didn’t involve disease or death.
The rapping of footsteps on the flagstone flooring of the hallway saved her from her dilemma. Within moments, Mrs. Woodbridge marched into the kitchen.
Her gaze skipped over Rachel and ignored Joe altogether. “Amelia, here you are. Would you like to go outside to the garden for a while? I’ve decided I’d rather rest out in the sunshine. My room is a trifle . . . musty. Maybe you could play with the dolls I brought along while your Aunt Soph reads. What do you say? Hm?”
Without saying farewell, Amelia rose from the bench and strolled off, hand firmly grasping her aunt’s.
“That there is one o’ God’s curiosities, Miss Dunne. That it is,” said Joe, his eyes tracking their departure. He leaned across the table and swiped the crust of bread Amelia had left behind, downing it before continuing the pursuit of his line of thought. “Can never understand why Dr. E doesn’t take the little lass into ’is own ’ouse.” He licked his thumb and blotted up crumbs.
“Why would he bring her here?”
“I b’lieve Miss Amelia’s ’is daughter. Not positive, as she’s never talked about, all ’ush-’ush an’ all, but I think she is.”
“His daughter?”
Rachel glanced toward the doorway, as if she might still see Amelia there. Dr. Edmunds would have mentioned having a daughter, wouldn’t he?
“Born right afore the missus died, I’d wager.”
“Surely Dr. Edmunds is not so coldhearted as to keep his daughter away from him, not when he has a widowed sister-in-law to help raise the girl in this house.”
“I’m only sayin’ what I’ve ’eard, miss.”
“You do not truly think that is possible, do you?” she asked, bewilderment making her head ache worse than before. “Amelia is probably a niece of Mrs. Woodbridge’s deceased husband and you have misunderstood the situation.”
“Sounds right logical, miss, but—”
“It is wrong of us to continue to speculate.”
“As you say.” Joe shook his head and let out a whistle. “Can never understand the gentry. No, I can’t. They jus’ don’ think nor act like normal folk. Cor, there’s the front knocker again. Sure ’ope Dr. E finds ’imself a right good maid in Finchingfield. I ’ates the job!”
He scuttled off, brushing breadcrumbs from his new waistcoat, before he could make any further comment on the incomprehensible Dr. Edmunds.
CHAPTER 24
The next morning, Mrs. Woodbridge sailed into the garden like a ship of the line scuttling before a gale wind. Amelia toddled behind, arms overflowing with dolls, her dandelion-colored dress a moving beam of sunshine.
Rachel rose from where she had been squatting among the herbs and garden greens. “Good morning to you, Mrs. Woodbridge. Amelia. I was just collecting some maidenhair to make up a tea for Mrs. Mainprice. She awoke a trifle hoarse today, and this will help—”
“Yes, yes. Most interesting. Though I’m sure James could prescribe a pill that would be far more effective than your Irish country remedies.” Mrs. Woodbridge took a seat on the bench beneath the plum tree, its shade dappling her coal black dress with darkness and light. “Amelia, dearest, your dollies might like to play by the fountain.”
Amelia obeyed and arranged her dolls in a half circle on the ground.
“Your dolls are very lovely, Amelia,” said Rachel.
“Would you like to play with them, Miss Dunne?”
“She is too busy, dearest.” Mrs. Woodbridge’s tone froze the warm summer air.
Rachel knelt to pluck a handful more of the maidenhair from the edge of the kitchen garden. She would quickly dry the leaves over the fire then steep them in hot water. As good a remedy as any pills.
The other woman fluffed her bombazine skirts. “I recollect that you are related to the Harwoods, Miss Dunne. Am I right?”
The correct amount of herb gathered, Rachel stood. “They are my cousins.”
“As I thought.” Mrs. Woodbridge produced a book from the deep pocket hidden within the folds of her skirt and peered at Rachel over its top. “I admit I’ve been curious as to why they did not take you in upon your arrival in London. Having to do servant’s work must be humiliating for a young woman with such respectable connections.”
Rachel tucked her basket tight against her waist as though the woven straw might shield her body from Mrs. Woodbridge’s contempt. “I would not dream to ask them. I want to make my own way in this world.”
“Your own way?” she scoffed, making Rachel’s intentions sound ludicrous and pitiable. “As what?”
“I have interviewed for a position as a teacher.”
“Noble enough, I suppose. I also suppose you expect my