by Alys Clare
Theo ignored that. ‘But you said he’d been lashed,’ he persisted. ‘We assumed that meant he’d been a sailor, but slaves are lashed too, are they not?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ I agreed.
‘So that might mean he—’
‘Theo, I’m sorry but you’re not going to persuade me to say any more than that the fugitives definitely included one man of African blood,’ I said firmly.
He gave me an irritated look, which presently turned into a grin. ‘Well, it was worth a try,’ he muttered.
‘And it may yet prove that you’re right, and they were all escaped slaves,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘So we wait until the rest of the band show themselves?’
I shrugged. ‘If they do.’
It wasn’t an optimistic note on which to conclude the discussion, and I wasn’t the least surprised when he dismissed me with no more than a muttered ‘Keep me informed.’
Back at Rosewyke, I found that a sketchy noon meal of bread and ham had been laid out on a tray for me, and the kitchen was fragrant with cooking smells. Sallie and Celia were both hard at work, and Celia, a vast white apron tied over her gown and a scarf covering her hair, greeted me with a beaming smile and said, ‘A note was delivered from Jonathan soon after you left this morning, Gabe, and he is coming to dinner this evening!’
‘Is he bringing half the village with him?’ I asked, returning her smile and indicating the extensive food preparations that were going on.
‘Don’t be silly, of course he isn’t,’ she said reprovingly. ‘But you know as well as I do that he doesn’t feed himself properly’ – I wasn’t at all sure that I did – ‘and, like all men living alone, probably exists on meagre scraps and the simplest of meals.’
‘Miss Celia is quite right,’ Sallie put in, ‘and tonight we’ll be demonstrating the best that this house can offer!’
‘I’m sure he will appreciate it,’ I said, picking up my tray and backing out of the kitchen.
‘Where are you off to, Gabe?’ my sister called after me.
‘To eat my meal,’ I replied.
She tutted with impatience. ‘Obviously, but I meant later, this afternoon.’
‘I have a patient to see’ – my large old lady needed more heart medication – ‘and then I thought I’d take Flynn out for a long walk.’ I very much needed some time alone in which to try to make sense of all I’d been reading and hearing recently.
‘Well, don’t you dare be late back,’ Celia said. ‘I really cannot have our guest arriving and you still sweaty and muddy and stinking of wet dog.’
‘I’ll be washed, dressed in my best and standing ready in the hall,’ I promised.
She gave me a look that suggested she would believe that when it happened, then went back inside the kitchen and slammed the door.
I sat with my old woman, whose name was Jane Percival, for some time. Her niece had already left. ‘She has her own family, she can’t be expected to bother herself with me,’ Mistress Percival said wistfully, and I forbore to point out that she too was her niece’s family.
I watched her as, hospitable in the traditional way, she struggled up to fetch me a mug of ale. The fluid had accumulated in her legs and feet, and I suspected that the little slippers she had forced on over the gross swellings were for my benefit.
‘Thank you for bringing me more of my drops, Doctor,’ she panted as she fell back into her chair. ‘They help so much when my heart begins its hammering and its pounding.’
‘I’m glad,’ I said. I wished there was more I could do to ease her discomfort. ‘Have you tried putting your feet up?’ I asked.
She gave me a scandalized look. ‘Putting my feet up? What, on a stool or something?’
‘Yes. You could put a cushion on it, to pad it out and make it more comfortable.’
‘But- but people might see my ankles!’
‘People?’ I echoed gently, and she accepted the point with a wry smile. ‘And what would it matter if they did? In any case,’ I went on before she could answer that, ‘we could arrange a light cover over your legs and feet, and in this way modesty would be preserved.’
Still she looked dubious. ‘But a lady always sits up, Doctor. Spine straight, feet on the floor, hands folded in the lap. So I was taught.’
I imagined her as a little girl, some strict parent or nursemaid drilling into her the rules of ladylike behaviour.
‘I think, don’t you,’ I replied, ‘that it is time you made up your own mind.’
A delighted smile spread across her face, and I saw in the fat old woman the pretty girl she had once been. ‘Now that I am old and it no longer matters, you mean?’
I grinned. ‘Exactly. Now, why don’t we try it?’
Without waiting for approval, I searched around and found a low stool, some two and a half feet wide and a foot or so deep, and a soft feather cushion. There was a shawl hanging from a hook on the back of the door, and I gathered that up too. With some difficulty my old lady and I between us got her legs up onto the stool, and I arranged the shawl over them. It was an intimate act, and I sensed her reluctance to have my help, but wisely she must have told herself that I was her doctor and I didn’t count.
I gave her a short time to accustom herself to the new position, then said, ‘How does it feel?’
She turned to me, her face full of wonder. ‘Better! Doctor, it really does feel better! The terrible throbbing has lessened already, and the pain is definitely reduced!’
She was staring at me as if I’d performed a miracle, and I thought I ought to disabuse her of the notion. ‘The swelling is due to fluid, accumulating at the lowest point,’ I said. ‘The fluid has nowhere else to go, and it stretches the skin and is the cause of the discomfort. By elevating your feet and lower legs, the accumulation is eased.’ I could see by her face that she didn’t understand. ‘Imagine you have half-filled a bottle with water,’ I went on. ‘When you hold the bottle upright or stand it on a table, the water fills the lower half. Yes?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Yes. Of course.’
‘Now imagine that you turn the bottle on its side, but not to such an extent that the water runs out. Now what happens?’
‘The water lies all along the lower side,’ she replied.
‘Exactly! And there’s not so much of it at the bottom of the bottle.’
She began to nod, slowly at first then enthusiastically. ‘And my poor old legs are the bottle?’
‘They are.’
‘Well, now!’ She was looking delighted. ‘Who would have thought that such a simple trick could give such relief?’ Her face fell and hurriedly she added, ‘Not that I’m calling you simple, Doctor Taverner, and I do hope you didn’t think I was, and please don’t think me ungrateful, for I—’
Her hands were waving in distress, and gently I took hold of them and lowered them into her lap, stilling them. ‘It’s all right, Mistress Percival,’ I assured her. ‘I’m glad to have helped.’
Flynn and I walked for miles. My mind was teeming with thoughts, from the poignancy of a fat old lady all on her own worrying about people seeing her ankles through how to determine the racial origins of a rotting corpse to the use of plant substances so potent that they took the consumer into the terrifying world of the spirits.
I managed to remember that I was expected home, and in good enough time to tidy myself before the evening, and Flynn and I arrived back in the yard as the sun was setting. I gave Flynn a wipe-down and set food out for him; Tock had rushed out to do these tasks for me, but I thanked him and said I’d do them myself. Flynn had given me his undemanding company for the greater part of the afternoon, and it was a way of saying thank you.
Then it was my turn, and I slipped into the kitchen for a large jug of hot water to take up to my room. Sallie was sitting in front of the fire – I suspected I’d interrupted her in a doze – and she went to get up, only I told her to stay where she was. From the wonderful aromas wafting through the house, she’d been wo
rking hard and deserved a rest.
‘Mistress Celia is having a nap,’ she told me. She shot me a sly glance. ‘She’s excited about the vicar coming this evening. It’s brought a flush to her cheeks, and she’s looking most comely.’ She raised her eyebrows in an arch look, which I pretended not to see.
Celia and I stood together in the library, staring out through the window that overlooked the track up to the house. I turned to glance at her, taken aback at how lovely she looked. Her fair hair shone bright in the candlelight, and she was wearing it in some new style which was very becoming. She had lost a lot of weight during the traumatic events of a year and a half ago, but Sallie’s good cooking – and perhaps also the pleasant tenor of our life together at Rosewyke – had fleshed her out again, and now her full bosom, small waist and long legs made her a fine woman. She was dressed in a gown of jade green silk, its low neck made modest by a generous lace-edged frill, and she wore a pair of long jade earrings.
‘You look very fine,’ I said. ‘Is that a new gown?’
‘Thank you. Yes.’
I was going to make some remark to the effect that Jonathan would be flattered to know the gorgeous gown’s inaugural outing was on the evening he came to dinner, but I sensed Celia was nervous, and I kept my mouth shut.
But I couldn’t resist a mild tease. ‘This is a new shirt,’ I said, drawing out a length of linen from beneath the collar of my tunic. ‘Do I look fine too?’
‘It’s not new, Gabe, and well you know it, for haven’t I been telling you for weeks, if not months, that your wardrobe is in urgent need of attention? You have a position to keep up, you know, and it’s bad enough that you wear your hair to your collar and still insist on keeping that gold ring in your ear, although heaven knows why, without you making it worse by dressing in worn-out garments that have seen far too many washdays and— Oh!’
She had spotted Jonathan, riding up the track. Thanking him silently for his timely arrival that had cut short my sister’s well-intentioned but too oft-repeated lecture, I took her arm and we went out into the hall to welcome him.
I had promised Jonathan that I would refrain from badgering him to explain the inexplicable, but in fact it did not even occur to me to do so. From the start, the three of us seemed to create a mood of easy happiness, for we were pleased to be together: it was as simple as that. Jonathan entertained us with some lively accounts of recent happenings in the village and, as always when he spoke of his flock and his precious little jewel of a church, his love and devotion were very apparent. I in my turn described some of the more humorous anecdotes of my doctor’s life, including the recent occasion when a batty old woman, believing me to be a villain intent on robbing her, ravishing her or both, contrived to shut me in her stable and bar the door with a hefty plank. Her son arrived home and let me out, his face scarlet with embarrassment and muttering that his mother wasn’t really herself and had difficulty distinguishing the real world from the lurid happenings within her own head. On seeing me upon my release, the old girl acted not only as if she hadn’t just shut me up in her stinky stable but hadn’t even met me, which was harsh considering how long I’d been treating her for a particularly noisome and persistent catarrhal infection.
Celia was a delight, frequently laughing with genuine amusement, pink in the face and her eyes sparkling. She too contributed much to the steady flow of talk, and her devastating word pictures of some of the more repressive and domineering women of her acquaintance reminded me of just how perceptively she views the world.
The food was a triumph. Samuel had recently slaughtered a pig, and the roast leg of pork was cooked to perfection and accompanied by a spiced fruit sauce that was both savoury and sweet. Apples with cinnamon and currants, carrots, cabbage; brawn; black pudding; a pie containing beef, kidneys and onion; preserved fruits served with cubes of marzipan; a slab of gingerbread; a tart filled with a custard concoction of Sallie’s own invention and flavoured with rosewater. I had buffed up my precious Venetian wineglasses, and the French wine with which we filled them was a fine accompaniment to the food.
We had been at table for long enough for us to have sampled a little of every dish and think about which to return to for a second, larger helping when I thought I heard hoof-beats from outside. I waited, silently hoping I was not about to receive an urgent summons from the husband or father of some desperately ill person. Nothing happened at first, and I began to relax. But then I heard Sallie’s voice out in the hall, remonstrating, saying firmly and repeatedly that the doctor was entertaining this evening and did he really have to be disturbed?
I stood up, meeting Celia’s eyes. ‘Oh, Gabe, must you?’ she said quietly.
I put my hand briefly on her shoulder. ‘I don’t know yet. I’ll go and see who it is.’
I strode out into the hall. Sallie was standing in the open doorway, as if by her solid physical presence she could bar the intruder and prevent him from spoiling our evening.
But I had already recognized the young man who stood on the step: he was one of Theo’s, the lad who had driven the cart that brought the Buckland body back to Theo’s house.
I went to stand beside my housekeeper. ‘Thank you, Sallie, I will speak to him,’ I said.
She gave me one swift look and then nodded and melted away.
‘What is it?’ I asked the young man.
‘Coroner says you’re to come,’ he said. ‘There’s a badly wounded man been brought in and Mistress Davey is tending him, but she says he’s bleeding badly and she needs you.’
‘Very well.’ My bag stood always ready close to the door and my heavy cloak hung above it. I was about to return to the parlour to make my excuses to Celia and our guest, but they were already coming into the hall.
‘What has happened?’ Jonathan asked. I told him, flinging on my cloak as I did so. He nodded. ‘Does the wounded man require my services?’
‘Not yet, vicar,’ the lad said. ‘He’s conscious, muttering-like. I don’t reckon he’s dying.’
‘I ought to go home …’ Jonathan murmured.
It was perfectly clear, both from his expression and Celia’s, that neither of them wanted this and he’d only made the remark for form’s sake.
‘Please don’t,’ I said. ‘There is a great deal of lovingly-prepared food on the table, and it would be a pity to waste it. Besides,’ I added quietly, leaning close to him, ‘Celia has been looking forward to this evening, for she loves to entertain.’
Jonathan gave me a considering look, as if he was assessing whether there was a deeper meaning beneath the words. ‘Very well,’ he said. Turning to Celia, he added, ‘If you are quite sure?’
‘I am,’ Celia said firmly. She took his arm and they returned to the parlour, Celia calling out almost as an afterthought, ‘Try not to be too long, Gabe.’
I had the definite feeling that I’d been dismissed.
TEN
They had put the wounded man in the room that served as Theo’s outer office, where his officers filter out the queries that can be dealt with by one of their number from those requiring the more weighty judgements of the coroner. Chairs and tables had been shoved back against the walls and someone had fetched a straw-filled mattress, covered with a length of sheet. The white linen was heavily bloodstained.
Theo’s wife knelt beside the patient. Theo, hovering behind her, was holding a bowl of water that had turned red. Jarman Hodge perched on a stool in the corner. Elaine raised her head to look at me as I entered the room.
‘I am relieved to see you, Doctor Taverner,’ she said.
I threw off my cloak and knelt down beside her. ‘What has happened?’
‘He has been savaged by a dog,’ she replied, ‘and—’
‘Two dogs,’ the patient interrupted, ‘if not more. Great brutes they were, spikes on their collars and teeth like a dragon’s. Aaargh!’ He moaned, either in horror at the memory or simply in pain.
I studied him. He was around thirty years old, his skin de
eply tanned and his hair black and tight-curled. His eyes were blue. His frame was broad and stocky, but there was very little flesh on him. He was clad in a thin shirt beneath a stained, dirty tunic, breeches that ended at the knee and an inadequate pair of light shoes.
His left leg, from the shin to halfway between the knee and the thigh, was slashed with a series of deep wounds from which the blood was slowly leaking.
‘The blood flow has lessened since we sent the lad to fetch you,’ Elaine said, ‘so I do hope we have not interrupted your evening for nothing.’ She pressed a clean pad of linen to the worst of the wounds, and again the man groaned in pain.
‘No, you did right,’ I assured her. Looking the man in the face, I said, ‘Mistress Davey has done a fine job in cleaning out the wounds, and some of them will heal on their own. Some, however, will need stitching.’
The man spat out a colourful oath, then, shooting a look at Elaine, muttered an apology which she received with a gracious nod.
I looked up at Theo. ‘You have more water set to heat?’
‘Yes. Want me to fetch it?’
‘Yes.’ I reached in my bag and drew out a preparation that Judyth had given me and which she said was good for washing open wounds. She had also mentioned the use of raw garlic, which by some strange miracle seemed to reduce the production of inflammation and pus. ‘And would you peel a few cloves of garlic?’
‘Garlic?’ he mouthed, his face a study of incredulity. I nodded.
Elaine was the perfect assistant, holding the lantern steady as I bathed the wounds, and Theo lent his strength as I stitched up the two deepest slashes, holding the man still as he writhed beneath my hands. The lavender and rosemary scent of Judyth’s preparation and the sharp smell of garlic steadily permeated the room, going some way, although not far enough, to combat the stench of the patient’s long-unwashed body.
Then at last the work was completed, and fresh bandages covered the man’s left leg from his groin to his ankle.
He stared up at me, his face pale beneath the dark skin. I knew full well what he’d suffered while I stitched him up and I said, ‘I am sorry to have caused you such pain. It was necessary.’