The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7) by Nathan Goodwin (types of ebook readers TXT) 📕

The doctor ignored her, placing his hand on Samuel’s fevered brow.

Hester scowled in Ann’s direction and then addressed the doctor. ‘This be my Sam. He be a-bearing this fever for twenty days now.’

‘He was one of the Battle of Brookland men?’ the doctor enquired.

‘That be right—terrible business,’ Hester confirmed. ‘Almost left me a widow.’ She began to run her hands over her protruding belly, as though trying to elicit the future from a crystal ball.

‘From the mess that I saw the following morning, he’s lucky to still hold his life. Many men on both sides fell that night.’

Hester eyed Ann. ‘I be so sorry, Doctor, for not a-bringing you in sooner, only I were led to believe that this woman had dealings in medicine and could be helping him. Not to say that I bain’t been well meself of late.’

‘A doctor, are you?’ he asked, throwing a glare in Ann’s direction.

‘No, I-’

‘No, of course you’re not,’ he retorted.

‘Be a-waiting downstairs,’ Hester yapped at Ann.

Ann was inclined to stay and argue but what was the point? She didn’t care a jot for the bruff opinions of the mistress, or the doctor for that matter. She nodded and flounced from the room, mimicking the theatrics of Hester’s arrival. As she descended the stairs, she heard Hester muttering, ‘She be on her way, soonest.’

Downstairs, Ann knelt in front of the fire, raising her chilled hands to within inches of the flames. The pleasure of the heat stinging her skin quickly turned to pain and she dropped her hands into her lap, accepting the news that she was headed back to vagrancy with numb indifference. It was the only life which she had ever known. Truth be told, she would be glad to leave and get back to the uncontrolled and scabrous backstreets of town life. Country dwelling was not the life for Ann Fothergill.

Movement outside drew her attention. It was the boy, John, playing some made-up game or other with another boy of a similar age. It had surprised her how fond she had grown of the lad, believing there not to have existed a single maternal bone in her body.

‘Ann!’ It was the mistress calling. ‘Be a-coming up here, dreckly-minute.’

Ann heaved the blanket tight around her shoulders and began to climb the stairs, all the while readying herself for a berating.

Hester, hands on hips, met her at the door. ‘The doctor be wanting to know what you be doing to my Sam. Three-week of fever like he got, he be a-needing his blood-letting.’

Ann glanced past Hester’s dark eyes to the doctor, who was leaning over the bed in the process of removing the dressing from Samuel’s shoulder.

‘I be doing what I thinked best,’ Ann replied airily.

‘His wound—it’s almost healed,’ the doctor said, unable to contain his astonishment. His eyes narrowed suspiciously as he gazed at Ann, holding up the dressing. ‘Where did you learn to do this?’

Hester gasped and ran a hand to her chest. ‘Witchcraft! Lord, what have I brung upon this house?’

The doctor placed a placating hand on her shoulder. ‘Please, let her speak. Her answer rather intrigues me.’

‘My father—well, he bain’t my father, he be just the man what helped raise me—he were a travelling apothecary.’

The doctor touched his neat beard, as if deliberating the truth of her explanation. ‘I see. My father was a surgeon-apothecary. Tell me your procedure.’

Ann looked uneasily at the doctor, and then at Hester whose contorted face continued to express her disbelief. ‘I pulled out the shot, washed the wound with water then made him a poultice.’

‘From what was the poultice made?’ the doctor probed.

‘Some herbs. Few other bits and pieces.’ Ann shrugged indifferently.

‘Specifically?’

‘Comfrey root to slow infection. Sage for antiseptic. Bit of willow bark, which got traces of opium for the fever and pain relief.’

‘Very good,’ he praised.

She noticed for the first time that the doctor’s face had softened. She gave him a soft smile, which he returned.

‘What of that foul-stenching tea you be a-making night and day?’ Hester snarled.

‘Willow bark tea with mutton broth.’

‘I think you have saved this man’s life,’ the doctor acknowledged.

Hester turned resentfully. ‘If he be a-living, then it be God’s own wishes, not some travelling apothecary.’

‘Whether it be God’s work, witchcraft or this woman’s affinity for natural cures and medicines, the outcome will be that your husband lives.’

‘But the blood-letting for his fever?’ Hester demanded.

‘His fever is almost gone. I do not think blood-letting would advance his recovery. My advice would be to allow this woman to continue with her work,’ he said, picking up his case and making for the door. ‘See to it that she has all that she needs. Good day, Mrs Banister.’ He paused as he neared Ann and offered her his hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Miss..?’

‘Fothergill—Ann Fothergill,’ she beamed.

The doctor nodded, ducked his head under the doorframe and ventured downstairs, closely followed by the mistress.

Ann tossed her head back and grinned. She sat on Samuel’s bed—breaking one of the mistress’s rules—and waited. She heard more mumbled conversation, then the street door opening and closing. Then, the mistress appeared at the doorway.

‘So, what do you be a-needing?’ she asked.

‘A mug or two of rum,’ she began. ‘A nice bath—I ain’t got me numbers enough to know how many days be passing since the last one. And some new clothes.’

‘No,’ Hester snapped. ‘That bain’t happening. The doctor was a-meaning things to help my husband get better.’

Ann gazed dreamily towards the shuttered window, as if she had all the time in the world. ‘Maybe my witchcraft be stopping to work, then, and your husband be dying.’ Ann shrugged her shoulders.

With a dramatic huff, Hester turned from the room and stormed down the stairs.

Ann grinned