Chapter Seven

Jake dressed with care that evening, wishing he had a uniform less worn. At least he had a uniform. Years of war had produced a regulation uniform at last, in the army’s case, a plain red tunic with bluish trousers with no insignia beyond Yorkshire Fifth Foot in plain embroidery. He confessed to envying the Royal Navy’s deep blue and even plainer uniform. At least they did not show bloodstains.

It took a force of iron will to help George Baldwin dress in his best uniform, ignoring the man’s ridiculous groans and assuring him that downing Jake’s latest harmless but evil-smelling potion would set to him rights for the ordeal ahead. If this was part of the practice of medicine, he didn’t admire himself.

Jake didn’t think his odious patient could surprise him, but surprise him Baldwin did. Was there something in that concoction of olive oil, alum, a few grains of pepper and rum he was unaware of? Jake knew it wouldn’t do any good. In George’s case, it also loosened his tongue.

“I did this once before, you know,” the captain confided.

“Did what?”

“Got married. Well, nearly.”

Jake stared at him. “You did what ?” He sat down with a thump beside his odious patient.

“Not to put too fine a point on it, the only way I had access to her…person was to propose, then forge a license,” George said. He rubbed his hands together, apparently still delighted with the whole, sordid matter. “She thought it was a license, but her reading skills are rudimentary, at best. We were garrisoned near Portsmouth. The promise of marriage was the only way I could get her to, uh, unbend a little.” George giggled, a most unpleasant sound. Jake edged away from him. “I still laugh about it. I sent her a little money now and then, but not lately.” He resumed his sorrowful expression. “I am too ill now to bother. Elsie Baldwin she calls herself now, of Mack’s Inn, Portsmouth, the last I heard. Perhaps I should send her something.”

“It would be the kind thing to do,” Jakes said, when he could manage speech. And here I supposed you couldn’t be more wretched , he thought.

The captain rubbed his hands together. “It’s a small matter and no one knows. There’ll be papers to sign tonight. The Pritchards are eager to have Ivy off their hands.” He rubbed two fingers together. “Money.” He sighed the sigh of a martyr. “Too bad she is strange to look at.”

The only thing that saved George Baldwin from a great pounding by his surgeon was Jake remembering Hippocrates and his Oath, Do no harm . But he wanted to, oh, he wanted to.

To keep his hands off Captain Baldwin’s throat, Jake made himself scarce as everyone else waited for the Pritchards and their solicitor to arrive. I am going to pack my bags and get out of here tomorrow , he told himself, his anger unabated at Captain Baldwin’s casual cruelty. He reconsidered. Not unless Ivy Pritchard is with me . How that might happen, he had no idea.

He stayed in the library until he heard the arrival of the Pritchards, and went up the backstairs. Numb with disgust over this latest revelation from his “patient,” he helped Captain Baldwin down the grand staircase in silence.

Dinner was served promptly. In his position, seated well below the Baldwins and Pritchards, he ate with his eyes on Ivy. She sat closer to Captain Baldwin and his mother, a wispy-looking woman. As much as Jake detested the Baldwins, the surgeon in him wanted to check Lady Olive’s heart and lungs. She appeared to be the real patient here, but no one ever asked him.

This was the first time he had eaten a formal meal at Summer’s Edge, George Baldwin confining himself to meals in his room. Jake’s father, a mere vicar, was no landed gentry, not like the Pritchards and Baldwins. An invisible line separated him from them. He thought about Ivy’s remarks concerning Baltimore, and wondered if life in America was somehow more equal.

After dinner, the Pritchards and Baldwins made their way to the book room. When Ivy hung back, he asked, “Are you supposed to be in there, too?”

She shook her head. “No, at least, not yet.”

“Come to the library with me. I want to show you something.”

She walked beside him. Their shoulders touched once or twice, telling him worlds about her fears of what was going on in the book room.

The volume of England’s kings still lay on the table. As Ivy edged nearer, interested, he turned to the bookmarked page with its illustrations. “Look there,” he said, pointing to a portrait of King Henry the Third, and his son, Edward the First, two remarkable and powerful rulers. “Look closely.”

Ivy bent over the book and looked at the little portraits. She smiled. “I had no idea. Kindred spirits!”

“You’re in rarefied company,” he told her. “I came across this in medical school. I believe some of the Howards also had this same lazy eye. We’ll agree they’re distinguished, too.”

She touched his arm. “I doubt their mothers made them sit with the sleepy eye turned away.”

“And you needn’t either, dear heart.”

He hadn’t meant to say that. It slipped out. She took his breath away when she turned to face him, making no effort to hide her eye. “Thank you,” she said simply.

Her mother opened the library door, frowned at him, and gestured to the hall. “You’re wanted now, Ivy,” she said. “Goodnight, sir.”

He knew a dismissal when he heard one and went upstairs to his room, wanting to protect Ivy Pritchard from these people who should have been concerned for her best interests, and not theirs. He stared out at winter in Yorkshire, unsure of his next move.

At least he was a man with the potential to earn a respectable living. He had tucked the signed endorsements from both the Duke of Wellington himself, and General Sir Harvey Baldwin in his wallet, which he carried in his medical satchel, where his medical credentials already resided. He had enough money to establish himself somewhere. Familiar Yorkshire was his first choice, but as he sat there, he knew he wanted to broaden his horizons. It was a large shire, to be sure, but would likely house George and Ivy Baldwin, too.

His frame of mind suffered when the footman summoned him to the foyer as the Pritchards were taking their leave. “Captain Baldwin requires your assistance to get him up the stairs,” the man said, eyes forward. Jake had seen him roll his eyes a few times over Captain Baldwin’s exhausted and feeble poses, but the family was assembled, and this was no time to risk censure.

Jake’s heart sank to see the distress on Ivy’s pretty face. She had again turned away from the others, the lifetime habit ingrained in her. He saw the paleness of her complexion and somehow felt the distress the others ignored. I will see her tomorrow somehow, he told himself. It was feeble and he knew it, but here was Captain Baldwin demanding his help, even as he turned away from his fiancée without a word or a smile.

Jake slept lightly that night, if at all. As usual, he thought through the questionable cases where he knew he should have done better. Maybe it was a blessing of the season that he reached out for Ivy’s little lifeline, considering instead all the soldiers he had saved. He admitted he had his own method of wishful thinking, now willing to replace it with the knowledge that he had done his best, no matter how feeble. He had Ivy to thank for that. He would tell her in the morning. What else could he do?

He woke up before dawn to the persistent tinkle of little pebbles against the window. He thought at first it was ice pellets, certainly not unknown in wintry Yorkshire. As he lay there with his hands behind his head, listening, the fog of sleep lifted.

He leaped out of bed and opened the window. Looking down he saw Larch, the Pritchard’s under footman, about to toss another handful of pebbles at the window. What in the world? He leaned out.

“Surgeon Frost, she’s run away! Hurry down!”