Page 28

“I don’t know. Probably.” Phoebe shoved her bowl away.

“I see.” She picked the shell away slowly with two fingers. “Is he well?”

Phoebe shrugged. “I assume so. I didn’t see him today.”

“I see.”

“The earl is very busy today, miss,” the footman interjected. “He looks forward to having supper with you later this evening.”

Anna huffed. Too busy, eh? He couldn’t be that ill, then.

She drank her tea and finished her egg, and then said, “It appears the weather today is nice. Let us continue our lessons today in the garden, Phoebe.”

Phoebe grumbled.

* * *

Anna spent the morning with Phoebe practising French conjugations. They partook of a quick nuncheon and then ventured out into the rose garden again to read and sketch. The stone bench between the bushes had become their favourite place. Marks brought out a tray with tea and crumpets, and the afternoon was perfect.

From where they sat, they could see the open door to the kitchen, and the herb gardens right next to it. Now and then, the scullery maid would hurry outside to cut off herbs and bring them back to the cook.

Phoebe had fallen asleep over her book, her head leaning on her arms on the stone table. Anna, too, blinked sleepily in the sunshine. She set her book aside and allowed her thoughts to wander to the earl, wondering about him, this place, Phoebe’s mother and grandmother, and their tragic stories. A shadow fell over her and she lifted her head.

A man stood in front of her, twisting his battered hat in his hands. “Begging yer pardon, ma’am, Jake Willis is my name. I was wondering whether His Lordship’s here.”

Anna looked at him in surprise. “St John. I suppose he might be. Have you asked Marks, the butler?”

“He’s nowhere to be found. I brought a basket full of fruits and vegetables for His Lordship as a thank you.”

“Indeed.” Anna looked at him curiously.

Phoebe, roused by the voices, sat up and rubbed her eyes. “A thank you for what?” She had no qualms at all at having her curiosity satisfied.

The man did not mind in the least elaborating. “He saved my life when no one else could. I had terrible stomach pains, you see, and all the other quacks were able to do was bleed me, and give me teas, and bleed me more. My Mary says I was half dead from the bleeding alone, and I wasn’t getting any better for it, neither. My stomach was killing me, and no one could help me. I begged Mary to bring me here, for I didn’t care what people said, all those stories about him being mad and such. There were also stories that he is a brilliant doctor and surgeon, and so I thought, Jake, you have nothing to lose, go to His Lordship and see whether he can help. My Mary loaded me on our ox cart and brought me here, and His Lordship examined me and said it was an inflammation in my bowels, and that it had to be cut and drained, that if I put myself in his hands, he would try his best, but there was no guarantee that I could survive the surgery, he said. I said go right ahead Your Lordship and do your worst, for the worst that will happen is that I end up six feet under, but that would happen anyhow if nothing is done. His Lordship cut me open and fixed me up all right. It’s not something I care to repeat anytime soon, mind you. But here I am, several months later, healthy as an ox.” He flexed the muscles in his arm. “I wanted to bring him a wagon loaded with wood, vegetables and fruit. As a thank you, mind you. Coming from the heart.” The man beamed at her, revealing a missing tooth. “My Mary’s waiting with the wagon in the front but Marks isn’t coming.”

“That is an impressive story.” Anna got up and looked at him curiously. “He truly cut you open?”

“Aye, that’s what I said. And I lived to survive it.” He lifted his shirt to reveal his abdomen, which showed a long, red scar.

Anna gasped. “It’s quite all right. I don’t really need to see it.”

“I’m proud of this scar, I must say. Ain’t many people in this world who can say they’re still alive after having been cut open like me,” he boasted. “He’s the best doctor and surgeon in the country.”

“Indeed?”

“He’s a saint, that man is. He’s begun seeing the poor again every Wednesday and Friday, when he offers free consultations. Not many come, because they prefer to consult the village quack who prescribes the same treatment for everyone: bleeding, bleeding, bleeding. They fear him, on account of the rumours that he’s mad, but that’s a bag of moonshine, I say. He’s as mad as any of us are. Besides, they say people of genius are frequently declared ‘mad’.” He turned to squint at several people who were hovering by the servants’ entrance. “But it looks like some of them have found their way here after all, after having discovered that the quack’s remedies don’t work.”

There was a man on crutches, with dirty bandages hanging from his foot, supporting himself against the wall of the house.

A woman held a crying child in her arms, rocking it back and forth. The third patient lay slumped in a wheelbarrow, pushed by a woman.

The fourth one was a dirty-looking child that clutched his hand, as he cried quietly to himself.

Willis frowned when he saw him. “Isn’t that little Jem over there, working in the cotton mill? I used to know his pa, before he died. The boy must’ve run away.” He went over to the boy.

“What’s the matter, Jem, why’re you here?” Then he swore when he saw the bloody rags around his hand. “The devil, child, did you cut off a finger?”

Anna gasped when she saw the bloody rags around his hand. “You poor thing, what on earth has happened?”