The Irish Healer (9 page)

Claire waited only a second after Molly had shut the door to rush across the room. “Rachel!” She pulled Rachel
into an embrace, hugging her tight. She smelled of rose water and the coal dust of London.

“It is good to see you, Claire.”

“And you!” A spray of smallpox scars fanned across her cousin’s cheeks, making her appear more careworn than Rachel had expected. “My goodness, but you were only five years old when I saw you last. I remember you as such a precocious child, running all over the grounds of our house outside Weymouth, trying to climb the lime trees.”

She motioned toward the settee and took a seat across from it.

“I tried to climb the lime trees?” Rachel asked, surprised. Not by the fact she might have tried to climb the trees, but that she could no longer remember doing so.

“Indeed. Father feared you would break your neck!”

“I seem to have forgotten everything about that trip.” Rachel and her mother never spoke about the last time they’d been permitted to visit Uncle Anthony and his family in England, the memories discarded like a broken dish onto a rubbish pile.

“It’s just as well. That visit did not end happily,” Claire admitted, peeling off her kid gloves. They were dyed the same violet as her bonnet trimmings and whispered of wealth. Mother had given up so much for the love of a charming, and not particularly successful, Irishman.

Rachel looked down at her own gown, noticed the tear she had mended last summer, and felt embarrassment heat her skin.

“I should have asked Molly to bring us tea and biscuits.” A wealthy woman like her cousin would expect such courtesies. “Not that she would necessarily oblige me.”

“I don’t need tea. I’ve an appointment at Lady Anthistle’s after this and she’ll fill me to the brim with pekoe, trust me.” Claire smiled reassuringly. “Tell me how your family is doing. I must hear everything.”

As Claire settled in, Rachel obliged, telling her of Mother and Nathaniel and the twins, who Claire had never met. Stories spilled like water over a weir, streaming from Rachel’s too-full heart. Claire smiled and nodded as Rachel talked until she grew hoarse.

“And your position here,” Claire asked. “Dr. Edmunds is kind to you?”

“He seems a good man and the position is excellent. I do not know how I can thank you for securing it, especially after all that happened in Carlow. You have taken quite a risk for me.”

The expression on Claire’s face froze, caught between an interested smile and the growing frown of confusion. “What is ’all that happened in Carlow’ that makes you a risk, Rachel?”

Realization came sharp as a knife prick. “Mother did not tell you why I had to leave Ireland.”

“I presumed it was due to financial hardship, a disastrous investment, perhaps.”

“It was because . . .” Dare she lie to Claire too? She could not. She would not, though the truth pained her. “I was accused of murder.”

Claire stilled while the air swirled with the word.
Murder
. The mantel clock chimed inside its glass dome, ticking off the unforgiving passage of time while Rachel waited for Claire’s response.

Please do not judge me harshly. I could not bear it
.

“But you were not guilty?” Claire asked quietly.

“I would not be here if I had been found guilty.”

“Then I do not wish to know more. If you provide me details, then I might have to explain to my family, and it’s best they never learn about this. They already disapprove of everything I do.” Her long-fingered hands twisted her gloves. “What of Dr. Edmunds . . . how much does he know?”

“Nothing. I was afraid he would toss me on the street without a reference.”

“He might, if he knew” Claire leaned forward and gathered Rachel’s hands in her own. “I do not care what you did in Carlow, Rachel. All that matters is that you are here now, and I can help you find a new future. God didn’t provide me with this opportunity to heal old wounds simply to have me walk away.”

What an interesting way to view her troubles, thought Rachel. As an opportunity from God.

“You will not regret helping me, Claire. I promise you.”

“I trust not.” She squeezed Rachel’s fingers, a signal of her resolve, then released her grip. Opening her reticule, Claire extracted a folded slip of paper from within and handed it to Rachel. “I have arranged an appointment for you already, with the mistress of a school near St. Martin’s Lane. On Friday morning. It is a place I work at often as a volunteer. You might find a position as a teacher there, though they’ll not pay you much. Twenty pounds per annum might be all you could expect to start out, especially without a certificate.”

Rachel unfolded the paper and a few coins fell onto the carpet. She picked them up and held them out. “I cannot accept money from you.”

“Do you have any funds for an emergency? No, I thought not. It’s only a few shillings, anyway.” Claire shoved Rachel’s hand away. “I’m going to send over a dress for you to wear, if you don’t mind. First impressions are critical.”

Blushing, Rachel wrapped the note around the coins and tucked the entirety into her pocket. “Thank you for the dress.” She wouldn’t argue about the necessity for one. “And the money. I pray I do not need it, but I will keep it safe in case I do.”

“And I shall keep your secret safe. A woman’s future depends upon maintaining the purest of reputations.”

“Mine has a rather large blot.”

“We’ll work hard to erase it. With God’s grace, we shall.” Claire stood. “This will have to be a short visit, Rachel. I don’t want to be late to Lady Anthistle’s. She’s providing a large sum of money to a foundation I’m thinking of starting.”

“Your own foundation . . . how marvelous.” More evidence of Claire’s charity. Pride bit hard.
How far I have fallen that I’ve come to need it
.

Rachel escorted her cousin into the hallway.

“I’ll come by to fetch you on Friday, Rachel. Send a message to the address on that piece of paper if Dr. Edmunds will not release you to make the appointment.” Claire deposited a quick kiss on Rachel’s cheek. “I know you’ll succeed. I will make certain you succeed.”

They exchanged fond farewells, and Rachel closed the door behind her.

As she turned away, she spied a flash of black merino disappearing around the first-floor landing.
Molly
, she thought with a pinch in her chest. The maid had been listening at the door.

“Where is Molly this morning, Joe?” Rachel asked as she held the kitchen door open for him.

Joe struggled through with a small crate piled high with chipped plates, bound for the charity wagon waiting on the curb outside. “She’s gone off to the grocer’s to stock up for dinner this evenin’. Why d’you ask, miss?”

Rachel trailed him up the staircase, a box of old kitchen linens in her hands. “Oh, just wondering if she’s said anything about . . . anything.”

Joe glanced over his shoulder at her. “Does she ’ave somethin’ in particular to say?”

I hope not
. “I was just wondering if she ever talks to you about me.”

He rolled his eyes. “If Moll ’ad somethin’ to say about you, miss, she’d tell the entire ’ouse, not just me.”

They passed Peg on her knees in the hallway, a scrub brush in her hand, a bucket of soapy water at her side.

Joe sidestepped her sprawled skirts. “You missed a spot there, Peg,” he teased.

Peg glared as she dragged the brush along the baseboard. “Oh, it’s right funny you are, Joe.”

Rachel went past without catching the girl’s eye. She had already learned life was easier if she avoided conversing with Peg. “Everyone is so busy today.”

“Don’ you know we’ve special company comin’?” Joe set down the box in the entry hall. He stretched his neck and pretended to tidy a cravat like the greatest peer of the realm. “Dr. Castleton and ’is esteemed sister, Miss Louisa Castleton. Won’t be bringin’ ’is missus tonight. ’eard she’s off visitin’
somewheres. ’e’s a right stuffy bloke, ’e is. Goin’ to be takin’ over the doctor’s practice when we go. Don’t much like how ’e looks around ’im when ’e comes to visit. Like ’e’s taken a fancy to ownin’ the place on top of everythin’ in it! An’ there’s ’is sister . . . well, she’s a pretty one, and I think she ’as ’er ’eart set on Dr. E, the way she bats those eyelashes at ’im whenever she’s ’ere. Not that I’ve been spyin’ on them or anythin’.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.” Rachel waited as he opened the front door, retrieved his box, and stepped through. “And Dr. Edmunds, does he return Miss Castleton’s interest?”

Joe cocked his head and grinned. “Why, you soft on ’im too?”

“I hardly know him,” she protested, warmth creeping along her neck. “Besides, he is my employer.”

“All the more reason to be interested in ’im! Sure didn’t stop that Miss Guimond from goin’ all big-eyed around ’im. Even though folk like us shouldn’t be bothered with pinin’ after folk like Dr. E and ’is kind. Too high up an’ all.”

“Yes, Joe,” she agreed. “Far too high for folk like us.”

He started down the steps toward the curb. A cart with a banner pasted to its side declaring it belonged to St. William’s Benevolence Society waited there.

Joe continued on with his discussion of Miss Castleton without breaking stride, the dishes in the box rattling as he thudded down the steps. “But that Miss Castleton, she’s the right sort. Though Dr. E keeps ’is feelin’s close as a miser’s purse. Miss Castleton oughta try to break an arm or somethin’ if she wants to get ’im to notice ’er! But then, ’e’s obluvis an’ all. Might not work.”

“Oblivious, Joe,” Rachel said slowly and smiled. “I should not be listening to any more of your gossip, you know.”

The man from the Benevolence Society gestured toward the cart. His hand swept past his thick waist, which strained the buttons of his waistcoat. Clearly, he had never lacked for food or suffered need, unlike those he ministered to.

“In the back here,” he said. “There is space adjacent the other crates.”

“Yeah, we see it. Like we’re blind or somethin’,” muttered Joe.

Rachel set her small box atop the bed while Joe hoisted his box alongside. A wagon moved aside to avoid colliding with them. Rachel hurried out of the street.

“I jes’ wish Mrs. M ’ad picked a better day to be haulin’ our old kitchen goods aroun’. I’ve got work in the dinin’ room polishin’ the silver.”

Joe hopped back toward the house. Another, larger crate waited at the foot of the stairs. He and Rachel had brought it out earlier.

“Jes’ think, miss,” he said, squatting down to grasp hold of the crate. “Pretty soon ya won’ be needin’ to ’aul boxes around. Yer cousin found you a teachin’ position, ’as she?”

“How did you hear about that?” Rachel asked, taking the other side.

“There’s nothin’ what ’appens in this ’ouse doesn’t get spread around like manure in a cattle shed.”

“I’ve no position as yet. But she hopes I shall soon.”

On the count of three, they hoisted the crate in their hands.

Joe shifted its weight and jerked his chin at the handful of neighbors and inquisitive strangers collecting to watch, clotting the pavement with their nosiness. “Wish they’d consider ’elpin’ rather than gawkin’.”

“I doubt they would even contemplate the idea, Joe.”

“Too ’igh and mighty for ’ard work, too, aren’t they all? Cor.”

A tiny girl toting a monstrous basket of apples for sale was forced to walk in the roadway to get around them, the faded and dirty condition of her dress a glaring contrast to the crisp kerseymeres, nankeens, and cambrics.

Rachel’s gaze tracked the girl’s wary path, her heart tugging. “Little girl, do be careful,” she called out. For a moment, the child looked her way.

“Ho!” the man from the Benevolence Society scolded Rachel. “Watch what you’re doing. You’ve almost trod on my foot.”

He gave her an irritated push, and Rachel’s boot heel snagged on a jagged cobblestone, the box jolting from her hands.

“No!” she yelled.

The box crashed onto the street, plates and pots spilling out to roll away, crockery smashing. A man steering a two-wheeled carriage swung wide to evade a battered pewter platter cartwheeling across the cobblestones, lurching into the heavy oncoming traffic. He shouted at someone to watch out.

And then Rachel heard a scream and the whinnying recoil of his horse.

CHAPTER 9

Why have you stopped?” James asked the hackney driver, leaning his head out the window.

“Looks like there’s been an accident.” The man used the butt of his whip to point. “No one’s gettin’ through there.”

A tangle of horses and wagons and people blocked passage. Someone was trying to back up a cart to turn around and ran into a hitching post at the side of the street. Raised voices rumbled down the roadway, bounced off the sides of the houses, and mixed with the staccato clatter of hooves on cobblestone. A policeman trotted past.

James grabbed his medical bag and unlatched the door. “They might need my help. We’re close enough to my house as it is. I’ll get out here.”

He tossed the driver his fare and headed up the road. The worst of the mess looked to be located outside his front door.

James started jogging.