The Irish Healer (13 page)

Satisfied they would not be overheard, Claire reached for Rachel’s hand and dragged her down onto a bench. “Tell me what has happened.”

“A relative of the person I was accused of harming is still very angry. He is claiming that I should not have been let free. Mother did not say what he has done beyond complain to everyone he can think of, but I am afraid he might harm them. He drinks heavily, at times, and . . .” So clearly, Rachel could remember how Mr. Ferguson had looked at her trial, his eyes rheumy and vacant. An irresponsible and vindictive drunk.

“I must get my family away from Carlow sooner than I had planned, Claire, but for that I need money. At least four pounds for passage.”

Claire frowned. “I don’t have that amount. A few shillings are all I’m ever allowed. My brother pays all my expenses. If I go to a shop, he receives the bill and attends to it. I only ever have enough just to pay for an ice or some flowers or to offer coins to a beggar.”

“I cannot ask Dr. Edmunds for the money” An employer never lent money to his staff. “Perhaps you could ask your brother. I would pay him back, with interest.”

“Ask Gregory?” Claire scoffed. “He would never agree.”

“Then I must find some way to get the money. I suppose I could sell my other dress and a pair of stockings.”

“And maybe get a half crown for the both, if you’re lucky” Claire looked down at Rachel’s hands, clasped within her own. Rachel eyed the pearl ring set in gold that gleamed on her cousin’s finger. It was pretty and had to be valuable, an elegant token of Harwood wealth. Rachel had no idea what it was worth, however, because she’d never owned a piece of jewelry so fine.

Claire’s eyes met Rachel’s; she had caught Rachel staring.

“The ring was a gift from Father on my eighteenth birthday. When he’d still been pleased with me.” She rolled the ring’s band beneath the pad of her thumb. The opalescence of the pearl trapped the dim sunlight filtering through the leaves overhead. “It must be worth far more than four pounds. But if Gregory notices the ring gone from my hand, he’ll be unmercifully furious with me.”

“I cannot ask you to sell it,” Rachel said, though she was too desperate to absolutely refuse Claire’s suggestion.

“I’m going to pawn it, not sell it.” Clasping Rachel’s hand, she dragged her upright. “Come. Let’s do this before I lose my nerve.”

“Eight pounds,” the pawnbroker declared, his sharp eyes concealing any genuine interest in Claire’s pearl ring.

“Eight pounds!” Claire exclaimed. Beyond the pawnbroker, out in the body of the main shop, a customer in shabby tweeds looked over from his perusal of silver watches and gaudy snuffboxes. Claire slunk back into the shadows of the tiny cubicle, a row of which lined the rear of the shop and offered some privacy to those unwilling to march in directly off the street to pawn their bits and pieces.

“Truly, you do not need to do this,” Rachel whispered, tugging on Claire’s sleeve. “I will find another way.”

“I do need to do this,” she answered, her tone unyielding. She stared at the pawnbroker, her shoulders back, head high. Brave. “The gold band itself has to be worth more than eight pounds.”

“Might be so, miss, but I run a business here, not a charity,” he said, his expression flat, almost bored.

Resting his arm on the counter separating them, the pawnbroker held out the ring, the band pinched between his fleshy thumb and forefinger, daring Claire to take it back. Rachel recognized the game, having observed other pawnbrokers in other pawnshops act precisely the same. If a woman like Claire, clearly well-off, was desperate enough to come to this grimy back alley shop, she wouldn’t leave without some money.

“I’ll not accept less than ten,” Claire insisted, but she made no move to reclaim the ring.

“Eight,” the pawnbroker repeated, scratching his ear.

“Nine. I must have nine.”

He sniffed, his rather large nostrils flaring, and turned to the counter behind him. He fiddled with a locked money box and withdrew coins.

“Eight and six, and that is my final offer. Because the
both of you are such lovely ladies.” He scribbled the information about the exchange on a scrap of a card, pressed the paper into a box of sand to set the ink, and handed it over. “Here’s your ticket. That’ll be one pound per month interest. If you’re so inclined to fetch the ring back, that is. If not, I sell it at year’s end.”

Nine pounds six due by the end of the month? Ten and six by the month after that? Rachel stared at her cousin, aghast. If she didn’t have the money to lend Rachel four pounds, she would not have the funds to pay off the pawnbroker’s loan. The ring was as good as gone. And Gregory Harwood would be unmercifully furious.

“Are you certain you want to pawn the ring?” Rachel asked.

“It’s done,” said Claire firmly. “Good day to you, sir.”

Grabbing the money and the ticket, Claire deposited them into her reticule. Rachel pushed open the cubicle door and together they hurried down the hallway, exited the side door, and burst into the courtyard. Claire took the lead, more anxious than Rachel to flee the pawnshop, running past a gin shop and women hawking rotten vegetables, a knot of boys throwing stones in a game of gully who shouted lewd remarks at the both of them.

Passing beneath the courtyard’s archway, Claire kept up a rapid pace until she reached the street and her family’s carriage, waiting on the road.

“You all right, miss?” The Harwood coachman hustled to the door and threw it open.

“I am quite all right, Benjamin.” She took his hand and let him help her up the steps. Rachel followed and dropped onto the carriage seat next to her.

“Don’t you dare breathe a word to my brother that you brought me here,” Claire ordered the coachman.

“Never, miss.” Gravely, he shook his head and clicked shut the carriage door. “Now to Belgrave Square?”

“Yes. Dr. Edmunds’s house.”

Once they were underway, Claire burst into a fit of giggles. “Good heavens, Rachel, what have we done?”

“You have pawned a ring Uncle Anthony gave to you, which will likely bring you untold problems, I am certain.” Rachel shook her head. “How can I ever thank you?”

“By spending the money well and making certain my most favorite aunt and the cousins I’ve never met come safely to England.” Sobering, Claire retrieved the coins from her reticule and spilled them into Rachel’s palm, a tiny waterfall of silver and gold. “I’m glad I never gave that ring away, even though I’ve wanted to more often than I could count. Obviously, God had plans for it.”

Rachel and Claire plotted and planned the rest of the way back to Dr. Edmunds’s house, and when she climbed down from the carriage and waved good-bye, Rachel’s mood was more buoyant, more hope-filled than it had been in ages. Soon, she and her family would be together again. Sooner than they had planned, actually. The thought made her smile.

She rushed down the area steps and hastened through the kitchen, stripping off her bonnet and shawl as she offered a quick greeting to Mrs. Mainprice, carrying supplies from the pantry. The moment she rounded the ground-floor landing, she spotted Dr. Edmunds.

“Miss Dunne,” he called out. “I’m glad to see you back.”

Beyond him in the entry hall, Molly glared at her for a reason Rachel could not fathom.

Rachel looked away from her. “Did you need me, Dr. Edmunds?” she asked. “I am sorry I was gone longer than I told you I would be.” Almost two hours instead of the half hour she’d requested.

“It’s quite all right.” He frowned as he interwove his fingers to ensure his gloves were on tight. “I need you to accompany me on a visit to a patient, Miss Dunne. I’m sorry, but the fellow is going to require that someone attend to him for several hours, and I have an important appointment this afternoon with a baroness I had best not miss. If you think you can manage, Miss Dunne.”

“I . . . I . . .” she stuttered, while Molly’s face pinched with resentment. Did the maid despise Rachel because she wanted to help the doctor with his patients, take on the superior role of acting as attendant to a physician?
I should let her do it, because heaven knows I do not want to
.

But the doctor was waiting, his shoulders beginning to droop in anticipation of Rachel’s refusal. She did not want to disappoint him. Or, she thought pettishly, to let Molly win.

“Indeed, I am willing to help you, Dr. Edmunds. I shall endeavor to keep my head this time.”

Molly’s face fell.

“Thank you, Miss Dunne. I greatly appreciate your assistance.”

A smile flitted across the doctor’s lips. Rachel might agree to walk on hot coals to see his smile. Or tend a patient, even.

So much for vows.

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.”