an open meadow, just the two of them, the scent of grass and earth running in her veins, the sun burnishing his hair. Just a man and a woman with no secrets between them. Thank goodness Molly had yet to tell him the truth.
Rachel secreted the coins and the book far in the back of the drawer where they would hopefully stay safe.
She wished her worries had someplace equally safe to hide.
“The message boy wants to know if there’s a message back, sir.”
James lifted his gaze from the note in his hand, looked up at Joe. “A message?”
“For Mrs. Fenton-Smith.”
“Ah, yes. Of course.” He released the note, let it drift to the top of the desk like a dead leaf. “Just my sympathy. My deepest sympathy for her loss. Also let her know that we are all praying for her and the repose of her husband’s soul.”
What James had feared had finally come to pass, though it had taken much longer for the cholera to do its work than he had expected. He let out a deep sigh. His father had never grieved over the loss of a patient like James did. “If it was the Lord’s will to take the poor souls, then who am I to stand in the way?” Father would say.
I do not understand why You give me the heart to care, God, the mind to learn the skills, but not the stomach to live with the results.
Mrs. Mainprice had anticipated how shaken he would be. Just that morning, she’d extolled to James the virtues of the countryside on rousing the spirits. His spirits in particular, repeatedly sinking like a man trapped in quicksand and struggling to get out, the moments when he felt he might escape coming too seldom and too far apart. Moments like the one he had experienced in the library yesterday. How lovely Miss Dunne had been in her new gown, her face fixed with concentration as she’d read to him, lifting him out of his quicksand. But not for long.
“I’ll tell the messenger what you said, sir, an’ get back to the packin’. Dinin’ room’s almost done,” Joe offered when the silence grew too long.
James looked up from his unfocused perusal of his desktop. Joe was watching him quizzically. “You’ve all made remarkable progress on packing the house, if the dining room is almost done already.”
“With Miss Dunne’s ’elp, sir,” Joe said, quick with praise.
“I expect we’ll be in Finchingfield a week before I had originally planned.”
“’spect so, sir.”
James awaited a rush of enthusiasm at the prospect. None came. Why? Why did he not feel a surge of happiness to be gone from London and his medical practice? In Finchingfield, there would be no more praying for God’s intercession, only to have no miracle happen. No more Mr. Fenton-Smiths, wasting away no matter what he did.
He crushed the note Joe had delivered. He needed an escape. To find courage. Trust in God. Know that this was His intended pathway and be happy to be on it.
Joe fidgeted and peered anxiously at James, probably wondering if his employer’s mind had wandered off and he’d finally gone dotty. “I’ll be ’appy to be outta ’ere, if you don’ mind my sayin’.”
“You dislike London so much?”
“Me, sir?” He snorted. “Too many awful memories in this ’ere town. Always good to get away from ’em, don’ you think, sir? Start fresh.”
James tossed the note into the empty fireplace. “Yes, Joe. Always good to start fresh.”
Joe grinned, happy the master had agreed. “Better ’n wallowin’ in the past any day.”
I must be every bit a fool.
Sighing, Rachel looked down at the basket of herbs dangling from her arm. The warm, lemony scent of dill, the tang of fresh-cut parsley rose up to tingle in her nose. Ingredients she needed for the tonic she had promised, even though she suspected Molly would not be grateful for Rachel’s assistance.
Rachel set the basket on the kitchen table and went to search the storeroom for syrup of poppy. A swirl of scents greeted her, the aromas of home and her mother’s stillroom, bringing with them homesickness and memories. Drawing Mother near. Through my hands let Your good works come, O Lord. Her mother’s most fervent prayer. Rachel sighed. Would that she had the blind faith to pray it anymore and believe God listened to the words.
Tucking her skirts between her knees, Rachel knelt to poke through the lower shelves. A tiny container of syrup of poppy, dusty from lack of