The Irish Healer

Chapter 22





What is Miss Dunne doing in St. Giles at this hour?” James pulled out his gold pocket watch. Half-gone eight. His final meeting with Dr. Calvert had taken longer than expected, turned into a dinner invitation, then more conversation. About the cholera, mostly.

He scowled at Joe. “Why would she be in St. Giles? You must have misunderstood her destination. She must be at her cousin’s.” Although James thought he’d heard that Miss Harwood had abruptly left for Weymouth.

“Aye, I took—eh, I saw ’er take a hackney and, clear as I’m standin’ ’ere, tell the bloke to take ’er to St. Giles. Fair surprisin’ and all she’d venture out to take care of Moll, but there ya ’ave it. Miss Dunne’s a good un.”

“Molly isn’t in St. Giles. The institute is in Marylebone.”

“Moll’s not at the institute, sir. Done left it, accordin’ to the woman what come to fetch you. Stayin’ in St. Giles. Miss Dunne says come as quick as you can, tho’.”

“What time did she depart?” A sick feeling burrowed in his gut. “How long has she been gone?”

Joe’s eyes wandered to a high corner of the entry hall, as if the answer to the question resided in the crown molding. “I’d say five . . . six hours at most, sir.”

“She should have been back by now.” The sick feeling intensified, transformed into a tingling panic. “Where in St. Giles, Joe? I need an address. And the mare saddled.”

Joe provided an address that only increased James’s alarm. “You should have stopped her. You know how dangerous that area is.”

“Too late now, sir, pardon my sayin’ so.”

Dearest Jesus, do not let it be too late. Don’t let her come to any harm.

Joe was quick to saddle the mare. James jumped up onto the horse’s back and trotted toward St. Giles as fast as traffic would permit. Not fast enough for him.

Along Oxford Street, inky darkness slithered through the alleyways, seeking the low and hidden crevices. A horrible place for a lone woman to be, a target for predators. Laughter spilled through the door of a pub, rolling into the street like a splash of filthy water from a washbasin. A lamplighter hobbled along the pavement, his ladder over one arm and his flint box and supply of cotton wicks secured on the other, the sparsely spaced streetlamps springing to life as he advanced. The lamps were spaced far apart and stretches of the roadway remained in shadow, providing cover for criminals.

Rachel was out in this, attending to Molly because he had been using his meeting with Dr. Calvert as an excuse not to return home at a reasonable hour. Sharp words had passed between him and Rachel over Molly, and neither had figured out a way to restore the relationship they’d had before. It had been easier for him to avoid Rachel completely. A coward’s actions.

James kicked his mare into a canter and stretched his neck to scan the road. There were plenty of people on the streets—shop workers heading home, a couple of ragged men dodging carts to collect dung from the roadway, girls selling the waste of the day’s vegetables. Not a one of them Rachel. Sweat trickled beneath James’s collar to itch along his neck and back. He might have missed her, passing in an omnibus or a hired coach as he came out to search. Or she was still up ahead in St. Giles.

In a fit of agitation, he jabbed his heels into his horse’s side, making the mare shy sideways. James clutched the pommel and cursed his stupidity. Getting tossed onto the cobblestones and bashing his brains out would help no one.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a familiar figure walking along Oxford Street. He let out a breath. Thank You, God.

Setting his features sternly, he guided the horse over to her. “Miss Dunne, you should not be walking the streets of London at this hour.”

“I do not have the fare to do otherwise.” Her shoulders drooped beneath the shawl she had thrown over them, as though she were weary of the world and everything in it.

“It’s dangerous in St. Giles. Perhaps you were unaware, but any manner of evil could have befallen you. And here you are, alone, unchaperoned, easy prey,” he barked, angry at her, at himself. She could have been assaulted. Because of his cowardice.

Because of him.

“I completely understand how dangerous, how awful St. Giles is, Dr. Edmunds,” she said with sudden rancor. “Absolutely, completely understand. Oh God.” Her chest heaved with a shuddering breath, and she began to sob.

James jumped off the horse and took her shoulders in his hands. Her entire body trembled and the vibration moved through his palms, down his arms. “What is it? Something has happened to you. Did someone harm you?” He would kill them. God forgive his sinful thought, but he would hunt down the man who would dare to hurt her.

“No one assaulted me.” Rachel pressed her lips together, released them again. “It’s Molly. She is dead.”

The word rang out, echoed in his head, though she had only whispered it. “No.”

“Indeed, she very much is.” She looked up at him, her eyes frighteningly intense. “I could not save her. She died. She lost the baby and she died. No matter what I gave her, or how often I bathed her forehead. Her passing was so quick too. It should have taken the entire night, but she was gone barely hours after I arrived. Now she is cold and stiff on that filthy pallet. Oh God. She never woke up to beg forgiveness . . .”

James gathered her into his arms. “Shh,” he breathed against her hair, the softness of it caressing his lips. She had left her bonnet somewhere, he thought irrationally. “Shh, Miss Dunne. It isn’t your fault. I should have been there.”

He gathered her closer, drew her head against his shoulder. You don’t need to cry. It did no good. People died whether your heart broke for them or not. He murmured to Rachel, nonsensical words and sounds to ease the sobs that echoed in his own body. Please, don’t ache like this.

“It isn’t your fault,” he repeated, feebly.

“No. It is God’s fault.”





Dr. Edmunds crooned soft reassurances, his embrace strong and secure, propping her up. Rachel wanted to stay there, have his arms tighten around her until the feel of them blocked out the thoughts of Molly fading, sinking into the pallet, her last breath easing out of her to be followed by eternal stillness. Hearing the sound of keening in the room, the shrill noise emanating from the throat of Molly’s friend.

“Don’t cry, now.”

He pressed his lips to her hair, feather-light, quick as the drumming of hummingbird wings. She longed for that kiss to lower to her face. Her previous pride vanished in the face of sorrow and helplessness, wanting his lips to draw away the tears streaming from her eyes. In a meadow in Finchingfield, he had claimed to care for her. She needed that caring more than anything right now.

However, all that had passed between them since that summer-ripe afternoon made her fear she’d lost any chance at having him care for her.

A passerby uttered a rude remark and Dr. Edmunds released her. He swiped a finger across her cheek to dry her face. “It doesn’t do to be standing in the roadway, Miss Dunne. I should take you home.”

Home? Home was Ireland and she could no longer go there.

With strong yet gentle hands, he lifted her onto his mare and took the reins. Rachel peered down at him, the brim of his hat shielding his face. I am in love with him. A man she could not have. A good man, after all. A decent man.

At the house, Joe waited for them. She caught his fretful gaze and knew her expression told everything as readily as a placard carried by a newspaper boy. Molly was gone.

“Tell Mrs. Mainprice to come and help Miss Dunne, Joe,” directed Dr. Edmunds, handing over the horse’s reins.

He helped Rachel down from the saddle. His hands lingered at her waist for a few seconds.

“I want to tell you, while I have the strength, that I regret sending Molly away. I thought I was serving justice with my actions, but the beggar I’m supposed to clothe and feed was right inside my house, at my doorstep, and I rejected her. Gave her to someone else to take care of her. I made a terrible mistake, and because of my actions, I exposed you to danger.”

Rachel blinked at him, standing so close. “You did what you thought best.”

“I did, and I was wrong.” Something gave way in his eyes, his emotions bared, his remorse exposed like rocks scraped clean by relentless winds. “I can’t ask for Molly’s forgiveness any longer. I need someone’s. I need yours.”

“I wonder,” she murmured, “if the forgiveness you truly seek is your own.”

Dr. Edmunds let her go without another word and Rachel wandered through the dark garden, heading for the lamplight shining through the rear door that Joe had left ajar.

Mrs. Mainprice met her just inside the doorway.

“Molly . . .” The name was all Rachel could manage. If she uttered another word, she would shatter.

“Joe told me you went to her. Come down to the kitchen, lass, and we’ll get something warm into you.”

Would something warm help? She wasn’t cold; she was vacant. Soup or heated cider would not fill the void. Still, she let the housekeeper slip a comforting arm around her shoulders and guide her down the stairs, through the hallway where, not so many days ago, Rachel had huddled and overheard Molly’s first condemning words. The memory stung, sharp as the thorn of a rose. Molly—vengeful, desperate—had been alive then.

Mrs. Mainprice lowered her onto the bench fronting the kitchen table. The bench was firm, the table solid as ever, yet the room seemed to twirl about Rachel’s head, a spinning top in her brain. She sucked in a breath to stop the dizziness.

“Here you go.” The housekeeper smiled, setting a mug in front of Rachel. The contents steamed. “It’s some tea.”

Rachel wrapped fingers around the earthenware. Heat seeped into her skin. “Nothing helped, Mrs. Mainprice. Not the spirit of niter or the laudanum I borrowed from you.”

“You cannot expect to perform miracles.”

“I should have been able to save her.” She had failed again to help someone who’d depended upon her. First Mary Ferguson, then Mr. Fenton-Smith, now Molly. Proving one more time there was no point to her trying. She should have clung to the promise she’d sworn to herself and never have bothered to go. “Molly lost the baby and was feverish, but still I should have been able to help. I used to be able to.”

The housekeeper clucked her tongue against her teeth. “Molly had been taking all manner of potions to rid herself of that baby. Who knows what sort of foul concoctions she drank in the past days? As sure as I’m sitting here, it was one of those potions that took her life. Not something that you didn’t do. ’Twas her foolishness that caused this.”

“But Mary Ferguson was not foolish. She was merely poor.”

“Did she have something to do with your trial in Ireland?” Mrs. Mainprice asked gently. “I’m afraid we’ve all heard about it, Miss Dunne.”

“She perished under my care.” Rachel lowered her head. “She had only had a cough, some swelling in her throat. I thought I knew what to do to help. It seems I was wrong, and far too prideful about my abilities.” Clinging to that pride like the last leaf of autumn unwilling to release the tree.

“We all make mistakes, miss.”

“Most people’s mistakes do not end in someone dying.” Rachel pinched her eyes closed. “When they accused me of murdering her, I was shocked. Angry, even. I had tended many of my accusers, too poor to afford even an apothecary’s remedies, yet they were so ready to find me at fault. However, I could not easily defend myself against their accusations. Mary died while I was asleep at her bedside—asleep!—and I could not say precisely what had happened.”

The cruelest blow of all. She didn’t even know what had gone wrong. With Molly, though, Rachel had been awake for every second, watching the girl’s life flow from her like water seeking a drain. The fever had worsened, she had become confused and restless, then she was suddenly motionless. Her friend’s prayers turned frantic. God didn’t listen to her either.

Mrs. Mainprice gathered up Rachel’s hands. Her touch was tender but firm, the skin raspy where her calluses rubbed. “Don’t blame yourself for Molly’s passing.”

“Molly should have been under a physician’s care. Dr. Edmunds should have been there.” Even he knew he should have.

“You think Dr. Edmunds is always successful? You know better, Miss Dunne. It’s killing him. His failures are eating him up, like rats feasting in a corn bin. He couldn’t save his wife. Imagine how that feels.”

Dreadful? Hollowing? Black and frigid as the maw of hell?

Rachel withdrew her hands, dropped them to her lap. “He still believes in God, though. He has not lost all hope.”

Mrs. Mainprice considered Rachel for a long time. She chafed under the woman’s gaze. “Holding on to hope in God is all we ever have in this world, Miss Dunne.”