Page 82 of The Summer Country

Emily had no patience for either of them. “Don’t you have patients to see?” she said to Dr. Braithwaite.

“I thought you’d scared them away,” said Dr. Braithwaite mildly. He poured more water into the kettle. He nodded to George. “Thank you for the water.”

“You’re welcome,” said George gruffly, and Emily thought she would never understand men. “There was still a patient or two about. I’ll send them in, shall I?”

As George poked his head around the door, Dr. Braithwaite said quietly to Emily, “I wouldn’t worry too much about your friend. Everything you mentioned is quite common. It won’t do her or the baby any harm.”

“Yes, I know.” Emily’s throat felt very tight. Belatedly, she added, “Thank you.”

Dr. Braithwaite set down the water bucket. “You never told me: Am I to be tossed out on my ear?”

It felt strange to have such power. Emily wasn’t entirely sure she liked it. “Not on my account. I might want the house to use. . . . But I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

“Financial?”

“Do you charge your patients? I didn’t think so.” There was a movement at the door. Emily waved a hand. “We can discuss it some other time. At the moment, feel free to carry on.”

“Thank you,” said Dr. Braithwaite drily. To Katy, who had come in with the little girl, he said, “What seems to be the trouble?”

Not looking at Emily, Katy nudged the little girl forward. After some chivvying, the little girl said, “My throat hurts.”

“Open up and let me have a look, then.”

Katy murmured something in the child’s ear, and the little girl obediently opened her mouth for the doctor.

George shifted uncomfortably. “We should be going. . . .”

“Just a moment. Have you tried a gargle of salt and vinegar with a dash of pepper?” suggested Emily, attempting to peer over Dr. Braithwaite’s shoulder. She was rewarded largely with a view of black broadcloth. She moved up on her tiptoes. “Or perhaps a solution of brewer’s yeast and honey?”

Dr. Braithwaite stepped back and turned to look at Emily. “Would you like to take over?” His eyes crinkled and the corners of his mustache lifted. “I shouldn’t ask that, should I? You would.”

Disarmed by that smile, Emily demurred, “I’m not a physician. Or a surgeon either.”

“No, but you’ve certainly done your apprenticeship. Salt and vinegar,” he said to Katy. “Come back next week if the throat doesn’t improve or if she develops a fever.”

He looked at Emily as though challenging her to contradict him. Emily nodded. She was, it seemed, committed to running a free clinic on her plantation.

They left Dr. Braithwaite to his practice. His patients had returned, threefold, the word having spread that the surgery was open. Emily recognized only one or two faces, but she could tell that George knew most. Some greeted him; others developed an interest in the rutted dirt of the yard.

As for George, Emily couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“It’s good work he’s doing,” she said tentatively, as they mounted their horses. After two months of George’s tutelage, she was now competent, if not comfortable. She wasn’t sure she would ever be entirely comfortable on horseback.

“Oh yes, excellent work,” said George. There was a bitter edge to his voice. “Charity work.”

You wouldn’t need his charity if you had a better surgeon on hand, Emily wanted to say, but couldn’t. She felt a wave of pity for her companion, who had all the cares of trusteeship but none of the powers. That the people of Beckles needed better medical attention was plain; that George couldn’t outwardly sanction Dr. Braithwaite’s work equally clear. His grandmother would never stand for it, and she was still the real power at Beckles.

Had that been the compromise, then? To know but ignore?

Emily squinted under the brim of her bonnet at George’s profile. “Is that why you didn’t want me coming to Peverills? Because of Dr. Braithwaite?”

“No one is trying to keep you from Peverills.” It would have been more convincing if he hadn’t looked away as he said it.

“No?” They had passed the Old Mill. If she wanted to know anything, she needed to ask now, before they were back inside the stultifying atmosphere of the house.

“Peverills is a sore subject. My grandmother . . .”

“Minds that it was sold. Yes, I know.” That was beginning to sound thinner and thinner, especially as Peverills had never been hers to begin with. “Those ledgers your grandmother had from Peverills. Do you think you could get them for me?”