Page 25 of Love with a Notorious Rake

Paris blushed. “Gethin always was a kind soul. We keep up a rigorous correspondence, and because of it, I’m fully aware of your training and medical skills. I must say, they will be put to good use in Earl Shilton.” Paris motioned to a porter. “I will need assistance loading a trunk onto a wagon.”

Cristyn’s gaze slid to a rough-hewn wagon hitched to a black horse.

“Not fancy as such, but serves the purpose,” Paris said good-naturedly.

“And the trunk, sir?” the porter asked.

Cristyn pointed to hers, not far from where they were standing. Once loaded, Paris assisted her up on the bench, then climbed on next to her. Taking the reins, he clicked his tongue, moving the gelding forward. “Enjoy the fresh air between here and the village,” Paris said. “Because of the cotton mill and its use of coal as well as steam, the air is rather foul at certain hours of the day. The village is rife with lung ailments, not only from the coal haze, but from working in the cotton mill. Most of the workers suffer from varying degrees of byssinosis.”

He paused, as if waiting for her to ask what byssinosis was. “It’s also known as brown lung disease,” she said, “caused by exposure to cotton dust in poor ventilation. Because of a narrowing of the airways, it can lead to respiratory failure and death.” Cristyn gave him a satisfied smile that caused him to laugh.

“Brilliant. Well done.” Then he sobered. “It is a blasted shame. I tried on numerous occasions to appeal to the owner to install a wheel, which is often used in cotton mills to dissipate a portion of the dust and fluff in the air, but he claimed that the expense would cut into his profits. Also, the mill has to be kept hot and humid, to prevent breakages in the threads, which in turn exacerbates the lung conditions.” Paris sighed. “There will be work aplenty, and, I’m sad to say, not much in the way of payment. Because of the Truck Act, all goods and services must be paid in cash, which hits the poor hard. Some pay me with what they can spare, but mostly I offer my services gratis; it was the only way I could encourage the villagers to come for treatment. I will pay you a salary, never fear, as well as your room and board with Mrs. Ellen Trubshaw.”

“Oh, Dad gave me several pounds, I would never expect—”

He patted her hand briefly. “You keep that money. I can well afford the expense. Besides, I am grateful for the assistance. Shall we say a weekly salary of four and ten?”

Four pounds a week? “My, that is much more than I expected. Thank you.”

“You will be earning every shilling. There are near to twenty-three hundred souls living in and around Earl Shilton, and nearly all have one type of malady or another.”

“I cannot wait to start. Inasmuch as I’ve enjoyed working at the sanatorium, I do wish to use all I have learned in a more general practice.”

When they neared the village, the air turned hazy as Paris had predicted. The roads became rougher, with deep ruts carved into the earth, jostling her until her teeth rattled. Paris pointed to several homes. “Some of these are empty. Many villagers have sought temporary shelter at the Union Workhouse in Hinckley, known to the locals as the Bastille.”

“Heavens, things are that dire?”

Paris nodded. “Unfortunately, yes.” He turned the wagon down a narrow lane. “See there? That is my practice. I live in the few rooms above. Two doors beyond is Mrs. Trubshaw’s house.”

A group of people wearing tattered clothing was standing outside Paris’s office. “I have patients,” he stated.

“I can assist you right away.”

“Tomorrow morning is soon enough to begin. I have breakfast with Mrs. Trubshaw, and often supper, and as a result, we will be in each other’s pockets for the next three months.”

Cristyn glanced at Paris. She wouldn’t mind. Already she liked him. His face was kindly, his eyes reflecting genuine warmth. His soft voice was calming, perfect for a physician. She couldn’t wait for this new chapter of her life to begin.

* * * *

After spending two and a half weeks in Manchester learning about cotton mill operations, Aidan returned to Wollstonecraft Hall for a brief respite before heading to Earl Shilton and his covert mission.

The hall had even more occupants, as Riordan, Sabrina, Mary Tuttle, and the orange and white tabby, Mittens, had recently arrived with the end of the school term in Carrbury. Riordan was given a larger portion of the wing, and Mary had her own small suite—not far, Aidan noticed with amusement, from his grandfather’s rooms.

Surprisingly, after a wary introduction, Mittens and Laddie hit it off, and most afternoons the two could be found curled up before a fireplace in one of the three libraries. Also, a governess was hired for Megan, Miss Eliza Barton, and nurses were being interviewed for the upcoming birth of Riordan and Sabrina’s child.

The hall was more alive than any time in Aidan’s recent memory. He found all the activity caused a roll of disquiet to move through him, which had him wondering, once again, if he were fully recovered. After months of tranquil peace at the clinic, he’d forgotten life could be noisy and chaotic. Would he be tempted to relieve his anxiety the way he had done in the past? Would he be able to pull off this ruse at the cotton mill?

The men were attending a brief meeting in his grandfather’s study; the ladies decided to forego this particular assembly in favor of other duties. It was the first time the men had all been together since last September. How much had changed.

“I’ve invited Bastian Faraday to visit us for the month of August,” his grandfather stated.

Garrett beamed. “Brilliant. Aidan, it’s too bad you will be away and not only miss the birth, but Bastian’s visit. I believe the two of you would get along famously.”

His uncle and the doctor had become good friends after Faraday was called in to treat Garrett’s gunshot wound in February. Being his grandfather’s exclusive physician gave Bastian a standing in society he might not otherwise have achieved, because his mother hailed from the West Indies. Though the prejudice existed, the Wollstonecrafts did not tolerate it at all.

“Not only is he a family friend, but he’ll also be on hand to oversee Sabrina’s care. How shrewd,” Aidan teased.

His grandfather held up a fancy envelope. “Communication from Prince Albert.” He turned the envelope around to show them. “The royal seal. Now that we are all here…” His grandfather broke the ornate wax seal and scanned the letter. “Well, news on the Marquess of Sutherhorne. He has been relocated to the British colony of Newfoundland in the North Atlantic, a rocky, rugged island six hundred miles off the east coast of Canada. He was settled on the west shore; it is sparsely populated, and he will have to learn to fish for his supper.”