“Mrs. M is busy meetin’ with the butcher to settle the bill, else I’d ’ave ’er give the woman the boot.”
Rachel untied her apron and went downstairs. A lanky woman, as tattered and stained as a rag left in the gutter, fidgeted on the threshold of the open front door. Joe had stopped her from coming inside; she appeared used to such treatment.
The woman’s eyes were dark and piercing and world-weary. Displeased as they confronted Rachel. “You ain’t no Dr. Edmunds.”
“The doctor is out, and I do not know when he will return. Joe here has already told you that.”
“’e has to come.”
“Is there something I can help you with?”
“You be a healer?” the woman asked suspiciously.
Not any longer. “I might be able to assist if I know what the problem is. Dr. Edmunds directs some of his patients to Dr. Calvert—”
“I needs Dr. Edmunds. ’im only. Someone’s got to ’elp Moll, an’ seein’ as she used to work for ’im, afore . . . everythin’, I thought—”
Rachel caught the name and the tension that went with it. “Molly? You have come because of Molly?”
She nodded. “She wouldn’t like me to be ’ere, not one bit. But ’e’d help ’er. I knows ’e would. She’s terrible sick.”
Rachel’s insides clenched. Something had happened with the baby again, and this woman had either walked a great distance or spent her last penny to get here to plead for help. “The matrons at the institute Dr. Edmunds sent her to should be able to adequately care for her.”
“Moll left that stinkin’ hole. She didn’t like it there ’tall. She’s wiv me.” The woman heaved an exasperated sigh, her hands kneading together as if they sought to choke one another. “Are ye gonna come, then, or just keep yammerin’?”
Molly’s friend turned to leave, confident Rachel would follow.
“Miss . . . ma’am, I . . .” She could not keep tending to people. Why does this continue to happen to me? Today, however, there was no Dr. Edmunds to rescue her from tending Molly alone.
The woman stopped on the second step, noting Rachel’s hesitation.
“Are ye comin’ or not? Moll’s gonna die.” Her voice was sharp with impatience and fear. “Die, ye understan’ me?”
Rachel swallowed and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Molly would die without help. Might die anyway.
God—or somebody—help me.
“Joe!” Rachel shouted. He was at her side so quickly she had to believe he’d been lurking close by. “I need to tend Molly at this woman’s house. I need the gig.”
“Cor, miss, the master’ll ’ave me ’ead for takin’ the gig without ’is say-so. I don’ suppose you can afford a hackney” He lifted his brows hopefully.
“No, Joe. I cannot.”
“Well, I’ll take ya then. I guess.”
“I will meet you in back once I have collected some medicines.”
Joe glanced at the woman waiting by the door. “Come round back, miss . . . come round back, will ya? But not through the ’ouse. Cor.”
Rachel ran to Dr. Edmunds’s office. The door was open, but his medicine cabinet was locked. She couldn’t get to his bottle of fever mixture. She would have to make do with what she could find in the kitchen, which might not be adequate. In minutes she procured two bottles—one of spirit of niter and one of laudanum, borrowed from Mrs. Mainprice’s personal stores. Gratefully, the housekeeper had asked few questions as she’d handed the items over, too busy with the butcher to take much notice of Rachel’s request.
Rachel met Joe and Molly’s friend in the mews, the gig waiting and ready. Bottles safely tucked into her pocket, she climbed up alongside Joe. Her stomach roiled, but she would rather toss her luncheon of cold sliced beef and potatoes than turn back now like a craven coward.
“Hurry, Joe.” Before I change my mind.
Rachel realized, as the gig clattered down the bustling thoroughfare of Oxford Street, how little of London she had seen. Each passing yard brought buildings a bit wearier, a bit more forbidding. They had driven past the big park near the house and the road that led to Mrs. Chapman’s school, clattered away from the prosperity of the neighborhoods that Joe referred to as Mayfair. Quicker than she expected, Oxford Street ended and they squeezed into a narrower road, a sensation much like coming out the bottom end of a funnel. The buildings closed around them and Joe slowed the gig. The tart stench of decaying vegetables—and worse—hung