*
As Constance walkedaway from the church, deep in thought, she suddenly became aware of Miss Fernie marching along toward her on the other side of the street. The shock was enough to snap her back to the present, for after last night and the stairs, she could not afford to let her attention slip.
She had to think herself back to the old days, to childhood, when she had to be aware of everyone around her, every movement, every sound.
Though her breath froze and her stomach lurched, she managed not to miss a step, and even to lift her hand in a friendly wave. But Miss Fernie marched on, apparently not noticing her, though Constance was sure she did. The woman had her nose in the air and wore an expression of contempt that was almost…hatred.
Constance felt it like a slap, the echo of those hands striking her full in the back, hurling her into the abyss. Shaken, she actually looked over her shoulder to make sure Miss Fernie was still walking away from her.
This was more than a moment’s malice in return for too many questions. This was utter hatred.
What did I do or say to her?
Nothing to inspire such contempt. And yet an upright, godly woman would hold her in contempt—many already did. She saw it in the eyes of reformers and other respectable women who believed themselves to be so superior to her and the girls she cared for.
Was that it? Did she recognize Constance’s name? She had spoken of family in London with whom she corresponded, but ladies were not meant to acknowledge the existence of women like Constance, let alone write to each other about them. Still, something had caused that hatred, whether Constance’sprofession or the questions she had been asking—had she come too close to the truth? Was Miss Fernie indeed responsible for the letters? Or someone Miss Fernie loved?
WhodidMiss Fernie love?
On impulse, Constance turned in at the doctor’s gate and rang the bell. Recognizing her, Nora the maid let her in at once and showed her into the parlor. “I’ll just tell Mrs. Chadwick you’re here.”
The wait gave Constance a couple of minutes to pull herself together. She wasn’t sure why she felt quite so shaken. After all, in the grand scheme of things, Miss Fernie was not the scariest human being she had ever encountered.
Emmeline Chadwick swept into the room, wiping her hands on her apron, which she quickly threw off and tossed over the arm of a chair. “Good morning, Mrs. Silver. Forgive me, I was just in the still room, mixing some herbal potions for Charles. Would you care for some tea?”
Constance found she was glad of it, though she had to wait for the ritual to take its course before she could ask the questions she needed to.
Eventually, with the door closed behind the maid, she said, “Tell me about Miss Fernie.”
“Miss Fernie? She’s a stuck-up old thing, but mostly harmless. Why?” Emmeline’s eyes widened. “You don’t suspecther, do you? Of sending the letters?”
“It crossed my mind, though not from evidence or any real motive that I can distinguish. Just…ill nature.”
Emmeline passed her a cup of tea. “I confess I have not seen that side of her. Sophie and Edgar never cared for her much as a teacher—she did not actually teach them much they didn’t already know—but I never found her ill natured.”
“Perhaps it is just me she dislikes… Though you clearly have nothing against her, is it possible she bears a grudge against you?”
“I can’t think why. She is Charles’s patient, of course, but she is very rarely ill, and I can’t think of any occasion on which I neglected her or made her wait…”
“Made her wait?” Constance repeated, distracted by the oddity of the phrase.
Emmeline looked down at her tea. She looked suddenly very tired, as if all the lines around her eyes had deepened and let her skin sag. “I have to do that sometimes. For Charles’s sake. If he drops dead of exhaustion, there is no doctor to makeanyonewell. Sometimes I have to make difficult decisions, and sometimes I make the wrong one.”
Constance set down her cup. “Are we talking about Jenny Gimlet?”
“Richard came to the house, desperate for the doctor. His mother had sent him. I said Charles would come in the evening or the following morning. Richard shouted at me that it had to be today or Jenny would be dead. But when Charles came back from delivering the Lance baby…he was utterly exhausted, asleep on his feet. I couldn’t send him out again. I fed him and made him go to bed instead. And in the morning, he went up to Dravenhoe—the Gimlets’ farm. Jenny was not quite dead, but she didn’t live much longer.”
And Emmeline had been living with the guilt ever since.
“If the girl was so very ill,” Constance said gently, “would she not have died anyway?”
“I will never know. And neither will any of the Gimlets.” Emmeline swallowed and shook her head. “Charles said no one could have saved her, but hewouldsay that to me, wouldn’t he? Someone else thinks differently, knows it was my unkindness.”
“Your kindness to your husband,” Constance corrected her. “We all look after our own first. It’s human nature. Would Miss Fernie have known about this?”
“Not at the time. The Gimlets are rather beneath her notice, except when Richard mimics her, which he does rather well. I suppose word would have got around the village, though. Nothing is secret here. But if she cared at all, I can more easily imagine her defending me, not sending me glued-on, anonymous letters.”
Constance shook her head. “Something has bitten her, but it might not be the subjects of those letters. Who are her friends in the village?”
