Ned experienced a driving desire to walk toward her. All he had to do was take the first step—
“Doctor, are you listening to me?” Michaels’s plaintive voice said, breaking the spell. “Don’t you agree that the duke has enough power in the village to decide where The Garland should go?”
Ned blinked like a man startled out of a trance. It was as if he had forgotten where he was. And he must be imagining things because Mrs. Estep hadn’t slowed her step at all.
In fact, Mrs. Burnham, the wainwright’s wife, had come running out of her cottage to greet her. They said a few words to each other and then Mrs. Burnham noticed Michaels and Ned and gave them a frown that should have sent them both to hell.
She’d never done that before. She and Ned had always been on good terms.
“Do you agree?” Michaels pressed again. “Because we have to do something. Gemma is turning the village against us.”
Mrs. Burnham’s frown said Michaels was right.
Grabbing what was left of his wits, Ned tried to make sense of it all, especially Michaels’s suggestion about the duke. “No one is above the law,” he declared brusquely. “We don’t live in a feudal society. Tell His Grace and the others that Marsden will deal with the matter. He is the law. We want the women angry at the law and not at us. Meantime, stop standing out here.”
“Winderton said we need to guard the place. Gemma plans on planting flowers. My mother was telling my father last night that Gemma will be off to market day in Fullbourne to purchase seeds and the ingredients the dowager needs for her knee. The dowager is going to send her in her own coach.”
Ned swore under his breath, and not because of the flowers.
“Be that as it may,” Ned said, “there is a right way to go about this and a wrong one. Standing on the streets trying to intimidate Mrs. Estep will serve no purpose. For one, she apparently isn’t intimidated.”
“Then we may need to be rougher—”
“You will not. Or you will find yourself answering to me.”
Michaels mumbled under his breath but Ned chose to ignore him. “I must be off. You go on now.” He waited long enough to see the man shuffle away.
Ned looked to Hippocrates. “I may need to have a word with the duke.”
Hippocrates shook his head, letting Ned know he was impatient to either ride on or eat grass. The choice was Ned’s.
Ned chose to ride.
His first stop was to pay a call on Simon Crisp to check on his hand. He’d saved Simon Crisp’s finger, or at least he hoped he had. Crisp had been sharpening his tools when he’d tripped carrying his scythe. The cut had gone to the bone. To ensure Crisp didn’t use the hand, Ned had placed a block of wood in the palm and wrapped the hand around it.
Of course, Crisp had complained. He didn’t like the restriction. “How am I going to work?” he’d demanded.
“You have sons. Let them be your hands for now,” Ned told him. “Besides, that is some of my best handiwork. You should treat it with respect.” Crisp had laughed and that had been it—Ned hoped.
He was pleased to see Crisp sitting in his house, taking his leisure. Mrs. Crisp hovered around and the yeoman appeared at peace with letting himself heal.
Ned took the chair that was offered and looked over the hand. No red streaks. That was a good sign.
“Does it hurt?” he asked his patient.
“It throbs.”
“That will stop. I hope you are keeping the cider jug close.”
Crisp laughed, reached for the floor beside his chair, and held up the jug with his good hand.
“You are a model patient, Simon. I wish they were all like you.”
“I’m keeping my eye on him,” his wife declared. “We need him well and soon before we start planting.” She was a cherry-cheeked woman with a pointy nose and a no-nonsense manner.
Crisp bragged, “My sons have picked up my work and proud of them I am.”
“I’m pleased,” Ned assured him.
“As I am,” his wife said. “I was worried that he wouldn’t behave but after he had a stern talk from Gemma, my husband settled down.”
Ned’s world came to a sudden stop. “Gemma?”
“Yes, Miss Taylor brought her by,” Mrs. Crisp said. “They had heard there had been an accident and so had charitably come to pay a call on us. Gemma is a lovely lady. She approved of your work on Mr. Crisp’s hand.”
Approved? Ned’s genial smile froze.
“She told Mr. Crisp he would be a fool to rewrap his hand without that block of wood. Convinced my stubborn man to listen. Thought you would like to know that, sir,” Mrs. Crisp finished. She had been busy darning a sock as she spoke so she didn’t notice the impact of her words on Ned.
Gemma approved, of what he, a trained doctor, did for a patient? He knew he’d better leave now.
Ned stood. Crisp rose to his feet, as well. “I’ll see myself out,” Ned said.
“I can’t have you do that,” Crisp countered. “Not after all you did for us, and on the Sabbath, no less.” He walked out the door with Ned to where one of the Crisp lads walked Hippocrates. Ned tossed the boy a coin and took the reins.
Crisp nodded for his son to go about his business. Once the lad was out of earshot, he asked, “Is everything all right, Mr. Thurlowe?”
“Yes, fine.”
“Your jaw is very tight. It is Gemma, isn’t it?”
“Do you mean Mrs. Estep?” Ned flashed and immediately regretted it.
“My Molly does like to go on. She doesn’t notice things. I do. I will say, though, that I learned a thing or two listening to the women yesterday.”
“And what did you learn?”
“That my Molly has been in pain and worried about it.”
Immediately, Ned’s attention switched from his irritation with Gemma to concerned physician. “What sort of pain? Here, come back and hold my horse,” he said, waving at the boy. He would have started back to the cottage but Crisp stopped him.
“It is the piles, sir. That’s all. She had the piles. She won’t talk about it with you, sir. She’s never said a word to me but suffered in silence. And she’ll not be happy that I shared. She was embarrassed speaking yesterday with Gemma.” He glanced over his shoulder as if to be certain his wife hadn’t creeped up on them, before adding, “I asked why she hadn’t told me she wasn’t feeling well.”
“And her answer?”
“For one, she was afeard she was dying.”
Ned frowned. “It is a common ailment.”
“Don’t I know. I’ve had them myself.” Crisp shrugged. “Who understands the thinking of women.”
“I could have helped her. I could have spoken with her about it Sunday.”
“That is what I said. She didn’t feel comfortable talking to a man, not even her husband, about the matter. You know, it is personal. I suppose women don’t like talking about their bums while we men are always going on about our arses. Actually, to be honest, I didn’t like talking about it with you when I had them. And I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but I just think she was shy speaking about her privates with one who looks like you.”