The Irish Healer

Chapter 14





James paced the library. The heels of his shoes rapped on the bare floor, the carpet rolled against the wall, twine cording its length like a sausage ready for the boil. Signs of progress toward his departure, but no sign of Miss Dunne. He knew she had returned from her interview. He’d seen Miss Harwood’s carriage on the curb.

He tapped the volume of poetry against his thigh in rhythm to his steps. With each passing minute, he was feeling more and more idiotic. He glanced down at the book. A gift for an employee and it wasn’t even Boxing Day. What was he thinking?

Thrusting the book beneath his elbow, he headed for the hallway. Miss Dunne, a flurry of copper-colored hair and billowing skirts, rushed into the room before he reached the doorway. She was wearing a new dress, one he’d never seen before, and it made her look like . . . a lady. A very pretty and very appealing young lady.

“Sir! Peg just told me you were waiting up here.” A strand of hair unraveled behind her ear. “I seem to be always late or away from my tasks. It is not my usual habit, I assure you.”

“Don’t worry” Her eyes flicked to the book tucked under his arm, and he pulled it out. “I . . . Here. I was waiting to give you this.”

“A book?” Miss Dunne’s gaze moved from James’s outstretched hand to his face and back again. “For me?”

Had no one ever given her a gift before? Or was she simply reluctant because it was a gift from him? What am I thinking by doing this?

“A token of appreciation for being so brave with Mr. Fenton-Smith.” Good heavens, he was actually nervous she might refuse it. “And, if I’m completely honest, a token to ease my guilt over forcing you to sit with the man when you warned me you had no stomach for nursing.”

“I cannot accept such generosity. A book is too valuable.”

“It’s a duplicate of another I already own, and it will be donated elsewhere if you don’t take it,” he said, book still extended, her hands still clasped at her waist. Well, he could be just as stubborn as she was proving to be. “This gift comes with no obligations or expectations, Miss Dunne, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Dr. Edmunds, I insist—”

“And so do I. Stop refusing, Miss Dunne.” He waved the book at her. “Take it.”

“All right, then,” she conceded and slipped the volume of poetry from his grasp. She traced the gold-embossed tooling on the cover, a loving caress, a smile lighting her face. “I do love poetry. My mother brought a few volumes with her when she left . . . when she moved to Ireland.”

“See if there is a poem within you particularly like.”

She glanced up. The color of the new dress shaded her eyes more green than blue. “I used to read Mary Herbert’s psalms.”

“She is in there. Read your favorite to me.” James pulled up a chair, flipped the tails of his coat over his legs, and sat. “Please.”

Her smile faltered. “Surely you are too busy to listen to me recite poetry.”

He was busy, but he didn’t care. He’d gotten her to accept the book, and he wanted to steal a few moments with her and forget the pile of work waiting on his office desk.

“It’s another hour before I’m expecting a patient. Plenty of time.”

“In that case . . .” She flipped through the pages and found the poem. “Here is one. ’Psalm 139.”’

Miss Dunne cleared her throat and began to read aloud:


O LORD, O Lord, in me there lieth naught

But to thy search revealed lies,

For when I sit

Thou markest it;

No less thou notest when I rise;

Yea, closest closet of my thought

Hath open windows to thine eyes.


Thou walkest with me when I walk;

When to my bed for rest I go,

I find thee there,

And everywhere:

Not youngest thought in me doth grow,

No, not one word I cast to talk

But yet unuttered thou dost know . . .


Her voice stuttered to a halt. “I have had a busy day already and my eyes are tired. I can read no further.”

“It was very lovely. And inspiring.” He had pushed her too hard. “Thank you.”

She shut the book. “The poem was one of my mother’s favorites.”

“You miss her very much, don’t you?” Before Miss Dunne had arrived, he’d never thought to ask one of his staff if they missed family and home. For all he knew, Mrs. Mainprice pined for her more northerly climes, and Molly was planning for the day she could return to the Hampshire town she’d left as a young girl, squirreling away funds to make it happen.

Miss Dunne’s eyebrows scrunched together. She must think his question callous. If she knew how distant, how unreachable his own mother had been, she might think otherwise.

“I miss my family a great deal. How could I not?” Her eyes glistened. “My mother is the strongest and most intelligent woman I know. My sisters are but four and sweet as fresh honey. And my brother will soon be a man.”

James pressed his legs into the chair before he stood and gathered her into his arms, thinking he—of all people—might comfort her. “Perhaps in the future, when you’re less tired, you can read me another selection. Another one your mother enjoyed.”

She tucked the volume of poetry under her arm. “There shall not be time for that, Dr. Edmunds.”

“No,” he agreed, regretfully. “I expect there won’t.”





Reverently, Rachel set the volume of poetry atop the bedchamber’s chest of drawers. Her fingers lingered on the embossed leather cover. She had felt Dr. Edmunds’s gaze on her as she’d read, his mouth touched with a ghost of a smile. But of all the poems she might have selected, she had chosen that one. The one that spoke of the ever-observant God, aware of her every move. Her every sheltered thought.

Thoughts she dare not share with the enigmatic Dr. Edmunds.

With a sigh, Rachel slid open the top drawer of the chest to put away the book. Claire’s money winked up at her. Rachel rimmed the nearest shilling with the tip of her fingernail, circling around and around. Joe had promised that, as soon as he could get free of his duties, he would help her post the money to her family in Ireland. Soon, they would all be together again.

Hope glimmered dangerously. Could it be that the brighter future she had hoped for since she’d stepped foot onto the steamer bound for London was within reach? A pessimistic voice in her head niggled. That bright future was only possible if Molly didn’t ruin everything. In a heartbeat, the maid could snuff out the light of appreciation that had shone in Dr. Edmunds’s eyes as Rachel had read the poem. She wanted him to admire her. Wanted him to ask her to go to Finchingfield, where the sky would be blue and glorious and full of promise. Like the tomorrows struggling to take form out of a shattered past.

She wanted 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. Just a man and a woman with no secrets between them. Thank goodness Molly had yet to tell him the truth.

Rachel secreted the coins and the book far in the back of the drawer where they would hopefully stay safe.

She wished her worries had someplace equally safe to hide.





“The message boy wants to know if there’s a message back, sir.”

James lifted his gaze from the note in his hand, looked up at Joe. “A message?”

“For Mrs. Fenton-Smith.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” He released the note, let it drift to the top of the desk like a dead leaf. “Just my sympathy. My deepest sympathy for her loss. Also let her know that we are all praying for her and the repose of her husband’s soul.”

What James had feared had finally come to pass, though it had taken much longer for the cholera to do its work than he had expected. He let out a deep sigh. His father had never grieved over the loss of a patient like James did. “If it was the Lord’s will to take the poor souls, then who am I to stand in the way?” Father would say.

I do not understand why You give me the heart to care, God, the mind to learn the skills, but not the stomach to live with the results.

Mrs. Mainprice had anticipated how shaken he would be. Just that morning, she’d extolled to James the virtues of the countryside on rousing the spirits. His spirits in particular, repeatedly sinking like a man trapped in quicksand and struggling to get out, the moments when he felt he might escape coming too seldom and too far apart. Moments like the one he had experienced in the library yesterday. How lovely Miss Dunne had been in her new gown, her face fixed with concentration as she’d read to him, lifting him out of his quicksand. But not for long.

“I’ll tell the messenger what you said, sir, an’ get back to the packin’. Dinin’ room’s almost done,” Joe offered when the silence grew too long.

James looked up from his unfocused perusal of his desktop. Joe was watching him quizzically. “You’ve all made remarkable progress on packing the house, if the dining room is almost done already.”

“With Miss Dunne’s ’elp, sir,” Joe said, quick with praise.

“I expect we’ll be in Finchingfield a week before I had originally planned.”

“’spect so, sir.”

James awaited a rush of enthusiasm at the prospect. None came. Why? Why did he not feel a surge of happiness to be gone from London and his medical practice? In Finchingfield, there would be no more praying for God’s intercession, only to have no miracle happen. No more Mr. Fenton-Smiths, wasting away no matter what he did.

He crushed the note Joe had delivered. He needed an escape. To find courage. Trust in God. Know that this was His intended pathway and be happy to be on it.

Joe fidgeted and peered anxiously at James, probably wondering if his employer’s mind had wandered off and he’d finally gone dotty. “I’ll be ’appy to be outta ’ere, if you don’ mind my sayin’.”

“You dislike London so much?”

“Me, sir?” He snorted. “Too many awful memories in this ’ere town. Always good to get away from ’em, don’ you think, sir? Start fresh.”

James tossed the note into the empty fireplace. “Yes, Joe. Always good to start fresh.”

Joe grinned, happy the master had agreed. “Better ’n wallowin’ in the past any day.”





I must be every bit a fool.

Sighing, Rachel looked down at the basket of herbs dangling from her arm. The warm, lemony scent of dill, the tang of fresh-cut parsley rose up to tingle in her nose. Ingredients she needed for the tonic she had promised, even though she suspected Molly would not be grateful for Rachel’s assistance.

Rachel set the basket on the kitchen table and went to search the storeroom for syrup of poppy. A swirl of scents greeted her, the aromas of home and her mother’s stillroom, bringing with them homesickness and memories. Drawing Mother near. Through my hands let Your good works come, O Lord. Her mother’s most fervent prayer. Rachel sighed. Would that she had the blind faith to pray it anymore and believe God listened to the words.

Tucking her skirts between her knees, Rachel knelt to poke through the lower shelves. A tiny container of syrup of poppy, dusty from lack of use, was stuffed in the back. Just enough for her needs. Next, she discovered an empty brown bottle that could serve to contain the tonic and was rising to stand when the kitchen door swung open. She turned to smile a greeting, expecting Mrs. Mainprice. Instead, Molly entered.

“Molly!” The bottle skittered from Rachel’s grasp. She caught it before it crashed to the tiles.

Molly’s eyes were red and puffy as fresh pastry. She had been crying. “Mrs. Mainprice told me to come look for you. She said I’m to take some potion you’ve made.”

“I have yet to gather all the ingredients.” Rachel was clutching the bottle so tightly, she feared it might shatter in her hands. Carefully, she set it on the table. “And it is a tonic, not a potion.”

“Tonic, then.” Molly glanced curiously at the empty bottle and the contents of the basket. “It cures the dyspepsia?”

“It might help you.”

“You only want to help me because you’re scared I’ll show your letter to Dr. Edmunds.”

“You should return the letter, Molly. It is mine. You should not have taken it.”

“I don’t think I’ll be returning your precious letter just yet.” Molly’s eyes narrowed. “A trial, eh? Whose, yours?”

“You do not understand.” Thank heavens Mother’s letter hadn’t mentioned the specifics of the trial, but Rachel was not naive enough to think that any sensible person wouldn’t surmise the worst from what she had written. “It is not what you think.”

“The doctor might believe exactly what I think, though, and you know it. The chance he will is the only reason you’d help me.”

“That is not true. I want to help you because . . .” it is the right thing to do. Because the urge to cure is in my bones. She fought to keep her voice calm and confident. “I want to help because it is what I can do, not because I am guilty of anything.”

“Humph.” Molly’s lips pinched into a thin pink line as she frowned at Rachel. “What other medicines can you make up?”

“I know several recipes for poultices, tisanes, and infusions,” Rachel answered, trying to follow the new direction of the conversation.

“Do you have one to help womanly complaints?” Molly asked, lowering her voice though they were completely alone in the kitchen.

Rachel followed suit. “Is that what is bothering you? Are your monthlies so painful they are making you ill?”

“It’s not pain.” Molly rubbed the palm of her hand over the back of the other in an irritated, sawing motion. “You know I need help with them.”

“I don’t follow you . . .”

Just then, the servants’ bell from Dr. Edmunds’s office sounded a harsh, insistent clang. Molly huffed her annoyance. “You’re awfully thick, then. I’ll go find help elsewhere. I should’ve figured you’d be no use.”

“Molly, I am not trying to be difficult. I honestly am willing to provide whatever assistance you need. The tonic, anything.”

“Your tonic won’t cure what’s wrong with me.” She spun on her heel and rushed off, black skirts slapping against a broom propped up near the door, knocking it over.

Rachel sighed with frustration and went to straighten the broom. Her hand paused on the handle as realization struck. Heavens, she was dense. The vague stomach illness, the talk about her monthly courses . . . Molly’s troubles were indeed more than her mother’s tonic would cure.

The girl was pregnant.