Page 72 of The Summer Country

“Do you sew up a lot of legs?”

“A fair few.” Dr. Braithwaite glanced sideways at George as he helped the patient off the table. “It’s preferable to lopping them off. Or leaving them until they fester.”

Sensing strife, Emily jumped in. “What sorts of ailments do you see? Other than legs, I mean.”

“Arms, torsos, scalps.” At her look, he began ticking off diseases. “Dropsy, lesions, night blindness, toothache, palsy. On the whole, malnutrition.”

George, leaning against the wall, stood up straighter. “We don’t starve our workers at Beckles.”

Dr. Braithwaite dumped Emily’s wash water into a bucket, refilling the bowl from the kettle. “No one said you did. But they hardly receive a varied diet. In case you didn’t notice, there’s a drought on.”

Emily hadn’t noticed. “There is?”

“Well, yes,” admitted George. “We rely on the rainy season, and this year the rains just weren’t . . . well, rainy enough.”

“Well said,” said Dr. Braithwaite drily, plunging his hands into the steaming water and soaping them briskly.

“But we’re surrounded by water,” said Emily. “Can’t one irrigate?”

“With saltwater?” Dr. Braithwaite shook his hands, looking about for the cloth. Emily handed it to him.

“We’ve brought in more corn,” said George defensively.

“As I said,” said Dr. Braithwaite. “Would you eat corn three meals a day?”

“George,” said Emily, “is there a well? Would you mind fetching more water? That is, if there is any in it.”

“There is,” said Dr. Braithwaite. “Peverills has fewer demands on its water supply.”

George looked as though he intended to argue, but, instead, he said reluctantly, “I’ll have Jonah see to it.”

He left the door open behind him. Through it, Emily could see that the yard, which had been full, was now deserted.

“Oh dear,” she said, as George made his way across the yard to Jonah and the horses. “I hope we didn’t scare away your patients.”

“You did,” said Dr. Braithwaite.

So much for polite nothings.

“Why did you set up your clinic here?” Emily demanded.

“This house,” said Dr. Braithwaite, applying a wet cloth to the table, “was conveniently unoccupied. And, as previously noted, there is a well.”

“Oh, here, let me. You’re only making it worse.” Emily took the cloth from him, vigorously scrubbing at a bit of half-dried blood. “I mean, why Beckles? I’m sure there would be many other plantations where your services would be more welcome?”

“Are you?” said Dr. Braithwaite, holding out his hands for her to inspect. He let them drop to his sides. “Would you believe me if I said I did it to annoy Mrs. Davenant?”

“No,” said Emily. She thought of those endless teas, the promises Mrs. Davenant had made and hadn’t kept. “Although I understand the impulse.”

“Like that, is it?”

“She’s been a very welcoming hostess,” said Emily primly. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Dr. Braithwaite twitched the cloth away from her, dropping it into the slop bucket. “If you must know, MacAndrews killed my father.” As Emily stared at him, he shook his head, as though impatient with himself. “Oh, he didn’t take a cutlass to him. But he killed him all the same. My father cut his hand. A smaller cut than the one you saw just now. MacAndrews decided to amputate. My father died.”

“But if it was festering . . .”

“It wasn’t.”