The Irish Healer

Chapter 19





James evaded Miss Dunne until she and Mrs. Mainprice left for London. His conscience, however, was far more difficult to evade. There was only one thing for him to do—humbly ask Miss Dunne’s forgiveness and tell her she could leave his employ early, if she wished. He would pay her the totality of the salary he had promised, help her find suitable lodging, and understand if she left immediately.

The prospect sat heavy as a lump of sour cheese in his stomach.

James went through the motions of preparing for his own return to London. Peg was left behind to help ready the house. James mounted his horse and turned it down the lane for town. London approached quickly—more rapidly than he desired—the city swallowing the countryside in small bites until the fields and hedgerows were totally consumed and there was nothing to see but houses and shopfronts and traffic. Nothing left to face but his impending duty to an innocent young Irish woman.

Joe sat on the house steps, teasing a neighborhood cat with a piece of twine he had found somewhere. Spotting James, he tucked the twine in a pocket and jumped up to hold the horse’s reins while James dismounted.

“Good mornin’, sir. ’ave a good trip home, did you?”

“Good enough. I made it home and in one piece.” Did I pay a sliver of attention? He could have been robbed and not even noticed. “Did the others return safely?”

“Mrs. M and Miss Dunne got back las’ night ’bout ten, I’d say. Also in one piece. Or two pieces, I s’pose.” Joe barked a laugh at his joke, then muffled it when he realized James wasn’t laughing along.

“Where is Miss Dunne at the moment?”

“In the library. With ’er ankle wrapped.” Joe uttered the last words reproachfully, as if he blamed James for Miss Dunne’s injury.

Good heavens, had the entire household already heard about what had happened between them?

“She twisted it while out walking,” James explained tersely. “Take my things up to my chamber. If anyone is looking for me, I’ll be in the library discussing the packing of the books with Miss Dunne.”

He pounded up the stairs, Joe making a speedy decision to drop the horse’s reins to yank open the front door before the master reached it.

Miss Dunne stood in front of the center of the bookcases, staring at a closed book in her hand as if trying to decide what to do with it. She didn’t hear him as he entered the room; she continued staring, her head cocked to one side, like a marionette waiting for the puppeteer to twitch her strings and move her to action.

“Miss Dunne, I must speak with you.”

The book thudded to the floor as she spun around. She winced at the hastiness of her motion. “You startled me, Dr. Edmunds.”

James came no closer to her. It would be better for the both of them if he maintained some physical distance. He shut the door behind him.

“I am not going to repeat my despicable actions, Miss Dunne,” he reassured. “I’ve closed the door because I thought you might appreciate this conversation being kept private.”

Eyes averted, she nodded. The tension clung like the damp of a humid summer day. She shifted her stance, the sway of her skirts revealing a strip of cloth binding her ankle. So far as he could tell, her leg readily supported her weight; her fall hadn’t badly injured her.

Does that make me feel better, though? Less guilty?

James cleared his throat, the apology heavy on his tongue. “You know what I came in here to say. I need to apologize for attempting to kiss you.”

Miss Dunne rolled her lips between her teeth.

“You are a decent and honorable young woman whom I admire,” he continued, sweat gathering, “and I owe you nothing less than my utmost respect. You surely don’t deserve to be pawed like some common girl. I made a horrible mistake, and I am sorry. Forgive me.”

The next words he’d practiced, the ones that were most important of all, never left his mouth. He could not tell her to leave his employ early, if that was what she wished to do. Selfishly, he couldn’t bear to have her withdraw from his life one second sooner than she would be forced to. God, I most need forgiveness from You.

Miss Dunne blanched. Maybe she was considering not forgiving him. Maybe she contemplated how to best skewer him like a roasting pig with words of righteous indignation. He deserved every bit of her condemnation.

“I accept your apology for wanting to kiss me, Dr. Edmunds,” she replied at last, her voice unwavering and rich with calm dignity.

The composure she displayed lanced his heart more than any angry rejoinder could have done, reminded him just how extraordinary she was.

“I apologized for trying to kiss you, not for wanting to kiss you,” he clarified. “I find I cannot apologize for that. God save me, I know I should, but I cannot and never shall.”

Her gaze jumped to his, those incredible eyes, the color and depth of a pool of tranquil water, searching his face. He had yet to learn how to read the thoughts contained within them. Maybe God was at last being merciful by sparing James the ability.

“Do not let me disturb you any further,” he said, and turned to go.





Rachel stared at the closed library door for what seemed an eternity, but must have only been mere minutes. She should walk away right now, pack her carpetbag and leave. Not that she had anywhere to go. She had returned from Finchingfield to a note from Claire saying her brother had discovered she’d pawned her ring and was so angry he’d banished her to the family estate in Weymouth. Rachel had no one to turn to now and only a few shillings to her name, Joe having sent Claire’s money to Ireland as he’d promised. She could hardly leave without receiving the salary Dr. Edmunds owed her . . . and would never pay if she abruptly quit. But heavens, how she wished she could march out the front door and never have to face him again. Cease to feel the yearning that stretched her taut as a fiddle string. He wanted to kiss her.

She wanted him to fall in love with her.

Rachel picked up the book she had dropped and placed it upon the desk just as Joe scampered into the library.

“Eh, miss, the blokes from the movin’ agency ’ave just come with the crates . . .” Joe cocked his head to peer at her. “Aw, don’ go lookin’ all glum about that. I’ll ’elp you wiv ’em.”

“It’s not the crates, Joe,” she answered. “I am just a little sad that I shall be leaving you all soon.”

“You knows we’ll all miss you terrible too. ’cept Moll, I s’pose,” he added honestly, with a wicked grin. “An’ mebbe Peg.”

Rachel smiled; it was better than crying. “I will recover from my melancholy.”

“I’m glad to ’ear that. ’ate to see you sad. ’specially with Molly still green an’ the master stalkin’ around, ready to bite off someone’s ’ead like ’e’s mad at the world—”

“Yes, well, send the man from the moving agency up, will you, Joe?” She interrupted Joe to avoid hearing about Dr. Edmunds’s foul mood, even if she felt some satisfaction in the knowledge he might be sad too.





“I’ve had another patient die from the cholera, James,” said Thaddeus, sawing away at a perfectly fine cut of beef like it was a chewy, overcooked shank of mutton. He stabbed the freed piece with his fork. “That makes three for me. Much worse than the outbreak in spring.”

“Two of my charity cases have succumbed as well,” James replied. He’d had one recover and live, though he was at a loss to explain why. The timely use of Miss Dunne’s mysterious tonic, the one her mother claimed cured every stomach ill, might have been the reason. He would like to talk to her about the tonic and his patients, but they had avoided each other these past few days. Life in the house had been easier, but not pleasant. He only had himself to blame.

“The disease is moving fast in this heat,” James said, ignoring his own food turning cold on his plate. “I hear they’re scattering lime in the streets in St. Giles.”

“Maybe that will stop the disease from moving farther west. You’d never know there was an outbreak in town, watching these fellows.” Thaddeus waved his fork in the general direction of the chophouse crowd, neither ranks nor vigor visibly diminished by the disease. Waiters in white aprons hurried between tables, arms laden with plates. Associates called to each other across the room, smoked cigars, and hunkered over papers while they ate. At a nearby table, a newspaper headline tallied the latest fatalities. The press had begun to change their tune.

“They all know there’s not much to be done to prevent the spread,” said James, the familiar press of helplessness weighing heavily. “They may as well go on about their lives as normal.”

“It’s the poor Irish and their filthy slums. The miasma lifting off their hovels will strike us all down, I fear.”

A lump hard as a fist jammed in James’s throat. “I’ve heard it proposed it’s coming from the Thames.”

“Little does it matter. The cholera won’t pass until winter sets in. I’m just glad Louisa convinced me to send her to Bath. You should probably send Amelia and Mrs. Woodbridge away too. Just to be safe.” Thaddeus paused to chew his bite of food. “Louisa sends her greetings, by the way.”

“Send her mine in return, when next you write.”

“Nothing further?” Thaddeus asked, still sounding hopeful.

“Nothing further, Castleton.”

“If you insist.” Thaddeus frowned and washed down the beef with a drink of soda water. “Hey, what the . . .”

Thaddeus’s glass halted in midair. James heard the ruckus that had captured his friend’s attention. He craned his neck to see over a man blocking his view.

“Can’t a man eat a meal in peace anymore?” grumbled Thaddeus, shifting in his seat to catch a look. “We have to have waiters scuffling with patrons now?”

Then James heard it, the whisper leaping like fleas scattering before a fumigant of burning sulfur. “Cholera,” it chattered. Cholera.

James jumped up, threw his napkin on the table, and pushed his way through to the front. Thaddeus was close on his heels.

“What’s going on?” James asked of the waiter who’d locked arms with the man.

The waiter was a burly fellow and easily subdued the other. “It’s nothing, sir. You can go back to eating. This fellow’s just a mite upset over something he saw out on the street.”

The man, a tradesman by the look of his breeches and heavy dark coat, was sweating. His eyes were wide as a copper penny. “There’s a woman outside on the pavement. She’s perished from the cholera. Right before my eyes, she did!”

“I’m a physician. Show me where she is.”

The waiter relinquished his grasp, and the fellow sprung free. “Out here, doctor.” He shoved back out through the door and pointed down the street a short way. A crowd huddled nearby, hands over noses and mouths, staring aghast. Someone had thought to send for a policeman, for a man in the familiar blue uniform and helmet was running their direction.

Thaddeus joined James as he crouched next to the woman. She was someone’s servant or charwoman, dressed in a simple dark gown, hair graying beneath her mobcap. The items she had been carrying in a basket were scattered on the ground nearby. A skein of twine. A shattered bottle of oily boot blacking.

James felt for a pulse along her neck, the skin already gone blue. “There’s no heartbeat.” The front of her gown was soiled from where she had vomited, the stench sour and pervasive.

Thaddeus finished his own quick assessment as the policeman arrived to drive back the onlookers and send for an ambulance. “I say, it just might be the cholera,” he whispered. “Blessed Lord in heaven, they’re dropping in the streets now.”

James rocked back on his heels. “Dreadful business.” He cocked his head and looked at the woman’s face, twisted in agony. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her. Why would he know this woman? He was probably mistaken.

He pulled out his handkerchief and draped it over her face, heard the distant clang of the ambulance wagon’s bell as it came to take the woman’s lifeless body away.





“Cor, miss, what a mess in here!” Joe complained, picking his way through the library, past the crates and stacks of books waiting to be packed.

The house was buzzing with activity, every room swarming like ants on a hill. Soon the household would be moving to Finchingfield.

“The packing is taking longer than I expected,” Rachel answered. “Will you be able to help me today?”

“I can ’elp once I’m done dancin’ like a cat on ’ot coals.” He gave an apologetic grimace. “I’m havin’ to clear out the stable, then I ’ave to ’elp Mrs. M down in the kitchen. And Moll thinks I’m ’er messenger boy, sendin’ me up ’ere to tell you she wants a talk.”

Rachel’s throat knotted. She had not only avoided Dr. Edmunds these past few days, but she hadn’t crossed paths with Molly either. She could have predicted her good fortune would not last forever. “Did she say what she needed to talk to me about?”

“’Course not, miss. Moll don’ care to share that sor’ of information with me.”

“Where is she then?” Rachel asked, stripping off her apron.

“Out in the garden.”

Rachel found the girl staring at the green-tinged pool of water surrounding the unused fountain. She glanced at Molly’s middle. The maid’s frock hung loose enough to conceal any increase in girth. She might not be far enough along to obviously show she was with child.

Molly heard the crunch of Rachel’s approaching footsteps and looked over. “You have to help me. I need a potion. To start my monthlies again.”

Abrupt and clear, leaving no doubt as to her condition.

Rachel’s heart pounded hard, her feet begging to flee back to the house. “I cannot help you in that way.”

Even while she denied Molly, ingredients whispered in Rachel’s head.

“I cannot,” she repeated.

Eyes wild, Molly rushed up to her and grabbed hold of her arm. Her fingers pinched. “You have to! I can’t have a baby!”

“Molly, I will not help you get rid of your baby.”

“He was going to marry me, he was! The liar! Says he never promised me anything.” A sob hiccupped out of her, and tears as fat as chandelier prisms rolled on her cheeks. “I bought a tonic from the apothecary. He said it would work. All it did was make me sick and twopence poorer. Men, they’re all liars.”

“Do not try to harm the child. It is wrong.” Dreadfully, horribly sinful. “Besides, most of those tonics will not work, other than to make you severely ill, perhaps fatally ill.”

“Ha! Telling me not to make myself ill.” Molly threw down Rachel’s arm. “As if you care about me. If you cared, you’d help! Well, I know what to do about that. You’re going to help me or I’m going to show Dr. Edmunds the letter. I’ll tell him what I think you’re all about.”

Molly spun away, black skirts belling, and hurried toward the house.

Rachel rushed after her. “Molly, wait! Do not do this! You will ruin both our lives. Stop, please. We can think of something else to do to help you.”

Molly pulled open the rear door, Rachel on her heels. “What, are you afraid now, Miss hoity Dunne? Well, wait until Dr. Edmunds hears everything I know about you! Then you’ll be sorry.”

“What is it you know, Molly?” asked a man’s voice from down the hallway.

Rachel’s heart stopped. Dr. Edmunds was waiting for an answer.