Chapter 6

Cecilia looked about the inn’s pub room. It was airy in feeling and appearance, though it smelled of burning peat and pipe tobacco. Wainscoting covered the lower half of the walls to elbow height, topped with a shelf all around wide enough for setting down mugs of ale and pipe ashtrays and an elbow or two. The wall to the ceiling, originally white-washed, now appeared a creamy gray color. A few prints hung on the walls in a nod to décor.

The room was not inordinately crowded; however, those here seemed to know each other. Cecilia wondered if her party were the only travelers at the inn. Most of the patrons were men, though there was a woman seated in a corner, knitting. Her smooth, worn, wooden needles were held in hands with enlarged arthritic knuckles. The needles clicked in a rhythmic manner. While the woman sat to the side, she obviously listened, for she raised her head now and again, her nimble facial movements betraying her keen attention to the conversations in the room.

She appeared old—perhaps the oldest in the room—but Cecilia knew that appearances could be deceptive as life’s circumstances often wrote largely upon a person’s countenance. She wore a plain white cap on her head. Coarse gray hair strands escaped from under it. A dirt-streaked apron covered her dress made of a rough brown wool. Around her shoulders and over her chest she wore a dark blue serviceable shawl crossed in front and tied behind her to keep it in place.

She caught Cecilia’s regard, smiled a gap-toothed smile, and then winked. Her face might have been a map of care and hardship, yet her rheumy gray eyes twinkled in the lantern light when she looked up.

Cecilia decided this would be the person for her to get to know. She motioned the woman to come over and sit with her, patting the bench space beside her.

The woman jerked her head back in surprise, her face registering questions. Cecilia nodded.

The woman stuffed her knitting into a worn canvas satchel at her feet and rose to walk over to Cecilia. She rocked left to right in a duck’s waddle as she came, but she stood and walked upright, without the stoop of infirmity. Judging by her walk and her clothing, Cecilia thought the woman might have been in service.

But just as she was studying the woman as she approached, Cecilia realized the woman was studying her. Cecilia rounded her shoulders a little and looked about the room again, this time with what she hoped was an apprehensive expression. She turned back to the woman and patted the bench beside her again.

“Please?” she said, her voice faint—and she hoped—frail. “I am Lady Branstoke. When our traveling companion became ill, my husband brought me down here while he searches out Mr. Price.” She looked about the room, her eyes wide. “I told him I would be fine. But…”

“You’re a mite fearful,” the woman said.

Cecilia nodded. “Yes,” she said, her voice a thread of sound, then stronger, “I saw you and thought, well, I thought if I was by another woman I wouldn’t be so fearful,” she said.

The woman nodded slowly and reached over to pat Cecilia’s hand. “I’m that happy to be of service.”

“Your voice. It sounds like you are in service?” Cecilia asked.

The woman laughed, then nodded again. “I was. For more than forty years. My name’s Janet Hammond.”

“I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Hammond.”

The woman shook her head. “Not Mrs. Hammond, Miss Hammond. Never found a man who could put up with me,” she said with a cackling laugh.

“Would you join me in a mug of ale?” Cecilia waved to the barmaid. The young woman hurried over and Cecilia requested watered ale for herself and a large mug of ale for the old woman. When the barmaid left to get their drinks, Cecilia turned back to her companion.

“My stomach is a bit queasy from traveling and with Mr. Stackpoole’s sudden illness up in the private parlor, it is a bit worse. Sometimes an ale can settle a stomach.”

“That it can, and I would be honored, Lady Branstoke. Excuse me, did you say Mr. Stackpoole?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“Some. I’ve talked to him a time or two. His mother introduced us.”

Cecilia’s attention sparked, then a cough interrupted her eager words. She cleared her throat. “You worked at the sanatorium? At Camden House?” she asked.

Miss Hammond nodded. “I was matron for the women that had private rooms. A bit of a housekeeper, bit of a nurse, and bit of a friend when they needed one,” she said, tilting her head to the side. Cecilia could tell the woman’s smile was for her memories.

“You retired?”

Miss Hammond looked quickly over at Cecilia, her expression collapsing into a bitter frown. “Hardly. I was let go—would have been let go with nothing if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Worcham. She insisted I have a pension for all me years.”

The maid came up with their ale. Cecilia couldn’t believe her good fortune to actually meet someone who worked at the sanatorium. It was all she could do to keep her manner fragile and ill.

“What do you mean?” Cecilia asked, clearing her throat again. She took a sip of her watered ale.

Miss Hammond compressed her lips together. “That new superintendent the doctor hired set down rules when he came, and one said staff were not to socialize with patients. I didn’t think that meant me, as Dr. Worcham always told me what I did was a benefit to the ladies and their well-being.” She frowned. “Two months later, I was let go for not following his new rules, for being too friendly with my ladies. He called it insubordination, and he was going to make an example with me so the rest of the staff would know he was serious.”

Cecilia sipped her ale. “But if Dr. Worcham approved of your work, how did he allow you to be let go?” she asked.

“It was in the contract,” she said bitterly. She took a drink of ale. “The man told Dr. Worcham he would only take the position if he would have complete say as to the working of the sanatorium, like the rules, the facility staff, the provisioning, leaving all the medical to Dr. Worcham.”

“But wouldn’t your care be under the medical work done by the sanatorium?”

“That’s what Dr. Worcham said to Mr. Turnbull-Minchin, unfortunately in the staff ledger, I’m listed as a housekeeper. Dr. Worcham told me afterward he should have changed my title to nurse long ago, but never got around to it. That’s when Mrs. Worcham said they needed to give me a pension. Mr. Turnbull-Minchin reluctantly agreed.”

“A compromise,” Cecilia said. “He still got rid of you and still maintained control. The pension was a way to appease his employer without them coming to odds as to what he did—Or, I would imagine, looking too closely at the books.”

Miss Hammond snorted. “That’s the truth. But I have to admit, some of the changes he made were right ones.”

“Like what?”

“Where the provisions come from. Dr. Worcham got one supplier and never checked to see if anyone might cost less. Mr. Turnbull-Minchin, he switched the greengrocer without losing quality, maybe even improving it a mite,” she reluctantly admitted, her face scrunching.

Cecilia grinned at Miss Hammond’s reluctant admittance. It spoke to the woman’s honesty and character.

“But some of them new rules!” Miss Hammond rolled her eyes. “What, I say, is the reason to stop all staff from eating together?” She scratched her head through her cap.

“What do you mean?” Cecilia asked.

“Those that cared for the women’s side and those that cared for the men’s side.”

“So, the male and female servants couldn’t eat together,” Cecilia stated. There was some sense to that, she supposed.

The woman shook her head. “There’s men and women that work on both sides. No. Just the two groups couldn’t eat together. I can see why he said housekeeping staff and medical staff should be apart to separate those who report to Dr. Worcham from those that report to him.”

“That would be part of his control issues,” Cecilia suggested.

She nodded. “But why the separation within the housekeeping staff? Made no sense to me.”

Cecilia nodded. “I’m sure he had his reasons,” she temporized, holding her handkerchief against her lips to ward off another cough.

“I know, he didn’t see that sometimes it’s good to talk amongst us. But if he wanted us to not talk together, he’d have to stop them mingling in the garden or the library.”

“But to do that,” Cecilia suggested, “the patients would need to be separated as well.”

The woman nodded, smiling at Cecilia for understanding the crux of that issue. “Yes, my lady and that is something Dr. Worcham won’t do as he believes it is advantageous for the men and women patients to meet socially, as they might in society.”

“This Mr. Turnbull-Minchin sounds like an unusual superintendent. Do you know where he came from?”

She shook her head. “Just that he come from London.”

“Are there many patients who are long-term patients at the sanatorium like Lady Stackpoole?”

“A few, five I think, last I knew. Most patients only stay for six months to a year at most. Dr. Worcham does not want patients, or their families, to treat Camden House like a permanent residence. The doctor wants to cure people or make them better. He always said there are other institutions for life care.”

“There is a man I know of—” Cecilia began carefully.

“There you are!” they heard Mr. Price behind them. They turned to see him coming toward them, followed by James.

“Miss Hammond,” Mr. Price said, “we have a gentleman who’s taken sick upstairs. Might I prevail upon you to take a look in on him?”

“Yes. I assume the gentleman is Mr. Stackpoole?” Miss Hammond said. “Lady Branstoke said he had taken sick.”

“Yes, please,” Mr. Price said, wringing his hands together. The one thing a publican might worry about is a sick guest who could pass on an illness to another at the inn—or worse spread rumors the establishment was one where guests took ill.

Miss Hammond nodded and stood up, gathering her knitting bag as she rose.

Cecilia looked at the woman beside her in surprise. Miss Hammond shrugged. “I learned a bit from Dr. Worcham and now help out in the village as I can.”

She followed Mr. Price upstairs to their parlor.

James came up beside his wife, shaking his head. “How do you do it?” he asked. “Mr. Price said there was a woman in the pub room who had some nursing skills who used to work at the sanatorium, and I returned to find you chatting with that very person.”

Cecilia took his arm and let him lead her to the stairs. She didn’t bother to pretend she didn’t know what he meant. Of all the people at the inn, she’d discovered a person who could provide them with information about the inner workings of the sanatorium.

“A gift?” she asked. “Seriously, she was the only woman in the room and though she sat apart from everyone, I could tell she listened to all that went on. I thought a listener might have the information we need. It was a surprise to discover she formerly worked at the sanatorium!”

“Did she know Mr. Montgomery?”

“I didn’t get a chance to ask her before Mr. Price and you came up to us. She does know Lady Stackpoole. She’d been the matron for the floor where Lady Stackpoole resides.”

“Why is she not yet working at the sanatorium?”

“According to her, she was part of the housekeeping staff and supposed to know her place. She became quite friendly with her ‘ladies’ as she called them, so she was let go as that was against the new superintendent’s rules.”

“Hmm,” James said thoughtfully.

At the top of the stairs, they stopped and looked in the direction of the parlor. The door stood partly ajar, and from within, they heard the muffled sounds of talking. They turned away from the parlor and returned to their room.

A trimmed lantern sat on a bedside table casting a glow across the bed where Sarah had laid out Cecilia’s night rail. The fire in the hearth burned steadily, pushing warm air into the room.

“I saw Sarah when I went looking for Mr. Price. I told her you wouldn’t need her anymore this evening,” James said. He pulled pins out of her hair.

Cecilia turned her head to look at him. “That was forward of you.”

“Hmm.”

“That’s the second time you’ve used that response. What is going on in that magnificent brain of yours?” she asked, turning into his arms.

He smiled down at her. “Thoughts of my amazing wife.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I think it is time we rediscover just how amazing we are together.”

His lips hovered over her lips. “Beyond time,” he whispered before his lips touched hers and mutual sighs stirred the air.