Chapter 12
“Ye need to keep yer foot elevated for two days.” Talia applied the poultice to the man’s swollen ankle.
The smell permeating the air reminded her of home, calming her.
She had made the poultice after finding the right herbs along the stream’s borders.
Ayaan, her first tutors had often told her how the best healers sourced their own herbs and made their own tonics and brews.
After years under his tutelage, she had adapted his sentiments.
She rolled out gauze in front of her, lowered the man’s foot onto it, and began binding it.
She loosened it when she realized it was too tight, then tightened it when she realized it was not secure enough.
Mr. MacLeod, the blacksmith, was in too much pain to notice her blunder. She could even feel his ankle throb.
She hissed when she realized she had forgotten to add a splint.
It took a day for Darragh to agree to let her set up a workroom. She had selected a room on the first floor of the east wing, off the corridor the servants frequented most, which allowed easy access.
While the maids transformed the room into the airy and bright place she now occupied, she had acquired a boat, crossed the stream, and gone foraging for herbs. She was given a worn oak desk, a cot, and an unused wardrobe that had been converted to a shelf to display her herbs.
A mahogany low table stood to the side—the only new thing in the room—where she could write prescriptions on the occasion her desk was cluttered with experiments. Its shelves were used to hide materials of more importance. The key hung loosely beneath her bodice.
People had immediately flocked to her once they realized she would not charge for her services. Some had even come with problems they had been ignoring for a year because they could not afford treatment.
She had only known her bed for six hours over the three days.
Yet the only reason she could not sleep was that she was haunted by the feel of Darragh’s mouth on hers.
Contrary to popular belief, it was possible to be haunted by the living, especially when that person shared his similarities with the sinister.
She lowered the man’s bound ankle onto a pillow. “On day three, I want ye to try some exercises.”
Three days could go by so fast, a short lapse of time when one was not thinking about it.
But for a man who could not work, it could feel like an eternity.
In three days, he would forget the accident that put him in this condition and throw himself back in the smithy.
Men like him came and went all the time.
Like the man, three days for her amounted to a quarter of her life, especially these last three days.
She had not known rest since her brain decided that instead of sleep, it would replay the very thing she dreaded the most—that stupid kiss.
Whoever said counting sheep helped one drift to sleep had lied.
She could not focus on stupid sheep when she had concretized Darragh’s face so close to hers, when the feel of his five o’clock shadow felt sharp against her chin. His lashes were lush and velvety, as though he spent hours pruning them, but a man of his caliber had no time for petty appearances.
Not only did God bless him with a strong body, but He had also taken time to craft the delicate crescents that fluttered atop his cheekbones.
She had to remind herself that she was at work, that she could not swoon again. But if she did, it would be perfectly disguised as exhaustion.
“Yer ankle will take about a week to heal, and I daenae want to have to treat ye again, so promise me ye would follow me instructions,” she said, injecting joviality into her voice.
The blacksmith’s shoulders relaxed, and he gave her a smile. A lying smile!
She handed him a crutch, and after teaching him how to use it, she relinquished him to the guard lingering by the door.
Lady McGhee had made sure that she had one while she saw to her patients.
He was to serve as a deterrent for any man with egregious ideas and a guard on the occasions his presence could not deter misbehavior.
Now, his task was to lead Mr. MacLeod to the courtyard, where he would have to fend for himself after.
Talia stepped aside after opening the door for them.
The cook, Cherry, had her hand suspended in midair, ready to knock.
Talia smiled at the guard, who looked conflicted, for he was not supposed to let her attend to patients alone.
She cocked her head, as if to say that he did not have to worry about a woman harming her.
He understood and left. It would not be long before he returned.
“Come in,” she beckoned.
She closed the door behind her and took a seat in front of the cot.
Cherry lingered by the door. “It’s me husband who needs yer help.”
The women who came to her looking hurried usually had marital problems, and what they all had in common was that they were all new wives.
“He sometimes comes home from work covered in spots.” A pattern, a diagnosis, and a remedy floated around in her head.
“I tried to get him to see the healer, but he kept saying we couldnae afford it. When I told him about ye, he got angry, sayin’ that he doesnae want any woman treatin’ him, and neither should I. ”
“It’s alright. Tell me what these spots look like.”
Cherry stepped further into the room and settled on the edge of the cot.
She was noticeably more confident. “They’re more like bruises, purplish bruises, on his abdomen, waist, and pecs.
Sometimes his neck. They stay for about a week, then new marks appear in similar spots.
He says they daenae itch, but they hurt to touch.
I havenae had the opportunity to touch him in a month. ”
Here came the uncomfortable part. If Cherry were a new wife as Talia presumed, the questions she had would terrify her.
“How is intimacy between ye two?”
A flush crept up Cherry’s cheek. “Ye have to ken that?”
“Aye. It’s necessary, as I cannae examine the patient meself.”
She shifted her weight. “It’s the same as always, but now he insists on doing it with his shirt on. I cannae touch the bruises.”
Now, time for the patient to play her role and deduce her diagnosis. John, the guard, had yet to return, which was excellent. Talia would have to speak to Lady McGhee to get him to give her privacy when she was examining female patients.
“Where does yer husband work?”
“A textile shop down at Breamar Street.”
“How long have ye been married for?”
“A whole seven months.”
“And ye’re sure ye’re nae causin’ the bruises?”
“I’ve got a brain in me head, ye ken? If I was doin’ so, I’d ken about it.”
“By any chance, does yer husband work with any women?”
Textile shops hired more women than men. Hell, textile work for a man was an uncommon occupation. They were needed only when manpower was a requisite, except for supervisory roles that could not be filled by women.
Considering their dire financial status, it was out of the question.
So her question was purely rhetorical. It was at this point that Cherry needed to spare herself the uncomfortable conversation and deduce that her husband was having an affair, and that those ‘bruises’ were merely love bites from an impassioned lover.
“There is a bunch of them. Weavers, reelers, and them sort, but—”
The stages of finding out your partner had stepped out on you were linear.
First and foremost, there was anger. The only type of women men cheated on were the ugly and unfeminine; that was what most women chose to believe.
Insinuating a woman’s husband might have stepped out was like saying to her face that you thought she was unattractive and lacking charms.
The second stage was violence. Her cheeks pinkened as she recalled diagnosing a venereal disease once. The patient had struck her hard and called her a quack. She was loyal to her husband, so where could she have acquired such an uncleanness? From her stupid husband, of course!
In her six years of practice, Talia had never met a woman who got to the last stage: acceptance. Maybe it wasn’t linear, after all. Maybe it was straight, then became a broken line that disconnected the sequence.
“Are ye suggestin’ that me husband has a bird on the side?” Now she wished John had returned to his post. “I understand, I am nae so clueless. Thank ye for yer help.”
Then Cherry did something that could only be considered an anomaly: she got up and left.
Talia now had only two weeks left to marry.
One week had passed since she arrived at McGhee Castle, three days within that week since Darragh had kissed her, and two days since she had resumed practicing. Oh, and three days since Darragh had taken to avoiding her.
She recalled the conversation she had had a day ago with Orlagh. Her lady’s maid had just seen a suitor out.
“He was pleasant,” Talia commented.
Orlagh looked up from her tea. Afternoon sun rays filtered in, bathing the room in an orange glow.
She sat at the peak of the light, and the rays circumscribed her head like a ring around a lit taper in a dark room.
When she glanced at Talia, the gold flecks in her green irises lent her a resemblance to a deity.
“He is dull, do ye nae think?”
“Ye’ve said that about the last two suitors.”
“Nay, I said Mr. Murray was dull.” The man was not dull. He was merely tight-lipped. “I called Mr. Graham boring.” His cologne still lingered in the air. “And I called Mr. Brodie bold.”
“Ah.” Talia smiled. “I am beginning to see a pattern.”
“Eh?”
“Ye daenae like the men I like. It’s as though ye daenae wish me to marry.”
Orlagh did not understand her jest, so she appeared flustered. “I just want ye to be happy with the best of the best, and none of those men have left a good impression on me.”
The best person for me would be meself.
“Never mind that, I shall add his name to me list.”