Joe waited with the gig. The mare nickered upon catching sight of the doctor, and Joe steadied her as Dr. Edmunds grasped Rachel’s elbow and helped her up.
The doctor climbed alongside and took the reins from Joe, led them down the mews alleyway, through the arch and then onto the streets. “The girl lives near the river south of here, in Chelsea. Too far to walk.”
They set off at a steady pace, the traffic thinning rapidly as the lovely boulevards and gleaming white terraced houses of Belgravia turned into more utilitarian roads and less grand buildings. They passed gardens and a hospital grounds. Smokestacks from distilleries and manufactories punched the hazy skyline.
“They’re down this lane,” Dr. Edmunds said.
A hodgepodge of houses—crooked timbered buildings from a prior century, multistoried brick apartments thrown up with only a modicum of concern, a squat home with peeling stucco—jumbled together. Dr. Edmunds slowed the mare and hopped down, avoiding the overflowing gutter that ran down the middle of the street. The stench of sewage and the sulfurous gasses from the lead works by the river settled over the neighborhood, making Rachel press a fist to her nose. The smell had to be poisonous, and Rachel searched the people passing in the street to see any indication of disease on their faces.
The apple girl’s father opened the ground-floor door, his brawny arms swinging wide as he led them down a narrow hallway to a set of two connecting rooms at the rear. The entirety of their home. His family, which appeared to include four other children ranging in age from an infant to a ten-year-old boy with a twisted foot, were huddled over a lunch of boiled potatoes. The little apple seller was stretched out on the cleanest mattress they owned, her arm swathed tight in bandages, two narrow wood boards securing it straight.
“We did not mean to interrupt your lunch.” Dr. Edmunds’s eyes made a quick circuit of the space, noting the cots lined up along the walls and the stains on the floor covering. They showed no repugnance or condescending pity. Either he excelled at hiding his feelings, or he’d seen such poverty and want so many times before that it no longer shocked him. Certainly Rachel had, every day back in Carlow.
“Not an int’ruption at all, sir.” The man moved his children aside with his foot to clear a path. They were clean-faced and bright-eyed, at least, and appeared reasonably well fed and curious about their visitors. The oldest stared, open-mouthed, at the gold watch fob dangling from Dr. Edmunds’s waistcoat pocket.
“Janey, the doctor’s a-come to see you.”
Dr. Edmunds’s crouched at Janey’s bedside. “How are you, Janey? Healing up?”
The girl nodded.
“Good.” He pointed out Rachel. “This is the lady who first came to your assistance, Miss Janey. Her name is Miss Dunne.”
Big eyes dark as damp earth fixed on Rachel’s face. Rachel clutched her shawl around her shoulders and stared back. She did not look like Mary Ferguson or any of the others. She did not . . .
“Say thankee, Janey girl,” her father prompted.
“Thankee, Miss Dunne.” Her voice was faint as a fledgling’s peep.
“You are most welcome. For what little I did,” Rachel answered.
The doctor peeled off his gloves and rested soft fingers on the girl’s tiny forehead. “No fever. Excellent.” He examined the girl’s unbroken arm, resting atop a paper-thin blanket, gingerly probing around her badly scraped elbow. “Skin isn’t hot. No apparent infection. In spite of all the blood the other day, her cuts were mostly superficial.”
How many times had Rachel seen her mother’s hands move with the same fluid motion, at once reassuring and assessing? Mother would look up at Rachel, observing carefully, and their gazes would connect in common understanding.
Just as Dr. Edmunds’s gaze did now His eyes locked and held hers, their gray depths fathomless. Yes, Dr. Edmunds. I see that her skin is a healthy pink and dry, her eyes clear and attentive. Yes, I see that I managed to cause her no harm.
“Did the surgeon apply a poultice of common comfrey to set the bone?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Rachel wished them back.
Dr. Edmunds’s eyebrows lifted. “How many herbal treatments have you studied, Miss Dunne? I have heard about your mother’s miraculous tonic. Are you keeping more secrets from me?”
He was teasing, but nonetheless, Rachel’s fingers tightened nervously on her shawl. “I . . . my brother broke his wrist once and the apothecary made up a poultice to