An Honest Heart (4 page)

“When will you be going to London, Mr. Carmichael?” Edith leaned closer to her companion, hoping Lord Thynne could see that she had already cast her romantic interest elsewhere.

“M’lady has determined that we shall arrive the last week of April. She believes she will be disturbed by the crowds coming into London for the Exhibition if we arrive any earlier. We have secured seats in one of the observation boxes for the opening ceremony. I would be honored if you would join us.”

To give herself time to answer without betraying the excited leap of her heart at the offer, Edith shouted a wild guess at the young woman currently acting out something that resembled nothing at all. “I am flattered at the invitation, Mr. Carmichael. I shall speak with Papa about it.”

Even though her father, a baronet, was part of the aristocracy, his title did not make him a peer of the realm—like Lord Thynne—so he had been unable to secure seats in the grandstands that would flank either side of the stage from which Queen Victoria would proclaim the Great Exhibition officially open. Of course, joining the Carmichaels in their box would be tantamount to proclaiming an engagement.

But she had more than a month between now and then to settle the matter—to see if she could win back Lord Thynne from her cousin. Or to at least keep Katharine from becoming Lady Thynne and a viscountess while Edith settled for becoming a mere baroness. And that would not happen soon, for Baron Carmichael was healthy and robust and did not seem likely to be giving up the title to his son within the next twenty years. She would
not
be calling that American upstart
my lady
for years before being addressed thusly herself.

A slow smile spread across her face as Mr. Carmichael rose to take another turn at the game. Fortunately, Edith had the foresight to notice Katharine’s interest in the man Papa had hired to redesign the gardens and set one of the maids to follow Katharine and report on her doings. And one of those doings had been a clandestine meeting with that man in the garden folly two weeks ago. But as that had been before Lord Thynne had officially begun courting Katharine, Edith had not yet shared that knowledge.

She would wait. Eventually, the American would do something that Edith could use to engineer her downfall. It was just a matter of time.

Neal stacked four stoneware plates on the shelf. Not being particularly adept at carpentry, he hoped the thing would hold. Three tin cups and two bowls joined the plates, followed by four teacups and saucers, the only luxury items he had brought with him from Grandmamma’s house. The rest he had left in place for the young couple now letting the farm.

A banging on the door interrupted setting up his kitchen. He rolled his sleeves down and buttoned the cuffs before opening the door.

“Are you the doc?” A young man—who looked barely old enough to shave—twisted a felt cap in grubby hands.

“I am.”

“My ma’s trying to birth a baby, but it won’t come. The midwife said to fetch the doc. Can you come?”

“Of course. Let me get my bag and I will be right along with you.”

Carrying a candle into the small room he’d designated an office, Neal checked his medical bag to ensure he had all the equipment he might need for a difficult birth. He shrugged into his long coat, not worrying with a frock or waistcoat, then followed the boy out into the night.

He’d yet to hang a shingle or to let his neighbors know who he was—other than the Howells and the Bainbridges. But, like the small town where he’d lived with his grandmother since age twelve, North Parade and the adjacent community of Jericho must not be a place where many secrets could be kept.

He sighed. He’d hoped moving to Oxford would help shield him from anyone finding out about his background. Hopefully, the committeemen would be unable to find him here, leaving all communication on his side.

Following the lad down North Parade Avenue, Neal looked up to his right. The lowest floor of the redbrick storefront was dark, but windows in the three floors above revealed life went on over the seamstress’s shop. His right hand tingled from the memory of shaking hands with Miss Bainbridge. He stretched his fingers and then curled them into a tight fist to rid himself of the sensation. He knew nothing about her save the facts that she was a seamstress and she was passably pretty. And her mother suffered a weak heart—something that often ran in families.

No. He sped his step to catch up with the lad hurrying ahead of him down the darkened street. The last time he’d risked his affection on a passably pretty young woman, when part of the truth of his origins became known she’d sent her brothers to warn him away from ever coming within sight of her again. It hadn’t taken long for his patients to stop calling on him and for his income to dwindle to nothing.

Thus his removal to the North Parade section of Oxford. He could not risk his heart—or his reputation—like that again.

The young man finally stopped in front of a row house of a different sort altogether from those on North Parade—low and stone, with a steeply pitched, gabled roof. Neal had to duck to keep from hitting his head on the lintel upon entering.

At the sights, sounds, and smells that greeted him, all thoughts but for the woman in front of him and her condition fled his mind.

The breech birth was difficult and dangerous at moments, but Neal welcomed the screaming, wrinkled little girl near dawn. He stayed long enough to ensure the health and welfare of both mother and daughter before taking his leave. Two steps out the door, he realized he had no idea how to get back to his dwelling. The father of the new baby roused his son where he slept on the floor outside his mother’s room to show Neal home.

“Before you leave, Doc.” The father reentered the house.

Neal waited what seemed a long time, stifling his yawns and wanting to be at home in bed.

The man came back out with a writhing burlap sack. “We got no coins, but I hope this will suffice for your efforts.”

Neal took the bag, making sure he held the top tightly closed. “Thank you. I am certain this will be more than sufficient.” He hoped it was something useful, and not something he’d have to rid himself of secretly.

The boy took him as far as the end of North Parade. Neal shifted the sack into the hand with his medical bag and fished in his pocket. He flipped a copper pence to the lad, whose eyes widened with delight when he snatched it out of the air. “That’s between you and me.” Neal winked at him. “No one else need know about it.”

“Thanks, Doc. If you ever need someone to carry or fetch for ya, Johnny Longrieve’s the lad for you.” The boy clenched the coin between his canines—to check its authenticity, Neal supposed—then took off at a run back down the alley.

Neal shook his head and trudged up the street toward home.

Home. An apartment of two floors consisting of five rooms above the apothecary’s shop. But the furnishings were decent and the rent low enough to be suitable for someone of his station.

How could he call it home when no one waited there for him? Home was the farm in the country where Grandmamma tended her garden and provided midwifing services to anyone within the range of the old draft horse she rode.

He circled around to the back of the contiguous row of buildings and climbed the steps to the door of his abode. Before another day passed, he needed to secure a horse. The stable behind the shop was large enough for three, and the apothecary only had the one he rode in from his home each day, leaving plenty of room for Neal to keep a horse.

The bag dangling from his hand squawked. Ah, yes. His payment.

Setting his kit on the table in the middle of the room that served for kitchen and dining, Neal crouched down close to the floor and untied the string from around the top of the bag. Two small chickens protested their confinement—one white, the other a mottled gray-brown. Hens and, he hoped, layers. He’d enjoy having his own source for eggs.

He looked around the room. “What am I going to do with the two of you?” He’d need to build a small coop. But until then . . . he couldn’t keep them in the burlap sack. Carefully, he turned the bag on its side, then started tugging at the stitched end to encourage the hens to climb out.

When they realized what he meant for them to do, they jumped out amongst much flapping and squawking and flying feathers.

Using three of the four chairs from the table, a couple of old blankets, and some twine, he created an enclosure for the birds. As he laid parcel paper and newspaper in several layers over the floor in the small area, the two chickens ventured into the room that Neal planned to use as a sitting room.

They gave him quite a chase, even in the small rooms, but he eventually caught them and lifted them over the wall of woven wool into their makeshift coop. A bowl of water and a pan of bread mashed with the carrots and parsnips he’d overcooked and not eaten with his dinner followed, calming the new residents.

“What shall I call you?” Neal leaned over, resting his arms across the high back of one of the chairs. The white one looked up from the water bowl, head cocked as if waiting his judgment. “You’ll be . . . Matilda. And you”—he motioned toward the gray-brown one that ignored him—“you’ll be Sheila.”

Matilda and Sheila explored the confines of their new, albeit temporary, home, then both flapped their way up onto the seats of two of the chairs to roost.

If only he could feel at home as easily as they seemed to be able to do. Yawning, he stumbled up to the top floor and dropped into bed. Despite the early morning sunlight streaming through the bare windows, he fell asleep almost instantly.

More banging at his door brought him upright in the bed, shaking off sleep as if he’d had plenty—though the angle of the dusty golden beams across his floor indicated he’d been home less than an hour.

He tossed a glance at the chickens—undisturbed by the banging, their heads forward and slightly down in sleep—then opened the door.

In the hallway, fist raised to bang again, stood a petite woman of indeterminate middle age.

“Please, are you the doctor?” The woman wrapped her hands anxiously in her apron, and her white frilly cap lay askew on haphazardly pinned braids.

“Let me get my bag.”

Pushing herself up to sit on the edge of her bed, Caddy rolled her head from side to side. When Lady Carmichael paid her for the two ball gowns on Friday, she needed to invest in a higher quality down with which to make a new pillow. She tossed her long brown braid over her shoulder and tightened the belt of her dressing gown before padding downstairs. The smell of brewing coffee meant Mother must be awake already and had sent her nurse, Mary, down to make it for her.

Her slippers, made from scrap-bag pieces, created no sound, and she made certain to step on the squeaky third stair to announce her presence so she wouldn’t startle Mother if she were in the kitchen with her nurse.

The kitchen was empty. Frowning, but happy to have a few moments of peace before the day started, Caddy poured her coffee. It was one expense that she indulged in, because she preferred coffee to tea in the mornings, as did Mother. She clamped two thick slices of hearty rye in the toaster and set it on its rack on the hearth where the bread got the benefit of the heat of the open fire but wasn’t scorched from touching the flames.

While her bread warmed and her coffee cooled, Caddy made her way down one more flight of stairs to the ground level and let herself through the shop to get the newssheet she paid the newsie to deliver to her front door each day.

Before she could grasp the knob, it rattled, then the door swung open. Caddy gasped and stumbled several steps back.

Mary rushed in—with Dr. Stradbroke on her heels.

“Mary? What’s wrong? Is it—?” Caddy pressed her hands to her mouth.

Sympathetic concern filled the doctor’s eyes. “Mary said she could not awaken your mother this morning, so she came to fetch me.”

Breath stuck in her throat, Caddy whirled and dashed for the stairs, unconcerned for propriety or hospitality. Once before, they had been unable to rouse Mother . . . and Caddy did not want to think about the fear-filled days that followed. At least Father had still been with them then. Now—