Chapter 9 #2
“Well, we have known each other since childhood. My sister and I spent summers here with our grandparents and sometimes joined him and other young people in games of hide-and-seek, battledore and shuttlecock—that sort of thing. Though of course we saw far less of him when he joined the army.”
“He is clearly pleased to see you again now.”
“Why not? We are old friends, after all.”
“Is he . . . looking to settle down, now the war is over?”
“I suppose so.”
“Has he spoken of marriage?”
She shrugged. “A little. Though he has certainly not proposed it, if that is what you mean.”
“Pray excuse me, I know I am being impertinent, prying into something that is none of my affair.”
Anne was confused by his interest. What about Rosa? What about the child? “Even if I liked Colonel Paine in that way, he has made it clear he could not marry me. That is, assuming a genie doesn’t appear and turn me into a rich heiress.”
She grinned at her little quip, but Dr. Finch frowned. “He said that?”
“Well, his actual words were ‘a pity you’re not an heiress,’ but yes.”
“What a knave.” He shook his head, eyes glinting. “If I loved a woman, it would not matter were she the queen or a kitchen maid.”
Or a lady’s maid? Anne wondered.
Despite her reservations, and her resolve to remain single, her chest ached to see the romantic fire in his expression. What would it be like to be loved like that?
She drew a bracing breath. “Lofty words, Dr. Finch. Yet I for one appreciate his forthright honesty. Better to be clear about one’s intentions toward a woman than to lead her a merry dance.”
His eyes locked on hers a long moment, emotions flashing in rapid succession in their glassy depths. Then they shuttered closed. “You are quite right, Miss Loveday. Forgive me.” He bowed curtly and turned to go.
Katherine Fitzjohn came around the house, garden basket over her arm. “Good morning, Miss Loveday. Oh! Dr. Finch is leaving.” She raised her hand and called, “Dr. Finch! A word before you go, if you please.”
Reluctantly, he turned back. Not meeting Anne’s gaze, he directed his attention to Miss Fitzjohn.
“How is Mamma?” she asked him. “Mrs. Pratt told me what happened—the accident with the soup. Dreadful.”
“She seems much recovered today, thankfully. We will continue her breathing treatments for another day or two and see how she gets on.”
Katherine sighed in relief. “I am glad to hear it. That is the last time I ask Mrs. Pratt to break her own rule. Special occasion or no.”
The physician nodded. “I think that wise.”
The door in the churchyard wall burst open, and Albert Palling rushed in, out of breath and clearly upset.
“Mr. Palling!” Katherine exclaimed. “Good heavens, what’s happened?”
Indeed the man looked alarmed and disheveled. Unusually, he wore no hat, and his hair was windblown and his shirtfront stained.
“An accident at the mill. King’s. Went to Humpage’s house first, but he’s not home. Marsland either. Came here, hoping to find the new man. Dr. Finch, please come. One of my men caught his arm in a gig mill.”
“Oh, I . . .” His Adam’s apple rose and fell. “I’m not a surgeon, but I will do what I can. Is it . . . bad?”
“I don’t know. Shouting his head off, though.”
Dr. Finch hesitated, then turned to Anne. “Will you come with me? As a surgeon’s daughter, you might be able to assist, if needed.”
“I would, of course. But Lady Celia . . .”
“I will sit with Mamma,” Katherine insisted. “Please do help them, Miss Loveday.”
“Very well. If you are sure. Rosa is upstairs too.”
“We’ll manage. Go on.”
Dr. Finch already had his bag in hand, and considering the urgent nature of the call, Anne did not insist on returning upstairs for her bonnet and gloves.
They followed the mill owner around the back of the house and through the grounds to Kemp Lane at a jog until they reached King’s Mill Lane. They followed that along the Painswick stream until they reached the mill in question.
Without pause, Mr. Palling pushed through the large double doors, where a cacophony of noise met them. Apparently cloth work did not stop even for injury.
One machine stood inactive, however, and the three rushed over to it. A man was hunched over, bent at the waist, arm trapped in the machine, as a second man, perhaps a mechanic, worked to free him.
A moment later, the mechanic sawed through a metal rod and the tension on the man’s arm slackened.
“Easy now,” Dr. Finch said. Together he and Mr. Palling slowed the man’s fall as he sagged back from the machine.
Anne could see the arm hung unnaturally at his side, but at least it was not severed.
The mechanic immediately began to repair the machine.
“There’s a cutting table there,” Mr. Palling said. “I’ll clear it.”
Cutting table? Anne knew the man referred to cloth cutting, yet she still prayed this injury would require no cutting of any kind.
Mr. Palling hurriedly swept aside the partial roll of cloth and remnants cluttering the table and returned. Together they helped the injured man across the mill floor and onto the table. The man howled with pain at the unavoidable jostling.
His shirt sleeve was already stained and in tatters, but Dr. Finch ripped the remaining fabric away by force, exposing the man’s arm to his shoulder. A strip of skin on the man’s forearm was rippled and abraded, peeled back like a can of tinned beef.
He turned to the owner. “Could you bring clean water, soap, and rags?”
“We are on the mill stream, if that’s clean enough.”
“Should be.”
Mr. Palling hurried off to do his bidding.
“What’s your name?” Dr. Finch asked the man.
“Joe Webb,” he replied between pants of pained breath.
“I am Dr. Finch, and this is Miss Loveday.”
“You a prayin’ man, Doc?”
“I am.”
“Pray for me, will ya? Need this arm. Hinton lost his last year, but I can’t. Got four little ’uns at home.”
Dr. Finch laid a gentle hand on the man’s unaffected shoulder and briefly closed his eyes. Anne silently added her prayer to his, hoping God would help them, although she knew He did not always answer her prayers—at least not with the answer she wanted.
Then Dr. Finch palpated the man’s injured arm, shoulder, and collarbone. Joe Webb gritted his teeth, perspiring profusely, clearly trying not to cry out.
“Can’t be absolutely sure while your muscles are tensed in shock, but I cannot find any broken bones.”
“Praise God.”
“Indeed. Your shoulder is dislocated, however, and these abrasions will take time to heal and leave some nasty scars.”
“Don’t care about bein’ pretty.” He managed a weak smile for Anne. “I’ll leave that to you, miss.”
Anne’s face warmed at the compliment.
Dr. Finch removed a vial from his bag and poured a measure full. “Take this, if you would. Will ease the pain and relax the muscles.”
The man drank the offered draught as Mr. Palling delivered the requested supplies and hurried away again to help repair the disabled machine.
“Miss Loveday, if you would brace Mr. Webb while I relocate his shoulder?”
Anne did as she was asked, bracing herself as well.
“Deep breath, Joe.” One hand on the man’s upper arm, the other on his shoulder, the doctor shoved the shoulder bone back into position with a loud crack. Joe cried out despite his efforts not to.
“Sorry about that.”
“No need,” Joe panted. “Feels better already.”
“We’re not through yet. The worst of these cuts should be sutured.” He looked at Anne. “Perhaps you might do that?”
To Joe he explained, “Miss Loveday is nurse to Lady Celia Fitzjohn. She also assisted her father, who is a surgeon.”
“I’d be obliged, miss. At the Court, are ya? My eldest works in the scullery there.”
“Kezia? Ah yes. She’s a good girl.”
“Thank ya, miss. I quite agree.”
Anne swallowed. She had not sewn stitches in some time. And even then her father had been there to guide her. “I could do it. Or I’d be happy to advise you, Doctor, if you prefer to do it yourself.”
“I’d appreciate your assistance.”
“Don’t blame ya,” Joe said, voice growing languid now the laudanum was taking effect. “Females are more experienced with needles, ain’t they? Go on, miss. Let’s get it over and done.”
After cleansing the wounds, Dr. Finch provided needle and suture thread from his bag—both looked perfectly new.
Anne told herself to concentrate, to remember her father’s instructions. Then, taking a calming breath, she began.
It was an excruciating half an hour—for her and especially for Joe, who grimaced each time the needle pierced his skin at the points Dr. Finch directed, despite the pain medicine.
Finally, it was done.
Dr. Finch bandaged the wounds and fashioned a sling for the man while Anne stowed the remaining thread.
Mr. Palling returned as the doctor gave the man parting instructions. “You’ll need to rest that arm, Joe. Let the wounds heal.”
Mr. Palling nodded. “Go home, Joe, and take care of yourself. I’ll not give your place to another.”
“Thank ya, Mr. Palling.”
Apparently Mr. Palling was a more kindhearted mill owner than some Anne had heard about, and she was grateful for Joe’s sake and for his family.
Anne and Dr. Finch walked Joe to his humble cottage—perhaps two rooms up and two down—in Vicarage Street. There, a concerned missus rushed out, face elongated in distress at seeing her husband with his arm bandaged and in a sling.
“He’ll be all right, Mrs. Webb. He’s been fortunate.”
Dr. Finch gave the woman some instructions on wound care and said he would return to remove the sutures in due course.
“I can work tomorrow, though, right?” Joe asked.
“Joe, no. Rest that arm. You heard Mr. Palling. Your place will be waiting for you.”
“I hope so. Well. Send me the bill, Doc.”
“Mr. Palling shall cover it, I imagine.”
“I’d rather pay it myself, if I can. Don’t want him to think the better of keepin’ me on.”
“I’ll talk it over with him. Don’t worry about that now, Joe. Just rest, and be grateful it was not worse.”
“I will. And I am grateful. Thank ya both.”
They bid the couple farewell, and seeing several pairs of young eyes at the small window, Anne waved to the watching children.
Then she and Dr. Finch turned and walked away.
As they went, he said, “It truly could have been worse. Far worse. Lost fingers, arms, lives . . . Perhaps not so much here, but in steam-powered mills in the north . . . Well, I confess to you I feared the worst.”
“So did I.”
“And yet, you accompanied me. Thank you for doing so. And for setting the stitches. I owe you for that.”
“You owe me nothing. It was my . . . well, not pleasure, exactly, but I was certainly glad to help. I like to be useful.”
“And so you were. Truly. I appreciate it more than you know.”
He made to reach for her hand, then shifted his hat into that hand instead.
When they returned to Painswick Court, Anne bid him good day. She was eager to return to her patient, hoping Lady Celia had fared well during her absence.
She went upstairs and was pleased to find Lady Celia sleeping peacefully, her daughter silently reading in the bedside chair.
“Oh! You’re back. How did it go at the mill?”
“Better than expected. The man injured his arm but will regain the use of it in time.”
Katherine sighed in relief. “Good.”
“Mr. Palling seems a kindly employer.”
“I think he is, yes. He has always seemed kind, even generous, to me.”
“And nothing new with your mother?”
“No. Resting quietly, as you see. Rosa sat with us for a time but has just gone down to bring us tea.”
Miss Fitzjohn rose. “Perhaps you might take it with her instead? I think I shall retire to my own room.”
“Of course. Thank you again for sitting with her.”
A wan smile touched her lips. “What is the saying? It was the least I could do. Good day, Miss Loveday.”
“Good-bye.”
When she had gone, Anne noticed the balcony door stood open.
She stepped out onto the small balcony and, over the parapet, saw two men below: Jude Dalby hailing Ernest Finch, on his way home.
Walking across the gravel drive, Mr. Dalby extended a hand, offering something to the physician.
Curious, Anne watched as a slender green bottle passed from one to the other.
A dram of good whiskey or patent medicine, perhaps?
Anne couldn’t see what it was, but Dr. Finch reluctantly accepted it.
Once Mr. Dalby had pivoted and returned to the house, Dr. Finch glanced at the bottle, scowled, and flung it into the bushes.
What in the world was in that bottle?
That night, Anne was fast asleep when she heard a muffled sound of distress, accompanied by the thrashing of bedclothes.
Instantly alert, Anne rolled from the low bed, pushed her door open the rest of the way, and hurried into the next room.
Lady Celia lay in bed, eyes closed. She moaned, her head moving from side to side. Was she ill again? Or having a bad dream?
In his little basket near the dying fire, Louie rose and stood as though at attention.
“My lady, what’s wrong?” Anne asked, gently patting her shoulder.
The older woman gasped awake, and even in the dim room, Anne could see the whites of her wide, frightened eyes.
“Someone is trying to kill me,” she rasped.
“You’re all right. It was just a bad dream. A nightmare.”
“A nightmare? Are you certain? It seemed so real. . . .”
“Who was trying to . . . hurt you? In your dream, I mean.”
“I couldn’t see the person’s face.”
“Well, you’re all right now. No one is here except me and Louie. You are safe.”
Lady Celia asked, “Is the door locked?”
“No, though the goose feather is in the keyhole to warn everyone not to disturb you.”
“Too late—I am disturbed. Lock it. Please.”
“Very well.” Taking a long match from the case beside the silver mantel box, Anne lit a candle from the embers to help her see.
Finding the key on the desk, Anne inserted it into the lock and then returned, pulling an armchair nearer to the bed.
“I’ll sit here with you until you fall back asleep, all right? ”
She half expected the woman to rebuff her offer, saying she could sleep on her own without some young chit sitting vigil, thank you very much.
Instead, Lady Celia said, “I would appreciate that, Anne. Thank you.”