The Irish Healer

Chapter 12





Mr. Fenton-Smith looked shrunken beneath the white dimity sheets. The last time James had seen the fellow he’d been robust and ruddy-cheeked, thick-bellied and as bellicose as ever. This creature with hollow cheeks and blue veins popping along his neck was not the same man. The change was sudden and startling. He was far gone. There was almost nothing James could do.

Miss Dunne hovered off to his left, clutching a damp cloth in her hand. She was pale but still standing upright, a triumph when being here was nearly as bad as confronting a girl with a broken arm.

“He’s been so very ill, Dr. Edmunds,” said the man’s wife, her graying hair tightly wound beneath a white lace cap, the wrinkles of her face deepening from concern. “I cannot keep up with all the . . . all the . . .” Her gaze flicked to the chamber pot, stinking at the bedside, then her husband’s face, then away.

“You’ve been giving him laudanum to quiet his stomach?”

“Yes, and it has worked briefly, but he seems to be ebbing.” Tears quavered at the edge of her small eyes. “And he’s grown so warm to the touch.”

“Cool cloths may help his fever. For now.” He gestured for Rachel to bring a fresh one over. She gently draped it over the man’s forehead. The cream-colored woven cotton was almost the same shade as his flesh. “He won’t come to harm if we open the window a bit and let in some air. I will leave you a recommendation for another tonic that may aid in settling his stomach.”

Mrs. Fenton-Smith pressed her lips together until white lined their edges. “Is it the cholera?”

James stared down at her husband. He feared it was, but nothing could be gained by proclaiming his fears prematurely. “Don’t worry yourself about that, Mrs. Fenton-Smith.”

“But I have heard it has returned, Dr. Edmunds.”

“Not in this part of town, madam. Miss Dunne will stay and watch for some time to see how your husband fares today, see if the fever turns or worsens or if his other symptoms change. Then we’ll know for certain.” And be just as helpless as we are now.

“Shall we pray together, doctor? Beg God’s mercy?” asked Mrs. Fenton-Smith, her face tight with desperation, her eyes imploring him to reassure her that prayer would work.

“Prayer is always welcome,” he replied.

Nodding, she bowed her head and he began the Lord’s Prayer. Normally, the words rolled off his tongue unattended, rote-spoken from years of habit. Now each one seemed to echo in his brain. Forgive us our trespasses. His were too many.

And lead us not into temptation . . .

James glanced up. At the other side of the bed, Miss Dunne’s lips moved silently as they finished the prayer, her eyes pinched closed as though willing everything away. Last night, as she’d stood close tying his cravat, the scent of her hair surrounding him, he had longed to trace a fingertip along the line of her cheek. He had been wondering for too long if her face was as soft as it appeared.

God, save me from the temptation to take when I have nothing to give back in return.

“The Lord is my rock and my salvation,” proclaimed Mrs. Fenton-Smith. She bent toward her husband, insensible to their prayers. “Oh, how ill he looks.” A sob bubbled up from deep in her throat.

He drew his gaze away from Miss Dunne and sucked in a long breath that only succeeded in reminding him how fetid the air in the bedchamber was. “Mrs. Fenton-Smith, I’m sure you could use some time away from the sickroom. Please send for your maid to tidy up in here while I instruct my assistant on her duties before I depart.”

Mrs. Fenton-Smith needed little encouragement, rushing out in a swirl of heavy dark skirts. Almost immediately a maid hurried in to empty the chamber pot.

James strode to the window, pulled wide the heavy curtains, and flung open the sash. Air, not exactly fresh but sweeter smelling than the contents of the room, blew in.

“I am sorry for being so little assistance to you.” Miss Dunne’s voice shook. “I was hoping to be stronger than I was with the young apple seller, but I am just as useless this afternoon.”

“You are hardly useless.” He faced her. In the brighter light, he could see the misgiving in her eyes. “And you are strong. You haven’t fainted,” he pointed out.

She smiled a little. “That is progress, I suppose.”

James walked over and took her hand in his. It was cold to the touch. “All you need to do is sit by the bedside, dab Mr. Fenton-Smith’s head with damp cloths, and observe if his fever seems to be worsening. Or if he begins to stir violently, suggesting he is in pain. That is it. Nothing further. I will return from my appointment with Lady Haverton as soon as possible to relieve you.”

“You should have brought Molly instead of me to tend him, Dr. Edmunds.”

I didn’t want her with me. I wanted you.

He closed his other hand around her one, until it was cradled within his palms. “Mr. Fenton-Smith and his wife need your sort of calmness and quiet. Molly, for all she is willing, can’t provide that.”

“I have not been calm.”

“Yes, you have.”

Her eyes held his and he felt their pull, again. She drew him to her, whether she realized it or not.

“I shall try my best, Dr. Edmunds, but please do not take long.”

“Have courage. I’ll be back as quickly as I’m able.”

Her fingers trembled. If he could will strength into her, he would.

But he had little enough of his own to spare.





A medical education from an esteemed college was not required to understand that Mr. Fenton-Smith was worsening. Rachel’s own experience gave her the ability to see.

She stood up and went to the window, breathing in the scent of coal smoke and someone’s dinner already cooking. Her dress collar choked her and her knees threatened to buckle whenever she walked across the blue-and-white carpeted room. On the street beneath her, though, life proceeded as normal. Carriages and carts rattled down the cobblestones. A nursemaid hurried by with her charge in hand. Toting a large metal tray hung on straps wrapped around his neck, a pie-man paraded through the intersection of the streets, calling out his price. All this going on while Rachel fervently wished for Dr. Edmunds to reappear so she could escape.

Pressing her back against the sill, Rachel stared at Dr. Edmunds’s patient, muttering to himself in his laudanum-induced sleep. The man was dying. Bathing his head, dosing him repeatedly, was only delaying the inevitable. And all the purging . . .

Her stomach churned as bile rose. God, why are You doing this to me? The thought that she might be in this room when Mr. Fenton-Smith breathed his last—when another family member would stare at Rachel with sorrow and disbelief and accusation—choked off her breath. You let him die. It is Your fault.

“You killed her . . .”

The room spun and Rachel clutched at the windowsill, resolved to keep from fainting. If only she could gather her wits to think what to do, what her mother might do. Did he need more fluids or less? A tonic, broth fortified with wine? A cold bath or a hot bath? Blankets, fresh air, windows closed, leeches? She knew she should feel reassured—instead of lost and helpless—that Dr. Edmunds seemed to be no more certain of how to help the man.

A noise out on the street caught her attention. A hackney had arrived and was depositing a man onto the pavement. Dr. Edmunds was back. She grabbed up her bonnet and fled the room. She was down the stairs almost as quickly as it took a maid to appear to open the door to him.

He stepped back, startled. “Miss Dunne!”

“Mr. Fenton-Smith is sinking, Dr. Edmunds. It is well you have returned. Now I must hurry to catch your hackney before it departs.” She brushed past him, hurtling headlong through the doorway.

“But will you be all right?” he asked as she leaped into the carriage.

Rachel slammed the door behind her. “Dr. Edmunds, truly, I wish I knew.”

She rapped on the roof, signaling the driver to depart, leaving Dr. Edmunds to stare worriedly after her.





Moonlight crept along the floor and the sounds of the house dwindled until all Rachel could hear was the noise of carriages returning neighbors from suppers and fetes. Dr. Edmunds had yet to return from the Fenton-Smiths’. The staff had given up waiting and gone to bed—even Joe, who tended to scurry about in the wee hours, attending last-minute tasks. Sleep eluding her, Rachel stared up at the bedchamber ceiling until she memorized every dip and crack in the plaster. She feared the nightmares about Mary would return as soon as she closed her eyes. Maybe they would even include Mr. Fenton-Smith. The sight of him squirming on his bed, his face beading with sweat and then going dry as chalk while he moaned and heaved, kept swimming in her brain. She should probably just get up and do some work in the library.

Sighing, Rachel threw back the top sheet and counterpane, dropped her feet to the floor, and shimmied them into her slippers. After lighting a candle, she fetched her robe and slipped out into the hallway. She was just passing Dr. Edmunds’s office at the rear of the house when she heard a key in the back door lock. She froze, uncertain whether to flee or scream the household awake. Before she could decide, the door eased open on well-oiled hinges and Molly stepped through.

“Molly! You frightened me!”

Startled, Molly dropped the key onto the tiled floor with a clatter. “Bloo . . . what’re you doing up?” She bent to retrieve the key and held still, listening to hear if the rest of the household had awakened to the noise.

“I came down to fetch some water before doing some work. I could not sleep.”

Molly closed the door behind her and threw the bolt. “Well, get some water then.”

“I did not realize you were out. Is everything all right? It must be past eleven.”

She tossed her head flippantly, the action making her wobble as if she was having difficulty maintaining her equilibrium. “It’s none of your business what I’ve been doing.”

“You should be thankful it was me rather than Dr. Edmunds coming through the hallway. He would not be pleased to find you out at such an hour.”

The maid crept close. Her eyes were watery and slightly unfocused. Rachel could smell the sweet aroma of gin on her breath. “Are you planning on telling him?”

“I would not do that, Molly, even though it is not right for you to break the rules.”

“You’re a fine one to lecture me on breaking rules.”

A frisson of apprehension shimmied along Rachel’s arm. “You have been out drinking. I can smell it on you.”

“I know your secret, so don’t be trying to scare me.” Molly inched even closer, and the stench of alcohol stung Rachel’s nose, making her choke. “I know about your trial. Oh yes, Miss hoity Dunne, come to help the master as a special assistant, has a criminal past. Wouldn’t the good doctor be shocked to hear about that? I’m thinking of telling him too.”

She had listened at the library door during Claire’s interview and . . . the letter. Rachel had left it in the pocket of her apron, tossed hastily onto her bed when she’d gone to Claire’s house. She hadn’t retrieved the apron until after she had returned from Mr. Fenton-Smith’s. Had Molly been prying in her room and found the note?

Rachel hoped her expression concealed her mounting alarm. “I do not have a criminal past, so there is nothing for you to tell Dr. Edmunds except lies. And what if I told him that I encountered you creeping about in the dead of night, returning from an assignation, stinking of cheap gin? He would not be happy with you either, Molly.”

Rachel could see Molly calculating the possibility she might inform Dr. Edmunds, though in truth she never would.

The maid retreated and lifted her chin. “I’ve decided I won’t say anything to Dr. Edmunds for now. I’d rather you worry awhile about when I might. Yeah. I think I rather like that idea.”

Molly smirked, gathered her cloak around her, and barged past. Pulse hammering, Rachel waited until the girl was out of sight to hurry up to her room. Slapping the candlestick onto the chest, Rachel grabbed her apron off the hook where she’d hung it that evening. She examined each pocket—twice, foolishly enough. No letter. Molly must have found it. Its contents would be serious evidence against Rachel. She grabbed up the candle, swept it before her. She had to hold onto hope the letter might still be somewhere in the room.

But there was nothing. Not beneath the chest of drawers. Not beneath the narrow bed. Not slipped under the rug.

Rachel’s heart sank. The letter was gone.