Page 28 of Beneath the Harvest Moon

She suppressed the urge to rip open the wax paper and dip her finger straight into the orange preserve. “I suppose she will be drying herbs and making medicines and salves for the shop.”

An uncomfortable silence settled between them.

“You are still good at this.”

Heat bloomed on her cheeks.

“You enjoy taking care of people.” He nodded to their sleeping patient.

She set the jar on the table. “Fate had other plans.”

“If you stay, you could resume your apprenticeship. My mother⁠—”

“Your mother would not take me under her wing again.” She re-filled the kettle from the pewter jug of cold water. It would do no good to get her hopes up. “I am no longer interested in becoming a healer.”

Gabriel pointed at the book atop her small cot in the corner. “Then why are you reading Culpepper’s Herbal?”

She tucked the book between the sheets. “I simply wished to remind myself of the best herbs to help manage a fever.” She glanced out the window. “It is dark. You should be on your way.”

“I shall return tomorrow to see how our patient fares.”

She held the door open. “Good evening, Doctor Sharpe.”

“Good evening, Blythe.” His lips twisted before he ducked beneath the doorframe.

CHAPTER 11

Gabriel jolted upright. Another hammer on wood rumbled through the house. He blew out a long breath to calm his racing heart. Would he ever get used to being woken in the middle of the night?

He rubbed his eyes, then fumbled with the tinderbox on the bedside table and struck a spark to light the small candle.

The banging continued, followed by a boy’s cry, “Doctor Sharpe!”

“I’m bloody coming,” he muttered.

Throwing back the covers, he picked up the candlestick and headed downstairs. The pounding began again, and he flung open the door.

Jacob Farrer stood on the step with watery eyes. “Mrs Simmonds sent me to fetch you. My brother is dying.”

“Tell her I am on my way.”

The boy scurried into the night.

By the time Gabriel had thrown on some clothes and arrived at the Farrer’s home, the family huddled at their back door.

Blythe stood at the entrance to the outbuilding. “His fever is so high and nothing I do seems to calm him. He’s been struggling to breathe for the past hour. It’s nothing but bubbles.”

To the Farrers, Gabriel said, “Wait inside; I will speak to you once I have examined him.” He then ducked beneath the lintel and approached the patient, naked save for a damp sheet that lay across his pelvis.

The stuffy air contained sharp traces of mint and woody citrus from the bowl of leaves and steaming water on the table where he set his bag.

Blythe said, “I stripped him to bring his fever down. I’ve bathed him every half hour and tried a vinegar solution on the soles of his feet, the palms of his hands and around his neck, but nothing’s working.”

He placed a hand on James’s forehead. The heat seared his palm. He leaned close to the patient’s face. Shallow breaths barely brushed Gabriel’s cheek. Pustules had spread across the boy’s body, and some had already burst.

“He may have developed lung fever. It is not common, but it can occur alongside smallpox. I will draw the excess blood, but it may be too late. We must make him comfortable.”

Blythe’s hand covered her mouth, but she nodded.