The Irish Healer

Chapter 18





Miss Dunne!” James retrieved the dusty curtain that she’d dropped. Rachel had plunged headfirst through the kitchen entry and right into his arms. The weight and warmth of her body didn’t stay there for long. She had squirmed in his grasp and, reluctantly, he’d had to let her go. “I was just looking for you.”

Pink blushed her cheeks. This close, he could spy the freckles peppering the bridge of her nose like flecks of cinnamon atop a sugared cake.

“Our meeting in your father’s library” She shifted the weight of the curtains to better balance them. “I was busy upstairs, but I hadn’t forgotten.”

He took the curtains from her arm, surprising her. She was so petite, she looked as though they would swamp her beneath their weight. He knew, though, she was strong. Enviably, admirably, strong. “The roof leak ruined the chambers up there, didn’t it?”

“Not too badly. The plaster has fallen in spots, and some of the furnishings got wet, but these curtains have only a small stain along the top. Easily fixed by a quick brushing with hot water.”

“Now that’s a pity. They’re so ugly I hoped for an excuse to burn them.”

His teasing brought out a smile. He liked her smiles.

James glanced around the kitchen, quite bare but for a few stray pots hanging over the cold fireplace. Cavernous in its emptiness.

“You know, Miss Dunne, I haven’t been in this kitchen since I was a lad.” So very long ago, when the house hummed with activity and life was still full of promise.

“You haven’t?” she asked.

“Father was insistent that the family keep separate from our staff,” he explained. “Only my mother would occasionally come down to check on the stores or confer over the menu, but I was such a favorite of Mrs. Mainprice, I often visited. When I used to sneak down here to get away from my lessons, she would fill me up with treats, samples of the evening’s dessert or Tonbridge biscuits she would make just for me.”

“Have you ever had barmbrack, Dr. Edmunds?” Miss Dunne asked.

“No. What is it?”

“The best treat I know of. Sweetened flour cakes studded with raisins or currants.” Her fine eyes shimmered happily. “My little sisters love them as much as I.”

“They sound wonderful.”

“Not as wonderful as a good tart made with butter and fresh fruit, I would guess, but wonderful enough for us.” She snatched the curtains from his arms. “Here, let me take these back to the scullery. No need for you to dirty your clothes with them.”

With ease, she moved through the kitchen as if she belonged there. Comfortable in a way James’s mother had never been, drifting from room to room in the house, the murmur of her skirts never more than a ghost’s whisper. Whereas Miss Dunne . . . just the sight of her bright hair set a spark to the space, eye-catching among the whitewashed kitchen walls and massive plate shelves.

He would miss that spark. Miss her.

Miss Dunne returned, wiping her hands across the yellowing apron she had tied around her waist. “Those are taken care of, and I am ready to examine your father’s library now.”

James led the way. This time when he entered, the scent of pipe smoke was less noticeable. As if Miss Dunne had not only the power to brighten a room but banish joyless memories as well.

Miss Dunne released a long breath as she strode the length of the library and back. “And I thought you had a great deal of books back in London, Dr. Edmunds.” The wall of glass-covered bookcases dwarfed her.

“My father and I shared a love of the written word.”

She looked over at him. “You must have had a great deal in common.”

“No. Not at all, really. Other than medicine.” The key ring jangled as he pulled it from his coat pocket. “Let me get these cases unlocked so you can start measuring the shelves and see if there’s any space. I think it’ll take an act of God to merge the two collections.”

“You will find a way.”

“Are you always so certain, Miss Dunne?”

Her gaze met his. “No. Not at all, really,” she said, an ironic smile touching her lips.

She joined him, her shape imperfectly reflected in the wavy glass door fronts, standing far enough away that there wasn’t any risk that sleeve would touch sleeve or hands would share warmth.

Reach out and grab her, fool, and let her pull you free.

Of course, he didn’t.





Mrs. Mainprice was in the kitchen, recording the contents of the pantry and storeroom, making note of needed supplies.

“I have finished in the library, and I thought I would take a stroll around the grounds, Mrs. Mainprice.” Rachel fetched her bonnet from the hook where it hung. “If you do not need my help in here, that is.”

“Nay, not a bit of it.” She waved her hand. “You get away with you. ’Tis a lovely day out there and fast fading. Get in a walk, and when you’re back you can help me pull together a bit of dinner.”

“I shall not be long.”

Rachel stepped out into the sunshine and strolled across the weedy kitchen garden and onto the lawn, the brilliant green grass crushing beneath her half boots, releasing its scent. She inhaled the warm bright air, the sweet scent of some yellow-blooming plant, fresh hay thrown to a cow standing in a distant shed. She let the aromas ease through her.

A shepherd doffed his cap as he passed on his way to tend his flock, his black-and-white dog dancing circles around his legs. “Good day to ya, miss.”

His deferential treatment, the sound of his country-rough voice, the happy bark of his dog, made her smile. “I am in search of a walk that can give me a view of Finchingfield’s property. Do you know the best way to go?”

“Yer headed in the right direction, miss.”

After thanking the fellow, she continued on, up a gentle slope. She found the view. And, as fate would have it, Dr. Edmunds as well.

One hip resting on a crumbling stone wall, he was looking over his fields. From somewhere he had unearthed a simple straw hat with a broad brim, and he had stripped down to his shirtsleeves, the thin linen revealing in detail the width of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest.

She dawdled overlong, and he noticed her standing there. Maybe she had intended him to.

Hastily, he stood. “Miss Dunne.”

“I did not mean to intrude on your solitude.”

“You’re hardly intruding.” He opened then closed his mouth and cleared his throat. “I take it you’re finished in the library.”

“I have accomplished what was needed, Dr. Edmunds, and have drawn up a plan for how you might accommodate your collection.”

“Then would you care to see the property?”

With him alone, out in an open meadow, the sun burnishing his hair . . . She could refuse, turn back now, claim she had only sought a breath of fresh air and scamper off to the refuge of the kitchen. Not be accused of wanting more.

Never know what it would feel like to be near him.

The time together might come to nothing, but at the moment, Rachel did not care.

“If it is no trouble, I would love to be shown around,” she answered.

He smiled, the rarest gift he had to offer, the one she always craved. “It’s been so long since I’ve been here, I need a tour myself.”

They started out at a crisp pace, back toward the house. He squired her past the barn and the milk shed, over to an old dovecote and the yard where they had kept chickens when he was young. They moved across the lawn, skirted a pond hidden from the house behind a small knoll. They reached the stream Mrs. Mainprice had mentioned, its waters burbling over rocks. Dr. Edmunds’s private place, a willow licking the surface, the flow moving too quickly to skip a stone across.

Using a rickety bridge constructed of flimsy beams, Dr. Edmunds took her elbow to help her across. Though he withdrew his hand quickly, his touch lingered while they found the path that led to the fields of hops and summer wheat.

“I’m told we had a good rye crop earlier in the year,” he said, pausing at another low wall that separated his property from his neighbor’s.

“Your estate is very impressive,” she said, clasping her bonnet to her head against a sudden stiff breeze, the wind rippling the young wheat in long, rolling waves. “And very beautiful.”

“Does the land remind you of Ireland?” He had taken off his hat to keep it from blowing away, and strands of his dark hair fell forward over his face. She was reminded of the first time she’d seen him like this, his hair tousled. This time, she had no wish to straighten it. The slightly unkempt Dr. James Edmunds belonged among the stalks of wheat and hedgerows and purple flowering thistle. And yes, the sun did burnish his hair, bringing out golden strands among the dark, colors she would never see beneath a smoky London sky.

“It is like Ireland in that the sky is overhead and the earth is underfoot,” she answered. “But the green there is a vibrant shade, soft and deep, rich as an emerald. The hills rise rocky and are shrouded in violet, and the sky overhead is the gray-blue of misty mornings . . .” Her voice cracked.

“I shouldn’t have asked.” His gaze brought warmth to her cheeks. “We should talk of less unhappy things. Such as my plans for raising sheep.”

“Sheep?”

He let out a low, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m trying to learn everything I can about this farming business, and apparently part of my holdings involves a flock of sheep. My steward, Mr. Jackson, thinks cattle would be more appropriate. He’s an excellent man, good at what he does. I suppose I should listen to him.”

“My father once had a partner he relied upon like a strong staff. A wise man to provide counsel is hard to find.” Words Father often said . . . until he and his partner had squabbled and parted ways. The business and their lives in Carlow began to unravel then, a slow unwinding of the thread of their security and happiness.

Rachel sighed and stared out across the fields.

“A true sentiment, Miss Dunne.” Dr. Edmunds followed her gaze. “I’m fortunate to have someone like Mr. Jackson to rely upon as my steward. My father was unwell the past few years, and he didn’t oversee the maintenance required. For instance, the few laborers I have need new housing. Some of them have been living in cottages built over fifty years ago. The roofs leak and there are dirt floors. Wretched conditions.”

“At least the air is clear. Unlike London’s.”

He turned to face her. “Would you like to live here?” he asked, eagerness lifting his voice.

Her pulse sped. “What do you mean?”

“Would you like to come live in Finchingfield?”

“As your . . . as your . . .” As what?

“I’m sure we could find a position for you in the house. I’m certain we can.”

Her heart plummeted to her feet. What had she thought he’d been asking? “I thought you did not consider me a servant, Dr. Edmunds.”

The mistake he had made registered on his face. “That wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“I do not know what else you could have had in mind.” She squared her shoulders to staunch the humiliation spreading from head to toe. “I am committed to becoming a teacher back in London, Dr. Edmunds. But thank you for your offer.”

Rachel pushed away from the wall, but he grabbed her hand to keep her from fleeing. “My only thought was that I know you don’t like London. I simply hoped to make you happy.”

“Why?”

“Ah, Miss Dunne.” How softly he said her name, gentle as the sigh of a breeze tickling a stand of reeds. “Because I have come to care about you.”

His words stopped her. He lifted a finger to her cheek, brushed away a strand of hair captured against her lips, tossed there by the wind. Tenderly, he traced the outline of her face. She shivered beneath his touch.

He closed the gap between them. His hand dropped to her elbow and grasped it, pulled her nearer. “You are like a brilliant star, Rachel. Impossible to resist.”

He was going to kiss her. She could see the intent in his eyes. She must not let it happen. A kiss would mean something, promise something, that would never come to pass.

Rachel pulled free of his grip and ran back to the house, sprinting along the rocky narrow path between the fields. He called after her but she pushed on. If she stopped she might let him kiss her. Because she wanted him to. Wanted to feel that connection, that binding. You are a fool, girl. A stupid fool. Tears stung, distorting her vision. They fell in a hot, salty stream as she stumbled along, her skirt snagging on a stand of thistle taken hold along the path.

Distracted, she failed to notice a tree root arcing across the path in time to evade it. Her foot caught and she hurtled to the ground.

“Rachel!” shouted Dr. Edmunds.

Her hands bled from where she’d scraped them along stones and scattered branches. Quickly brushing off the gravel stuck to her palms, she pushed herself up onto her knees and tried to scramble to her feet.

“Wait, don’t get up,” Dr. Edmunds commanded, throwing down his hat and dropping next to her, taking hold of her shoulders to keep her from rising. “You might have hurt yourself.”

“I am fine. You can release me.”

“You will stay here until I’ve determined that you can get up.”

She shimmied free of his hands and planted her feet on the ground, intent upon rising. Her left ankle protested with a razor-sharp twinge of pain.

He noted her grimace. “If you attempt to walk on that ankle, Miss Dunne, you’ll only injure it more.” He reached beneath her skirts and examined her ankle through her half boot.

Rachel slapped off his hand and flicked her skirts back into place. “My ankle is fine.”

“Don’t be stubborn.”

She had every intention to be stubborn. “Is the ankle swollen, Dr. Edmunds?”

“Not yet.”

“Then I can walk.” She pressed her palm against a nearby stump and stood. The ankle throbbed and she bit her lip. She would not wince and she would not rely on him to help her back to the house, let him put his arm around her waist or the crook of her elbow Not when the simple brush of his fingertips made her crave more than he could ever give.

“At least lean against me so I may guide you back,” he said.

“I shall make my own way.”

“Rachel, really—”

“My name is Miss Dunne. In case you have forgotten that I am not a servant.”

He frowned. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

She lifted her chin and turned away, headed for the house. With every step, her ankle throbbed. It was worth enduring, she told herself, though she had to clench her teeth to keep from crying out in pain. The ache was the price she would simply have to pay for salvaging her pride.





“She’s a right pretty one, sir. I’d ’ve chased after ’er.”

James turned to face the voice. A shepherd with a battered tricorn hat crooked an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth rising with it. His dog, flopped at his feet, looked up at James with the same amused, expectant expression.

A local and his dog were smirking at him. How appropriate. “Do you work for the steward of Finchingfield House?”

“No. Fair View, sir.”

“Good thing for you.”

Undeterred, the shepherd jerked his head in the direction of Miss Dunne’s limping form, now past the edge of the fields and halfway across the lawn. “She’s not got too far. You could catch ’er yet.”

And do what? Apologize for wanting to hold her close, feel her tucked against his chest, her lips on his? Or apologize for knowing he had nothing more to offer her than a hasty embrace and a kiss?

“I believe you have sheep to tend to,” said James, his frown deepening.

“That I do.”

The man doffed his hat and whistled for his dog to follow, his shoulders shaking with laughter as he strolled away.

James slapped his hat against his thighs, scrubbed a hand across his eyes, and started back toward the house. Even impulsive fools like him still had responsibilities to attend to. Apologies, however, would have to wait until he figured out exactly for what he was repenting.