W hat’s that you’re whistling?”
Neal glanced to his side. “Was I whistling?”
Johnny Longrieve puckered his lips and blew out a good imitation of the song that had been stuck in Neal’s head for two days.
He tousled the boy’s hair. “Very good.”
“What’s it called?”
“‘Springtime Brings on the Shearing.’ I learned it from a shepherd when I was a bit younger than you.”
“Will you learn it to me?” The young face littered with a few days’ beard growth shone with expectation.
Neal shifted his medical kit to his other hand, resisting the urge to correct the boy’s grammar. “Why aren’t you in school, Johnny?”
The boy shrugged. “My da didn’t see the need, but I’m too old now anyway. I got my numbers—adding and subtracting—and I can write my name. But I’m to take over driving the hackney cab when Da is too old. I’d be with him today, taking Miss Bainbridge out to Wakesdown, ’cept I had messages to carry this morning. I only go with him whenever no one needs me to deliver nothing.”
Heat prickled the back of Neal’s neck at the image that formed in his mind at the mention of the seamstress’s name. He tried to shake it off, not liking how two brief meetings with the woman had so affected him.
“Do you want to drive your father’s cab?” Neal started walking again.
Johnny, taking two steps for each of Neal’s, shrugged again. “Don’t matter. It’s what I’ve got to do, ’cause it’s what Da told me I’d do.”
Neal grunted, understanding all too well. After all, his own father had been teaching him the trade of a surveyor until . . .
“Although, I’d love me to be able to read, and to learn others to read. Maybe have a school for boys like me so they don’t have to drive cabs or clean chimneys or do what their fathers and grandfathers did.”
Neal paused on the stoop of the small, low-slung tenement of his next patient. “How much would you like to learn to read? How hard would you be willing to work?”
The boy’s eyes, which always looked too old for the young face, lit up. “I’d do anything.”
“Good. Then ask your father’s permission to visit me in the early evenings, after your chores are done and if your mother gives you leave. I may not always be in, but if I am, I will teach you to read.”
Johnny leapt up, arms raised, and whooped.
“But if I hear you are not keeping up with your responsibilities at home, the lessons will end. Understand?”
The dire tone of Neal’s voice had no effect on the young man’s excitement.
Neal hid his amusement. “Off with you now.” He waited until Johnny trotted off a few yards before turning and knocking on his patient’s door.
After lancing some boils at one home, setting a child’s broken arm in another, and mixing a concoction to help soothe the sore throats of a family of nine, Neal checked in on a few more families in Jericho, then headed back to North Parade. He traversed the distance quickly. Along the way, he returned the greetings of the people he’d come to recognize over the past several days of plying his trade in the poor area not quite a mile beyond his chosen neighborhood of residence.
He stopped at the greengrocer before going home. Setting his bag on the floor, he leaned back on the counter, crossing one ankle over the other, observing the customers milling about.
Unusually, Mrs. Howell was not in the shop. Mr. Howell, though, came over as soon as he saw Neal, greeting him with a handshake.
“What’s the news?” Howell asked, mimicking Neal’s pose.
“Nothing to report. A few minor cases, but nothing to be concerned about. How is Mrs. Howell?” Neal’s gaze followed an older man who hobbled between baskets containing fruits and vegetables straight from the hothouses of several nearby estates. The way the man favored his feet led Neal to believe he suffered from gout.
“She is well, thank you. I shall tell her you inquired. She is visiting with Mrs. Bainbridge at the moment.”
Neal’s interest piqued. “Did Mrs. Bainbridge come here alone?” Though she lived only a few dozen yards from the store, Mrs. Bainbridge should not be walking alone in her condition.
“She walked with her nurse’s arm for support. She was a bit out of breath, but once she sat for a few minutes, she seemed to regain her strength easily enough. She managed the stairs just fine.” Howell straightened and acknowledged one of his customers with a nod. “Please excuse me, Doctor.”
Neal continued leaning against the counter, but he glanced over his shoulder at the door he knew hid the stairwell to the family’s quarters above the shop.
Howell headed back his direction, and Neal pushed himself upright. “Do you think the ladies would mind if I called on them? I should like to pay my respects to your wife.”
“The missus would appreciate that, I am certain.”
Another exchanged handshake, and Neal picked up his bag and went upstairs. He set the kit on the floor in the hall outside the sitting room, then knocked on the door.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Howell, it is Neal Stradbroke. May I come in?”
“Oh yes, please do.”
He pushed the door open. Mary, the nurse, looked up at him from a straight chair beside the door, then went back to reading her book.
Mrs. Howell rose and ushered him into the room, offering him the chintz-covered armchair beside Mrs. Bainbridge. Their hostess regained her seat on the settee across the low tea table from them.
“May I offer you a cup, Dr. Stradbroke?” Mrs. Howell reached for the teapot.
“No, thank you, ma’am. I cannot stay long. But I could not stop in without greeting you. And you, also, Mrs. Bainbridge, when I heard you were here.”
Cadence’s mother beamed at him. She did indeed look much better than she had just yesterday. “Why, such a compliment, Doctor. I am honored.”
He let the ladies engage him in small talk, carefully avoiding giving specific details of patients or their diagnoses. As both were potential patients of his, he wanted to assure them he would not betray any confidences.
The small porcelain clock on the side table showed he’d been here fifteen minutes. When Mrs. Howell paused in her tale of her grandchildren’s latest escapades, Neal cleared his throat.
“If you will excuse me, I must take my leave.” He rose, took Mrs. Howell’s hand, and brushed his lips across the papery skin. She needed to drink more water and possibly use a hand cream to restore her skin’s moisture.
“If you do not mind, Dr. Stradbroke”—Mrs. Bainbridge pushed herself up from the chair, holding onto the arms until steady—“I would beg your arm home. I fear I quite overtaxed Mary on the walk here.”
Neal glanced at Mary in time to see the middle-aged nurse’s brows rise.
“I shall be pleased to escort you home.” He offered her his hand. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Howell.”
“Good afternoon, Dr. Stradbroke. Mrs. Bainbridge.” She saw them to the top of the stairs.
Neal descended sideways, holding Mrs. Bainbridge’s hand and ensuring she didn’t take a spill. At the bottom, she let him assist with her cloak, then tucked her hand through his elbow.
He matched his steps to hers, letting her set the pace. The March wind had a bite to it, but the sun had shone long enough to warm the air tolerably this afternoon.
“Are you from Oxford, Dr. Stradbroke?” The feathers and flowers on Mrs. Bainbridge’s bonnet waved in the breeze.
“No, ma’am. I came here from Winchester. I lived with my grandmother on a farm there.”
“But that is in Hampshire County.” Confusion laced her voice, and her brows pinched together when she looked up at him.
“Yes, it is.”
“You do not have a Hampshire accent. I cannot place it precisely, but you sound more as if you are from the midlands or even the north part of the country.”
Panic rushed in hot and cold waves through him—as it did whenever the topic of his origins arose. He could not lie to her, but he could not let anyone discover the truth either. He’d already learned what that revelation could do to a medical practice. He needed to pay tribute to his grandmother’s tutelage by remembering to use the accent she’d taught him instead of the one he’d learned as a child.
“Perhaps it is because I have traveled much of this country and spent time with many of its residents that I sound as if I could be from various regions.” Not a lie.
Mrs. Bainbridge seemed satisfied with that explanation. “That is likely. Mr. Bainbridge, before we were wed, went to Scotland on a tour before taking orders. When he returned, he amused all of us by speaking with a Scotch burr for weeks. I would imagine that Caddy—Cadence—would be like that. She’s always had his gift of mimicry.”
“Mr. Bainbridge was a rector?” He remembered his earlier visit where Caddy told him her father had died four years ago.
“Yes. He had a church just north of here in Tackley. ’Twas but a poor parish, so Caddy knew from a young age that she must fend for herself. But because of her father’s connections, she was allowed entry into a fine school in Oxford. She sewed clothes for her classmates to earn her own pocket money, and many of them have remained loyal customers these many years.”
Yes, Miss Bainbridge struck him as the kind of woman who could make her own way in life. He caught a sigh before it escaped his lips. Women who could make their own way in life rarely saw the need for love or courtship or marriage. At least, that’s what his grandmother taught him.
Of course, he hardly knew the woman. No need to be thinking about her in such terms anyway.
As if his mind had the power to conjure her, Miss Bainbridge alighted from Johnny’s father’s cab just outside the shop. She took a bundle from Alice, who climbed down behind her.
Caddy caught sight of them when she turned to pay her fare, and her face drained of color. She shoved the bundle into Alice’s arms, hoisted her skirts, and rushed toward them.
“Mother, are you unwell? Dr. Stradbroke, what happened?” She reached for her mother’s free arm, wrapping her hand around the thin wrist, but Mrs. Bainbridge shook her off.
“Nothing is wrong. I visited Mrs. Howell, as I told you I would. Dr. Stradbroke called in just as I was ready to leave, and he graciously offered to escort me home.”
Not quite how he remembered it happening, but he did not contradict her.
Miss Bainbridge’s blue eyes bored into him as if mining for the truth. He pressed his lips together and adopted a devil-may-care expression. At least, he hoped he did.
Caddy opened the front door of the shop, then held it open for Dr. Stradbroke and her mother to pass through in front of her. She sent Alice to the workroom with the dress, but couldn’t tear her eyes away from the spectacle of the doctor assisting her mother out of her cloak. The gentleness he exhibited was incongruous with his massive size. He towered over Mother by a foot at least, and his broad shoulders and heavily muscled arms contrasted with her frailty, giving her a waiflike appearance.
He held the woolen double-cape toward her, but instead of taking the garment, she wrapped her tiny hands around his large ones. “Doctor, I cannot thank you enough. Will you not stay and take tea with us? I am certain Agnes will have laid out plenty of food. Caddy and her girls work so hard all day, they need more than just a morsel at teatime.”
Neal glanced over Mother’s head and caught Caddy’s eye. If the burning in her cheeks was any indication, he no doubt saw the blush that glowed from her face. He seemed to want her to make the decision for him, but she would not oblige. She tried to keep her face impassive and will her cheeks to cool.
“Thank you for the invitation, ma’am, but I must be getting home. I have been out on calls all day, and I promised young Johnny Longrieve to tutor him in reading in the evenings. As the only doctor in the immediate vicinity, it is better if I am home should anyone need me.” He laid the cloak over the cutting table, made a slight bow to Mother, then moved toward the door. “Miss Bainbridge, will you see me out, please?”
Caddy’s breath caught in her throat. She nodded and moved toward the door—but he accelerated to get ahead of her and open it before she could.
She waited until it closed behind them before whirling on him. “I knew something was wrong. How ill is she?”
Dr. Stradbroke held up his free hand, his gaze sympathetic. “There is no cause for immediate fear. Your mother’s heart is weak. But I believe a daily regimen of fresh air and exercise may be beneficial in her case. She is not to exert herself, however. No more than a stroll, and not alone. She may go as far as the greengrocer, but no farther, and only if she has promise of a quarter hour’s rest once she arrives there. She should stay indoors in foul weather, especially when it is cold. Of course, this daily exercise should not interfere with any treatment her regular doctor has prescribed. I will call on her again next week and see how she feels.”
Caddy listened in fascination. He was such a young man to be so serious and so knowledgeable—surely no older than she, who still had almost two years until she turned thirty. And handsome. She hadn’t failed to notice how every woman on the street slowed or paused to get a good look at him. Being seen with him, deep in conversation, filled her with a strange sense of pride. She wasn’t certain why—he could do nothing for her or her business. Perhaps it was the interest he’d taken in Mother’s case. Yes, that must be it.
“Miss Bainbridge?”
“Sorry. I was . . . thinking. So, a daily walk to the greengrocer, and you will call in a week to see how she fares?” Caddy forced herself to pull her gaze away from the infinite blue pools of his eyes. She wanted to touch the thick, blond-tipped lashes rimming them to see if they were as soft as they appeared. And that strange lilt to his speech, which she could not identify, made her want to keep him engaged in conversation as long as she could.
What was wrong with her? She’d seen many a handsome man in her life, and she’d never allowed one to affect her this way. Why now? And why Dr. Stradbroke? “If she seems weaker in a day or two, have her send word to me.” He shifted his large black leather bag from one hand to the other. “But I do not think she will.”
Caddy nodded, swallowing hard, forcing herself to view this man dispassionately. She had no room in her life for that kind of distraction. “Thank you, Doctor.”
He inclined his head. “My pleasure.” He started across the street, whistling as he made his way toward the apothecary’s building.
She paused, her hand resting on the doorknob, fighting the urge to watch him walk away. Before entering the shop, she took a deep breath and prayed God would settle her mind and allow her to focus on the work she needed to do.
With Lady Carmichael’s gowns finished and delivered, Caddy turned her attention to the green-and-silver ball gown she’d promised Miss Buchanan’s cousin for tomorrow night. It required few alterations, but she needed to work on the monthly inventory with Phyllis tomorrow. That task would have to wait until after she’d gone to the bank in the city and deposited the cash she’d received for Lady Carmichael’s two gowns—material and labor—along with a generous bonus for her speed in finishing the gowns. She might not like Lady Carmichael, but she did appreciate the woman’s patronage.
Long after she’d said good night to her mother and seen the apprentices off to bed, Caddy sat in the workroom, all of the candles and lamps lit while she worked on taking in the bodice of the green-and-silver ball gown.
Hours into the dark of the night, her neck and back ached, but she finally finished. She hoped Miss Dearing would be pleased with the dress. The design was plain, but with a fabric such as this—a green vine pattern on a silver silk tissue—ornate styling would overwhelm the wearer.
After carefully setting the bodice in the box with the skirt, Caddy put out the lamps and snuffed the candles, leaving only one lit to carry upstairs with her.
A crash sounded from the store. Breaking glass. She groaned. Obviously something too heavy had been placed on an upper shelf and the bracket had given way, smashing whatever was below. She hoped it was not the notions display case, with its expensive curved-glass front.
Cupping her hand in front of the candle’s flame, she stepped into the shop to see if she could determine how much damage she would be faced with in the morning.
Halfway across the store, an excruciating pain exploded across the side of her head. White stars blazed in her eyes, then all went dark. She was falling . . . falling . . .