The Irish Healer

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.

Satisfied they would not be overheard, Claire reached for Rachel’s hand and dragged her down onto a bench. “Tell me what has happened.”

“A relative of the person I was accused of harming is still very angry. He is claiming that I should not have been let free. Mother did not say what he has done beyond complain to everyone he can think of, but I am afraid he might harm them. He drinks heavily, at times, and . . .” So clearly, Rachel could remember how Mr. Ferguson had looked at her trial, his eyes rheumy and vacant. An irresponsible and vindictive drunk.

“I must get my family away from Carlow sooner than I had planned, Claire, but for that I need money. At least four pounds for passage.”

Claire frowned. “I don’t have that amount. A few shillings are all I’m ever allowed. My brother pays all my expenses. If I go to a shop, he receives the bill and attends to it. I only ever have enough just to pay for an ice or some flowers or to offer coins to a beggar.”

“I cannot ask Dr. Edmunds for the money” An employer never lent money to his staff. “Perhaps you could ask your brother. I would pay him back, with interest.”

“Ask Gregory?” Claire scoffed. “He would never agree.”

“Then I must find some way to get the money. I suppose I could sell my other dress and a pair of stockings.”

“And maybe get a half crown for the both, if you’re lucky” Claire looked down at Rachel’s hands, clasped within her own. Rachel eyed the pearl ring set in gold that gleamed on her cousin’s finger. It was pretty and had to be valuable, an elegant token of Harwood wealth. Rachel had no idea what it was worth, however, because she’d never owned a piece of jewelry so fine.

Claire’s eyes met Rachel’s; she had caught Rachel staring.

“The ring was a gift from Father on my eighteenth birthday. When he’d still been pleased with me.” She rolled the ring’s band beneath the pad of her thumb. The opalescence of the pearl trapped the dim sunlight filtering through the leaves overhead. “It must be worth far more than four pounds. But if Gregory notices the ring gone from my hand, he’ll be unmercifully furious with me.”

“I cannot ask you to sell it,” Rachel said, though she was too desperate to absolutely refuse Claire’s suggestion.

“I’m going to pawn it, not sell it.” Clasping Rachel’s hand, she dragged her upright. “Come. Let’s do this before I lose my nerve.”





“Eight pounds,” the pawnbroker declared, his sharp eyes concealing any genuine interest in Claire’s pearl ring.

“Eight pounds!” Claire exclaimed. Beyond the pawnbroker, out in the body of the main shop, a customer in shabby tweeds looked over from his perusal of silver watches and gaudy snuffboxes. Claire slunk back into the shadows of the tiny cubicle, a row of which lined the rear of the shop and offered some privacy to those unwilling to march in directly off the street to pawn their bits and pieces.

“Truly, you do not need to do this,” Rachel whispered, tugging on Claire’s sleeve. “I will find another way.”

“I do need to do this,” she answered, her tone unyielding. She stared at the pawnbroker, her shoulders back, head high. Brave. “The gold band itself has to be worth more than eight pounds.”

“Might be so, miss, but I run a business here, not a charity,” he said, his expression flat, almost bored.

Resting his arm on the counter separating them, the pawnbroker held out the ring, the band pinched between his fleshy thumb and forefinger, daring Claire to take it back. Rachel recognized the game, having observed other pawnbrokers in other pawnshops act precisely the same. If a woman like Claire, clearly well-off, was desperate enough to come to this grimy back alley shop, she wouldn’t leave without some money.

“I’ll not accept less than ten,” Claire insisted, but she made no move to reclaim the ring.

“Eight,” the pawnbroker repeated, scratching his ear.

“Nine. I must have nine.”

He sniffed, his rather large nostrils flaring, and turned to the counter behind him. He fiddled with a locked money box and withdrew coins.

“Eight and six, and that is my final offer. Because the both of you are such lovely ladies.” He scribbled the information about the exchange on a scrap of a card, pressed the paper into a box of sand to set the ink, and handed it over. “Here’s your ticket. That’ll be one pound per month interest. If you’re so inclined to fetch the ring back, that is. If not, I sell it at year’s end.”

Nine pounds six due by the end of the month? Ten and six by the month after that? Rachel stared at her cousin, aghast. If she didn’t have the money to lend Rachel four pounds, she would not have the funds to pay off the pawnbroker’s loan. The ring was as good as gone. And Gregory Harwood would be unmercifully furious.

“Are you certain you want to pawn the ring?” Rachel asked.

“It’s done,” said Claire firmly. “Good day to you, sir.”

Grabbing the money and the ticket, Claire deposited them into her reticule. Rachel pushed open the cubicle door and together they hurried down the hallway, exited the side door, and burst into the courtyard. Claire took the lead, more anxious than Rachel to flee the pawnshop, running past a gin shop and women hawking rotten vegetables, a knot of boys throwing stones in a game of gully who shouted lewd remarks at the both of them.

Passing beneath the courtyard’s archway, Claire kept up a rapid pace until she reached the street and her family’s carriage, waiting on the road.

“You all right, miss?” The Harwood coachman hustled to the door and threw it open.

“I am quite all right, Benjamin.” She took his hand and let him help her up the steps. Rachel followed and dropped onto the carriage seat next to her.

“Don’t you dare breathe a word to my brother that you brought me here,” Claire ordered the coachman.

“Never, miss.” Gravely, he shook his head and clicked shut the carriage door. “Now to Belgrave Square?”

“Yes. Dr. Edmunds’s house.”

Once they were underway, Claire burst into a fit of giggles. “Good heavens, Rachel, what have we done?”

“You have pawned a ring Uncle Anthony gave to you, which will likely bring you untold problems, I am certain.” Rachel shook her head. “How can I ever thank you?”

“By spending the money well and making certain my most favorite aunt and the cousins I’ve never met come safely to England.” Sobering, Claire retrieved the coins from her reticule and spilled them into Rachel’s palm, a tiny waterfall of silver and gold. “I’m glad I never gave that ring away, even though I’ve wanted to more often than I could count. Obviously, God had plans for it.”





Rachel and Claire plotted and planned the rest of the way back to Dr. Edmunds’s house, and when she climbed down from the carriage and waved good-bye, Rachel’s mood was more buoyant, more hope-filled than it had been in ages. Soon, she and her family would be together again. Sooner than they had planned, actually. The thought made her smile.

She rushed down the area steps and hastened through the kitchen, stripping off her bonnet and shawl as she offered a quick greeting to Mrs. Mainprice, carrying supplies from the pantry. The moment she rounded the ground-floor landing, she spotted Dr. Edmunds.

“Miss Dunne,” he called out. “I’m glad to see you back.”

Beyond him in the entry hall, Molly glared at her for a reason Rachel could not fathom.

Rachel looked away from her. “Did you need me, Dr. Edmunds?” she asked. “I am sorry I was gone longer than I told you I would be.” Almost two hours instead of the half hour she’d requested.

“It’s quite all right.” He frowned as he interwove his fingers to ensure his gloves were on tight. “I need you to accompany me on a visit to a patient, Miss Dunne. I’m sorry, but the fellow is going to require that someone attend to him for several hours, and I have an important appointment this afternoon with a baroness I had best not miss. If you think you can manage, Miss Dunne.”

“I . . . I . . .” she stuttered, while Molly’s face pinched with resentment. Did the maid despise Rachel because she wanted to help the doctor with his patients, take on the superior role of acting as attendant to a physician? I should let her do it, because heaven knows I do not want to.

But the doctor was waiting, his shoulders beginning to droop in anticipation of Rachel’s refusal. She did not want to disappoint him. Or, she thought pettishly, to let Molly win.

“Indeed, I am willing to help you, Dr. Edmunds. I shall endeavor to keep my head this time.”

Molly’s face fell.

“Thank you, Miss Dunne. I greatly appreciate your assistance.”

A smile flitted across the doctor’s lips. Rachel might agree to walk on hot coals to see his smile. Or tend a patient, even.

So much for vows.