Chapter 2
The East Riding of Yorkshire
Gabriel Sharpe jerked upright and blinked away the fog of sleep. He swayed with the leisurely gait of his horse. Thank God Samson knew the way home.
Small blobs of light sat on the horizon.
He shifted in the saddle, and Samson grumbled. His backside chafed, and his neck and shoulders ached. The rumbling of his stomach could probably be heard in Midthorpe. Another of Mrs Brimble’s meals would be cold and congealed by now.
Finally, Samson plodded down the main street. The silhouettes of red-brick cottages rose on either side. Many were dark and silent, their occupants tucked in their warm, cosy beds in anticipation of another day in the fields.
Despite the fine linen and blankets, his bed was far from cosy. If only he had someone to share it with. But sharing a bed meant sharing his heart, and he would not risk that fragile organ again. As always, his two-story house loomed empty before him.
Before Samson turned into the gateway, he nudged the gelding onwards and headed towards a home where he would receive a warm welcome and, hopefully, a hot meal.
He dismounted outside his parent’s house, nestled next door to his family’s apothecary shop and surgery. A yellow glow peeped between the drawn curtains.
After tying Samson’s reins about the gatepost, he knocked and entered. “Hello!”
In the kitchen, his mother stirred a large pot hanging over the fire. She smiled. “Another long day out on your rounds?”
Gabriel sighed. “Indeed.”
In the armchair by the hearth, his father stretched out his legs and yawned. “’Tis a good sign. A busy physician can only be an excellent physician.”
Mother wrapped her arms around his neck in a tight embrace.
His lower back spasmed in protest.
“You’ll work yourself to an early grave. Sit down.” Mother pulled out a chair at the long oak table in the centre of the kitchen. Wooden bowls filled with dried herbs and powders, and small glass jars with handwritten labels sat in neat rows on the scarred tabletop.
Gabriel removed his dusty black coat and hung it over the back of the chair before he sat.
Mother removed a cast-iron pot from the bread oven. “I’ll wager you haven’t eaten, have you?” She ladled steaming broth into a bowl and set it before him. “Here, ‘ave some of this to fill your belly. You’re wasting away, my boy.”
“He’s not wasting away. He’s a hearty young man.” Father stretched in the chair, then winced. “My old back can’t keep up with the young lads in the fields these days.”
Mother set two thick slices of bread slathered with golden butter next to his bowl. He dipped a piece into the steaming broth. The bread melted in his mouth; the richness of the salty bacon and butter burst on his tongue before slipping down his parched throat.
“Have some cider to wash it down.” Mother set a tankard next to him.
Father grumbled, “I didn’t get cider.”
“You’ve had cider in the fields twice this day, I believe. The Dixons feed their workers well during the harvest.”
Gabriel devoured the broth and bread.
“You should try breathing between mouthfuls, son. Golloping food like that does no good for your digestion.” Father chuckled.
Mother stirred the pot over the fire. “He needs a good woman to take care of him.”
Not again. “I have Mrs Brimble.”
“I don’t mean as a housekeeper—”
“Mother,” he said with a reproving tone. He kept the young widow in a neighbouring village, who rode his cock when his baser needs required it, to himself.
“Mrs Stone has been out of mourning for over a year now, and—”
His spoon clattered into the bowl, splattering droplets onto the table. “I am not interested in Mrs Stone.”
Mother stopped stirring. “But—”
“I have no time to court anyone.” Marriage required him to place his happiness in someone else’s hands, and he refused to do so again.
Mother turned. “I can’t bear the thought of you being alone, my boy. Don’t you want children?”
Once, perhaps, when he had been young and foolish. But his heart had been burned, and his dreams of a family, someone to follow in his footsteps, had burned with it. “My happiness is not dependent on a wife and children. I find my work fulfilling.”
Mother tilted her chin and glared at Father, who asked, “By the way, how does Mr Dixon fare?”
Mother rolled her eyes before returning to her concoction.
“You know I do not like to discuss my patients.”
His father harrumphed. “Everyone knows he’s had lung fever. John says his father should recover before the harvest supper.”
“That may be true, but as a physician, I must ensure the privacy of my patients.”
“You and your superior physician’s ways. You may have a medical degree, but don’t forget, I’ve got years of surgeon’s experience on you.”
“You paid for my medical degree so I could become a physician.”
Father grinned. “Aye, and I’m fair proud to say you’re a thinking man rather than an old sawbones like me.”
Gabriel mopped up the last of the broth with the bread crust.
Father said, “I wonder why Bl—”
“William Sharpe!” Mother pointed the large wooden spoon at her husband. “You know better than to mention that flighty girl in my presence.”
The broth and bread curdled in his stomach.
“Forgive me, my love.” Father held up his hands and shot Gabriel a sheepish glance.
He had no desire to hear that name either, and thankfully, Mother changed the subject. “Has Baron Lipton settled his bill?”
Now it was his turn to direct a sheepish glance at Father.
“Gabriel!” Mother sighed. “The man owes almost ten guineas.”
“He has requested more time to pay because he is short of blunt.”
Mother snorted. “Not so short that he has curtailed his gambling habits. According to Mrs Briggs—”
“I am not interested in the tittle-tattle of the local gossips, and how many times must I ask you not to allow them to gather in the shop?”
As though he had not spoken, Mother continued to stir the pot. “If you’re not careful, you’ll end up without two pennies to rub together. You take the word of the likes of Baron Lipton, yet you refuse to trust—”
Gabriel pushed back his chair. “My bed beckons.” He had had enough lectures for one evening.
Mother set aside her spoon and cupped his jaw. “I’m sorry. I worry about you, my boy, that’s all.” Her thumb brushed his stubbled cheek. “Love requires a leap of faith, and you don’t know if it’ll be worth the risk until you jump.”
He slid his arms into the sleeves of his coat before kissing his mother on the cheek. “Thank you for feeding me. I shall see you tomorrow.”