Raven (Gentlemen of the Order #2) - Adele Clee Page 0,18

Goodwin’s cheeks flamed. “We are taught to detach personally from our patients in order to approach the illness objectively.”

“Showing compassion would reap better results.” Finlay spoke with supreme confidence in his opinion. “Were you to dine with Jessica and engage her in conversation, you would learn a damn sight more about her condition.”

As uncomfortable as it was, Sophia watched the exchange with interest. Finlay was right, to a certain extent, but his animosity toward the doctor seemed irrational.

“Are you medicating her?” Finlay asked sharply.

“Of course. She cannot sleep and is plagued by recurring nightmares.”

“You’re giving her a tincture of laudanum?”

Dr Goodwin narrowed his gaze. “And a paregoric elixir to calm the nerves.”

Finlay gritted his teeth. “Have you ever gone for a period without force-feeding her medicine?”

Sophia covertly nudged Finlay’s foot beneath the table. Now she knew why his friends called him Raven. The birds were ruthless protectors, capable of warding off perceived threats. They attacked without compunction. And yet she felt there had to be an underlying reason for his savage assault.

“May I speak to you for a moment, Mr Cole?” she said, lest Dr Goodwin grab his medicine bag and storm from the house, never to return.

“Can it wait?”

Sophia forced a smile. “I’m afraid not.”

“Very well.”

He followed her to the drawing room.

“Close the door, Finlay.” She lowered her voice. “I do not want Dr Goodwin to hear our conversation.”

Annoyance punctuated her tone. What in heaven’s name was he about? She was in no position to hire another doctor.

But it was Finlay who struggled to control his frustration. He swung around as soon as the latch clicked. “I cannot believe you let that man dine at your table when he cannot bring himself to say Jessica’s name. Have you ever sat with him when he examines your sister?”

Seven years’ worth of anxiety surfaced. “Do not dare reprimand me for the way I’ve handled things here,” she whispered through gritted teeth. “None of us know how to help Jessica, but Dr Goodwin has tried his best to reach her. And yes, I have observed his methods. I do not claim to understand how one deals with a fractured mind. What else can he do but follow the science?”

She expected him to appear contrite, but he seemed more irate than ever. “Men of science care about theories, not people. They ply their patients with mind-numbing drugs until the poor souls have no hope of rousing a coherent thought.”

“That is like saying all watchmen take bribes. Yes, some physicians rely on medicine as a form of treatment, but you cannot presume they all lack principles.”

Finlay huffed and dragged his hand through hair as black as his mood. “Trust me. Dr Goodwin is drugging Jessica to collect his weekly fee. He has no interest in her recovery. I know enough about wicked men to recognise something isn’t right.”

Sophia stepped closer, intrigued by his impassioned objection. “What is this really about? Is it the fact I consider Dr Goodwin a friend?” She saw him as a mere acquaintance but was determined to get to the root of Finlay’s problem.

“If you consider that man a friend, then you’re the one who needs a dose of laudanum.” His voice was tight with disapproval. “He’s a fraud. A charlatan. I have dealt with his kind many times.”

“Yes, in the rookeries, no doubt. But your—”

“Not in the rookeries. At home.” His mood altered dramatically. A weary sigh left his lips and his shoulders sagged. “I have dealt with the likes of Dr Goodwin more times than I care to count.”

At home? What on earth did he mean?

All anger and frustration dissipated. Sophia closed the gap between them and touched his upper arm— though she knew she shouldn’t—but he did not pull away or mutter a curse.

“Were you ill with a sickness of the mind?” she said, concerned.

It was hardly surprising after the horrors of Leuven.

He gave a derisive snort. “I’ve been ill since the day I discovered you’d married Lord Adair, but I accept there is no cure.”

She suffered from the same heart sickness. There was a cure, but Finlay preferred to thrash and writhe about in misery.

“But I am not speaking of myself,” he added.

“Then who?” His parents died years ago, and he had no kin as far as she knew. “Are you referring to Hannah?”

A curt nod was his only reply.

Sophia tried to piece together what she knew of his marriage. Hannah was the ward of his father’s friend, a quiet country girl who was said to