in her lap and lifted her chin haughtily. It didn’t take long for the gentry to learn their superiority, it seemed.

“There you are, Miss Dunne,” said Joe, surfacing with the jam before ducking back into the pantry for a jug of milk. He thrust a chin in the girl’s direction when he returned, his foodstuffs balanced precariously in his hands. “This ’ere is Miss Amelia. Mrs. M’s given me charge of the girl this mornin’ until Mrs. Woodbridge is settled. An’ this, Miss Amelia, is Miss Dunne.”

“Good day, Miss Dunne,” the lass replied, her voice cultured as fresh cream. “Aunt Soph said we had to come. Agnes is sick. She went to the hospital.”

“Oh, I see.” So the child was Mrs. Woodbridge’s niece,
not her daughter as Rachel had initially presumed. “Is Agnes your nurse?”

“Yes,” Amelia said, delicately biting into the bread. “She’s awful sick and Aunt Soph says we must pray for her.”

“Ah . . .” Rachel paled. She met Joe’s gaze over the top of the girl’s head. He frowned and poured out some milk, thumping the jug heavily onto the table when he finished. For the both of them, Molly’s death was too raw. “I am sorry she is ill, Amelia. I hope she gets better.”

“She’s got the chol’ra. I heard Aunt Soph say that Agnes is going to die.”

“I believe I need more coffee,” interjected Rachel, cutting off the conversation. “Joe, do you want some?”

“Nah. Can’t stand the stuff.”

Rachel didn’t much care for it, either, but sticking her nose in a mug was better than gaping at Amelia or trying to think of what further to say that didn’t involve disease or death.

The rapping of footsteps on the flagstone flooring of the hallway saved her from her dilemma. Within moments, Mrs. Woodbridge marched into the kitchen.

Her gaze skipped over Rachel and ignored Joe altogether. “Amelia, here you are. Would you like to go outside to the garden for a while? I’ve decided I’d rather rest out in the sunshine. My room is a trifle . . . musty. Maybe you could play with the dolls I brought along while your Aunt Soph reads. What do you say? Hm?”

Without saying farewell, Amelia rose from the bench and strolled off, hand firmly grasping her aunt’s.

“That there is one o’ God’s curiosities, Miss Dunne. That it is,” said Joe, his eyes tracking their departure. He leaned
across the table and swiped the crust of bread Amelia had left behind, downing it before continuing the pursuit of his line of thought. “Can never understand why Dr. E doesn’t take the little lass into ’is own ’ouse.” He licked his thumb and blotted up crumbs.

“Why would he bring her here?”

“I b’lieve Miss Amelia’s ’is daughter. Not positive, as she’s never talked about, all ’ush-’ush an’ all, but I think she is.”

“His daughter?”

Rachel glanced toward the doorway, as if she might still see Amelia there. Dr. Edmunds would have mentioned having a daughter, wouldn’t he?

“Born right afore the missus died, I’d wager.”

“Surely Dr. Edmunds is not so coldhearted as to keep his daughter away from him, not when he has a widowed sister-in-law to help raise the girl in this house.”

“I’m only sayin’ what I’ve ’eard, miss.”

“You do not truly think that is possible, do you?” she asked, bewilderment making her head ache worse than before. “Amelia is probably a niece of Mrs. Woodbridge’s deceased husband and you have misunderstood the situation.”

“Sounds right logical, miss, but—”

“It is wrong of us to continue to speculate.”

“As you say.” Joe shook his head and let out a whistle. “Can never understand the gentry. No, I can’t. They jus’ don’ think nor act like normal folk. Cor, there’s the front knocker again. Sure ’ope Dr. E finds ’imself a right good maid in Finchingfield. I ’ates the job!”

He scuttled off, brushing breadcrumbs from his new waistcoat, before he could make any further comment on the incomprehensible Dr. Edmunds.

CHAPTER 24

The next morning, Mrs. Woodbridge sailed into the garden like a ship of the line scuttling before a gale wind. Amelia toddled behind, arms overflowing with dolls, her dandelion-colored dress a moving beam of sunshine.

Rachel rose from where she had been squatting among the herbs and garden greens. “Good morning to you, Mrs. Woodbridge. Amelia. I was just collecting some maidenhair to make up a tea for Mrs. Mainprice. She awoke a trifle hoarse today, and this will help—”

“Yes, yes. Most interesting. Though I’m sure James could prescribe a pill that would be far more effective than your Irish country remedies.” Mrs. Woodbridge took a seat on the bench beneath the plum tree, its shade dappling her coal black dress with darkness and light. “Amelia, dearest, your dollies might like to play by the fountain.”

Amelia obeyed and arranged her dolls in a half circle on the ground.

“Your dolls are very lovely, Amelia,” said Rachel.

“Would you like to play with them, Miss Dunne?”

“She is too busy, dearest.” Mrs. Woodbridge’s tone froze the warm summer air.

Rachel knelt to pluck a handful more of the maidenhair from the edge of the kitchen garden. She would quickly dry the leaves over the fire then steep them in hot water. As good a remedy as any pills.

The other woman fluffed her bombazine skirts. “I recollect that you are related to the Harwoods, Miss Dunne. Am I right?”

The correct amount of herb gathered, Rachel stood. “They are my cousins.”

“As I thought.” Mrs. Woodbridge produced a book from the deep pocket hidden within the folds of her skirt and peered at Rachel over its top. “I admit I’ve been curious as to why they did not take you in upon your arrival in London. Having to do servant’s work must be humiliating for a young woman with such respectable connections.”

Rachel tucked her basket tight against her waist as though the woven straw might shield her body from Mrs. Woodbridge’s contempt. “I would not dream to ask them. I want to make my own way in this world.”

“Your own way?” she scoffed, making Rachel’s intentions sound ludicrous and pitiable. “As what?”

“I have interviewed for a position as a teacher.”

“Noble enough, I suppose. I also suppose you expect my brother-in-law to provide you with a character reference.” Mrs. Woodbridge gazed along the length of her patrician nose, her eyes two chips of obsidian honed to slice. “Ah well, James is a good man and likely shall. Sometimes, though, his
heart is far too soft. He has a tendency to pity the unfortunate and downtrodden. The wretched of this world.”

Rachel bristled. “He is not providing me a character reference out of pity, Mrs. Woodbridge. I have done good work and deserve his recommendation.” Though she had feared he would refuse for reasons she would
never
tell Sophia Woodbridge.

“I cannot judge the quality of your work. I must leave that to James, but I do worry—you must understand, Miss Dunne—about the soundness of his judgment when it comes to a pretty face like yours.” Her eyes flashed like the edge of a blade. “He can be lonely in this house and deeply misses the companionship of his wife. James loved Mariah, my dear sister, more deeply than words could ever describe. She was the best of women, the loveliest, the most accomplished. Any other woman could only pale in comparison.”

Such as me?

Rachel returned Mrs. Woodbridge’s stare. “I have occupied too much of your time, Mrs. Woodbridge. I have a tea to make.”

Gathering her skirts in her fist, Rachel hurried back into the house.
Awful, spiteful creature
. The woman was just being mean because she despised the Irish. Delighting in telling Rachel that she was inferior to Mariah Edmunds. So smug, so cruel. Didn’t she realize Rachel already knew she could never expect to gain Dr. Edmunds’s affection?

Rachel raced through the back door and collided with Joe on the other side, her basket slamming into his chest.

Joe reached for her arms to hold her steady. “’ey there, miss, now, what’s wrong ’ere?”

“That woman is dreadful,” Rachel spat through gritted teeth.

His brows jerked high and his mouth quirked. “Miss Guimon’ used to b’lieve so too.”

There. That made the last
.

James closed the file and packed it in the box with the others. He had updated every patient file and placed each one in its appropriate stack—some bound for Dr. Calvert, some for Thaddeus, some even for young Hathaway. He would appreciate that.

Standing, James rubbed the stiffness out of his back and made a circuit of the room, inhaling the long-familiar smells with a twinge of nostalgia. Foolish, really, to be bittersweet about the room. Soon he would never again have to worry if the aroma of camphor bothered his patients, especially the more delicate ones. Or if the settee was comfortable enough. In three days, London would be fading into the distance and the clear skies of Finchingfield—not misty soft like those of Ireland, but blue enough for him—would be on his horizon.

He glanced at the boxes of notebooks and ledgers, rising on his desk like headstones to his medical career. The moving agency was collecting the first crates today and everything was ready. The momentum propelling him forward was unstoppable now, a force like water rushing over a falls, months’ worth of planning fully engaged. He was going to walk away from it all. He was going to become a gentleman farmer at last.

So why the unnerving certitude that, just around the
next bend in the path of his life, he would encounter a brick wall?

Lord, help me come to peace with this decision
.

James shut the office door behind him and tossed the key upon the entryway table. It would go with the other keys Thaddeus would be collecting soon, when he came to take temporary control of the house until the new tenant arrived.

Mrs. Mainprice was humming as she scrubbed down the hallway wainscoting in Peg’s absence—probably the last time that task would be required of any member of his diminishing staff. She lifted her head as he passed.

“Miss Amelia’s in the garden, sir,” she said, a statement he could either interpret as a warning or encouragement.

“I should see how she is doing today.”

“Do you wish me to bring lemonade out to you, sir?”

“I won’t be out in the garden that long, Mrs. Mainprice.” He wouldn’t push himself just yet. One step at a time. And with the grace of God, each step getting easier as he took it.

Sophia was reading beneath the pear tree while Amelia danced her dolls across the rim of the fountain, the sunlight warm on her bright curls. They composed a lovely familial tableau, as charming as any painting. Yet here he was, little more than an observer. Excluded from the tiny circle Sophia had drawn around her and Amelia. The circle he had permitted her to draw Asked her to draw.

“James.” Sophia looked up from her reading. “It is most pleasant out here. I’m glad you could join us. Aren’t you, Amelia?”

“Yes, Aunt Soph,” she said, eyeing James with cautious curiosity. Determining that her father wasn’t going to scowl at her and wasn’t going to hug her either, Amelia resumed
playing with her dolls, singing an off-key tune for their awkward dance steps.

An urge to crouch down next to the girl—
his daughter
—rose in James’s body, twitched along his feet to move him forward. He should go play with her, ask about her dolls. He had every right. A right he had never bothered to exercise before, though. Those brief visits at Christmas and for Amelia’s birthday had been staid affairs where James had maintained his distance, close enough to observe Amelia but not close enough for the girl to penetrate his heart.

The earlier urge withered like a spring flower beneath summer’s hot sun. There would be time enough in Finchingfield to play with Amelia. If the girl even wanted his attention, something she had done without all of her life. James looked away, over to Sophia, but his ears continued hearing—the tiny childish murmurings Amelia made while she pretended to hold ladylike conversation, the pauses when she stopped to have the dolls curtsy or shift their positions along the gravel pathway.

“I thought I would come out and see how you two are getting along,” James said.

“Well enough, though I’m not sure Amelia slept well in that chilly attic room. She seems a trifle out of sorts this morning. I am somewhat peaked too.” Sophia sighed and pressed a palm to her forehead. “Perhaps your little assistant could make up a healing tea for me.”

“Are you intent upon discussing Miss Dunne with me again?”

“No, James. That topic of conversation has been suitably dispensed with.”