Digital ISBNs
EPUB 978-1-77362-193-7
Kindle: 978-1-77299-345-5
WEB 978-1-77362-194-4
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Amazon Print ISBN 978-1-77299-346-2
Copyright 2014 by Diane Scott Lewis
Cover art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book
Dedicated to my “co-writer”
who’s warmed my lap as I tap away,
my dachshund Fritzie
Rose threw open her trunk lid, scrabbled through petticoats and stockings, and searched until her fingertips touched leather. Her possession was still there, safe. She lifted the heavy book and ran a hand over the tooled cover of the New Haven County Medical Society, 1788. The journal, published eight years before, had traveled with her from South Carolina.
She stared around the tiny room that overlooked the front of the house. The chamber might prove noisier, but she’d have her own domain to study in—even in the wilds of Cornwall. Her skin prickled. Books would do her little good if everything else failed.
Her sister Claudia glided in through the open door, her corn silk hair loosened and her plump mouth in a frown.
“Poor, Mother. She’s already vexed over the house not being in a city. But Father takes her laments easily, thank goodness.” Claudia touched the post of the tester bed. “I do think it’s unfair she gave you this room. You’re the oldest and should have the larger chamber.”
Rose stood, stepped over and shut her bedroom door as one of the hired men gawped at Claudia from the hallway.
At eighteen—only two years younger than Rose—Claudia’s creamy complexion and sweet expression attracted men like ants to molasses. Her lavender travelling habit accentuated her slender figure.
“Don’t fret about it, sister. Mother put you in the favored place to remind me of my stubbornness. My sharp tongue always gets me into trouble. I’ll survive, I daresay.” She shrugged it off, though life would be simpler if she and Mother had a better relationship.
She grasped Claudia’s soft hand and pulled her to the window. Raindrops dripped dusty lines down the leaded panes. Under a sullen sky, the north coast of Cornwall appeared a desolate backcountry compared to the sultry vigor of Charleston.
“I hope the map was correct and this house is only a quarter mile from Lankyp. I cannot wait to visit the village.” Rose stood on tiptoe and stretched her back; every muscle and vertebra ached after the jostling coach. “We’ll live among our forebears, who were so recently our enemies.”
“I worry we’ll be resented.” Claudia hunched her narrow shoulders. “This is all such an alarming change. Perhaps a city would have been better.”
Rose put her arm around her sister. “We aren’t rebellious colonials anymore.” She stifled her misgivings. America had signed Jay’s treaty the previous year to end the hostilities with England. Unfortunately, England now warred with a France, a country seething in its own revolution.
“Father is at least happy to revisit his roots. I pray he can keep Mother calm.”
“I’m surprised she gave in to Father’s request to live near where his ancestors came from, since none are left alive.” Rose stared out at the rocky hills and trees. Their father’s now deceased great uncle had recommended him for a bank manager’s position and the family reeled from shock when he’d accepted. “I wonder if any of his mysterious tales about this land are true.”
“Father enjoys telling stories. But we’ll have to make an extra effort to be well-mannered with the local people.” Claudia trailed a finger down the glass. Her blue eyes, the same color as Rose’s, flashed. “Does he realize what you intend to do here? Mother will continue to oppose you. What if—”
“All in good time. I’ll try not to barge into any schemes too quickly.” Rose laughed to mask her tension, and the lie. She struggled against everyone to gain respect for her interests. “No one will stop me from pursuing my need to learn and hopefully, in the future, to even practice.”
“A female physician, that’s so hard to imagine—and such a great responsibility.” Claudia smiled fleetingly. “I envy your eagerness for knowledge.”
“Well, I don’t have to concentrate on a gracious disposition.” Rose winked and rubbed her sister’s shoulder. “It is a shame that cleverness in women is not deemed an asset.”
“I only hope you’ll be content in your choices.” Claudia eyed her with concern, then kissed her cheek. She reopened the door and slipped out to the corridor. “I’d better start to unpack.”
“People find contentment in different forms,” Rose whispered. Would she be happy in her forcing her will on others just to be taken seriously? Her mind buzzed with ideas. Cooking and embroidery shrank in importance next to searching for ways to improve health.
She dug her fingers into the trunk again, past smooth silks and taffetas, but found no other books. In the chaos of packing, she must have put them in her other trunk. Dropping the lid with a thud, she left the room and walked down the stairs of the newly leased house the land agent had called Avallen—a name that meant apple tree, he’d explained. Smoky flames of candlelight wavered in sconces as she passed.
Mother stood in the front hall among their baggage. “I doubt this ‘Lankyp’ has anything worth offering as far as shops or society, Mr. Gwynn.” The line between her eyes deepened on her fine-boned face. “How will our daughters meet eligible men if we remain in this forsaken place?”
“Please don’t worry, my dear. The city of Bodmin isn’t that far.” Father’s mischievous smile stretched his broad cheeks. Medium-tall, his egg-shaped body filled his buff coat and breeches. He scooted a tea table into the parlor. “Enjoy the adventure. Consider it an unsuspecting terrain for you to conquer.”
“We had enough adventure dodging French warships, Father.” Rose breathed in the musty scent of the house as she approached. The wide oak floor groaned beneath her feet. “Where is my green trunk? I want to check on my medical books.”
“Dare I hope they are lost in the ocean?” Mother gave her best long-suffering look. “You know I say that for your own good, Rose.” She bent to inspect a torn trunk strap. A strand of blonde hair fell across her still smooth cheek. “More importantly, where are the servants I was promised?”
The two young men hired from the village carried more items upstairs, leaving the stink of pipe tobacco and body odor in their wake. The arranging of furniture scraped across the floor above.
Rose relaxed when she saw her green trunk hauled in on their next trip. She could soon forget this disruption and immerse herself once more in the fascinating details of medicine.
“You see, your treasures are safe.” Father pressed her shoulder. “I may not agree with your interests, Rosenwyn, but I try to appreciate them.”
“Thank you, Father. And I try to appreciate my impossible name: Rosenwyn Gwynn.” Rose patted his hand. The name was Cornish, yet came out an absurd rhyme, even if it meant “fair rose.” She’d never be the fair one and was resigned to sharing her father’s square face and stubborn chin. Claudia’s oval prettiness reflected their mother’s.
“You had the opportunity to change it.” Mother sniffed as she directed the returning men to carry a barrel of dishes to the kitchen, the blue silk ribbons on her straw hat wavering. “I wish you had thought more clearly about your future.” She touched a gloved finger to her forehead. “This has been a trying day. I have such a headache.”
“Suffocating in a dreary marriage was not my wish.” Rose stiffened her shoulders then forced a pensive smile. “Barley water is good for headaches, or leeches applied to the forehead. I could bleed you, perhaps?”
“Don’t speak of such things, they are highly improper.” Mother opened a hat box and plucked at the crumpled lace on a bonnet. “It’s time for you to stop this nonsense. I won’t have you embarrassing me here as you did in Charleston.”
Rose’s parental respect frayed at the edges. “Why do women have to sacrifice propriety to enrich our minds?” That exposed another worry. If the village had no physician, she might be trapped in this remoteness as well as Mother. Her chest tightened.
“Leave her to her studying, my dear. It pleases her at the moment.” Father aimed a cajoling smile, his weapon of choice, toward Mother. “You know our Rose is an unusual sort of flower.”
A back door slammed. Twelve-year-old Michael tramped down the hall, his chubby, freckled cheeks flushed. “The rain stopped and I explored in a meadow, and—”
“I thought you were upstairs. Why are you outside instead of assisting?” Mother then scrutinized Rose as if her wayward brother was her fault. “You left Claudia up there alone with all these rough men about?”
“I’ll go on up, dear.” Father started for the stairs. “To protect the princess.”
“Wait, Father. I think I found that stone ring you told us about.” Michael pulled off his bicorn hat, tousling sandy-brown hair.
“Ah, the one involved in the curse of my ancestors. I told you it was here. My great uncle assured me.” Father stroked his paunch that strained against the buttons of his frock coat.
“Mr. Gwynn.” Mother pinched his lapels then wagged a finger. “Please stop filling the children’s heads with foolish fables.” She nudged two hat boxes into her husband’s arms.
“If you wouldn’t mind, Mother, I’m in desperate need of fresh air...and exploring. I’d like Michael to show me what he found. We won’t be long.” Before their habitual argument continued, Rose shuffled her brother past the front parlor, dining room, and flag-stoned kitchen. The seventeenth century stone house was grand and spacious, hardly the hovel Mother had feared. Rose stepped outside into a cleansing smell of earth and tangy plants.
A well stood a few feet from the back door. Two outbuildings sat several yards from the house, behind which a coppice of apple trees grew. A few green hills with shards of granite outcroppings rose beyond the orchard.
Bundled in her caraco jacket, she shivered in the damp coolness and rubbed her chin against the soft cotton fibers. “The area is beautiful, but the air is quite chilly for May.”
“Father said the woods are full of piskie imps and dangerous highwaymen.” Michael chuckled as he strode ahead.
“Smugglers are more likely to hide in these coastal inlets.” Dusk was descending, staining the sky a dark pewter, and she hesitated.
“Come this way, Rose. Or are you afraid of thieves and ghoulies?” Her brother scurried through tangled furze and twisted trees that spread over the grounds. Meadowsweet and bluebells splashed colors among them, dappled from the recent rain.
“I’ve always believed that boisterous boys should be stuffed down wells with heavy rocks in their pockets.” Rose stepped along the overgrown path that led down a slope, her skirt brushing her ankles.
“You’d have to pull your nose from your books to catch me first.” Michael rushed down the slope. “I don’t know why you bother, only men can be doctors.”
“So everyone keeps reminding me. Why is change so frightening?” Rose bristled with the usual frustration. She followed carefully so as not to slip in the mud, inhaling more pungent smells in the waning light. Her brother could be a trial, but had an adventuresome spirit, a quality her mother and sister seemed to lack. “Don’t go too far. Wait for me.”
She reached a stream with moss-covered rocks. Michael scrambled up the bank on the other side. Rose snatched up and broke a tiny twig between her fingers, the bark abrasive against her skin—as abrasive as her temerity. A female could excel in a man’s occupation if given the chance, though she’d further alienate herself from her parents. She sighed, tossed the twig in the stream and watched the water eddy around it. Eyes closed a moment, she promised herself she would succeed, no matter the obstacles.
She hopped over the brook, hiked her skirts, and climbed the bank. Her brother’s thrashing footsteps faded. “Michael, I asked you to wait for me. We could easily get lost.”
High above her, tree branches rustled in the wind—and Michael disappeared into the foliage. Her heartbeat picked up. “Michael! It will be dark soon. How far is this ring?” The toes of her leather half boots dampened, she pushed her way through thick bracken that scratched her hands.
The brush opened up and she reached a grassy clearing. Her little brother waved to her from part way across.
“Hurry along, Rose. You have to see this.”
She stepped into the grass, prepared to scold him.
At the edge of the verdant expanse jutted several large stones. One smaller stone in front formed an uneven circle, like a granite ring. It looked ancient, sinister, glinting in a low sun that sent shadows creeping across the meadow.
Michael rushed up, eyes gleaming, and motioned her forward. When they walked closer, she cringed in the biting wind. The stones perched near the edge of a cliff. Down the precipice, the ocean bashed against rocky crags, spraying foam and mist.
She thrust out her arm to shield her brother from the edge.
He held down his hat and turned toward the stone ring. “That’s the magic stone Father told us about. The one that saved his ancestor from something terrible.”
Up to this moment, Rose had dismissed Father’s tales of his relatives as whimsy. She preferred to rely on the practical. “It certainly appears to resemble his story. Then that’s why he chose this house, much to Mother’s chagrin.”
“It’s the very same one. You heard him say so. I think I’ll climb through it.”
The wind whipped around the stone—an eerie moan trumpeted through the hole.
She caught his arm as he moved away from her. “I don’t know if you should. Let’s come back tomorrow with Father.”
“What’s the matter with you, Rose?” Michael tried to wriggle from her grasp. “Are you now behaving ladylike as Mother insists? It won’t suit you.”
“I must agree with that.” Never timid before, she experienced an uncomfortable thrumming in her veins as she continued to examine the stone like a bizarre anatomy lesson. She stiffened against the sensation. “We have to go back to the house. Climbing around these cliffs is dangerous. Mother will be livid if you tumble over.” She pulled her brother along with her, through the grass toward the trees. The wind swept across her shoulder blades like fingers crawling on flesh.
* * *
Charlie slipped back behind the gorse bushes as the young woman and stocky boy left the stone—an anomaly shaped by wind and rain. So this was part of the American family who were moving into the old house. Charlie brushed a hand over the thick warm fur of Paddy’s head. The dog raised his nose and wagged his bushy tail. The two continued to stroll along the rocky trail and dipped under a canopy of trees.
“I’ve heard their father will be a banker in Bodmin. But why did they move out here, miles away? These people’s intrusion unsettles me, Paddy.”
The red setter panted and barked—always attentive to his owner’s voice. Did the dog ever pine for him, his first master? Charlie often did, at night, in what seemed like endless moments of solitude.
Their feet crunched over twigs as the scent of white Campion sweetened the breeze. Sprigs of shy violets formed bursts of color, darkened to the shade of blood by the setting sun.
“I’ve just become used to the inhabitants here, and now strangers arrive. I fear that everything might change. You always take chances with new eyes and opinions. The excuses start again, the avoidance, the anxiety of having to lie. But I must finish what I started. I have a prominent position here and don’t wish to jeopardize it.” Charlie hurried their pace. “Let us run, old boy, it will ease my trepidation. If we’re fortunate, though it’s unkind to say so, these newcomers will find the village not to their liking and won’t stay long.”
* * *
Rose pinned her hair into a respectable coiffure. If she twisted a few curls forward, her plain brown locks would soften her visage, but she brushed the tendrils flat and tied on her straw hat. She’d been in residence for two days and hadn’t seen anything but Avallen, crates, and trunks. Yesterday their recently hired housekeeper, Mrs. Chegwidden, informed her that the village did have a physician. A young man named John Nelson.
Rose smiled into the looking glass. A younger man might be more open to her requests. Their curmudgeon of a doctor in Charleston had rarely answered her questions. Each time he’d turned up his nose at her, she’d surged with the need to know more.
Claudia declined to accompany her, so Rose would go alone.
She descended the stairs and reached the parlor just as Mother tossed a book into the fireplace.
“What are you burning, Mother?”
“One of those pamphlets you’re always carting around. It’s dog-eared and full of awful descriptions. I found Michael reading it, and—”
“My pamphlet?” Rose dashed forward and snatched the book from the flames. She slapped it against her leg, scattering ashes. Hot sparks stung the back of her hand. “These pamphlets discuss important innovations on health in French clinics. How could you think of destroying them?”
“We don’t need any innovations from France. They murdered their king, their leaders, and each other, and that’s why they’re ill.” Mother glared at the gray ashes sprinkling her crimson Turkey rug. “Be careful! Look at the mess you’re making.”
Rose flipped the pages to remove any debris, and redirect her anger. “Please don’t ruin my possessions. These books increase my knowledge.”
“As the daughter of a banker at Pennwith and Seaton, you do not need to chase after a man’s occupation.” Mother huffed, hands on the hips of her salmon-colored round gown. “Your following around that old midwife in America was bad enough.”
“That wise old woman cared for the poor and the servants far beyond obstetrics. I respected her.” Observing the midwife’s skills had fueled Rose’s ambitions.
“No decent young lady would delve into such…indelicacies. No matter how contrary you enjoy being, eventually you will need a good husband to take care of you. Do you wish to end up a spinster?” Mother moved past her and ran a finger over a table near the window. “I must teach that new maid how to dust better. The girl seems quite the simpleton.”
“I’m not trying to be indecent. I only wish you would allow me to be who I am.” Rose had begged for this since she was thirteen. “It doesn’t make me an inadequate woman to search for more in my life. Many women have worked in the medical trade.”
“But only men are allowed to train as physicians. You know that, dear. I hate to see you disappoint yourself.” Mother pressed her arm, dismissing Rose’s desires like ice-cold soup. “Women of your status should be protected from improper ministrations.”
“I realize society’s barriers won’t crumble for me, but if people don’t push for changes, nothing will change. We feeble females would be married off at age eleven to lascivious knights.” Rose bit her tongue to halt a gush of annoyance. “Please…don’t burn my books. Didn’t you have interests beyond being a wife and mother? Didn’t Grandmother encourage you in anything else?”
“I don’t wish to discuss my mother. But she believed in a substantial marriage above all. Now I have work to do. This unpacking is endless.” Mother’s cheeks flushed as pink as her gown; she left the parlor.
Grandmother was eight years dead, and had always seemed to treat her daughter with a certain antagonism—a feeling Rose understood well.
She hurried the pamphlet upstairs and made a mental note to ask Father for a locked cabinet.
When she returned, Mother was nowhere to be seen. Their young maid Mary, a whey-faced girl with large dark eyes, was sweeping up the ashes in the parlor.
Rose refused to ask permission to leave. She opened the front door and strode down the hill. Mother’s narrow-mindedness never surprised her, but she longed for a parent with more imagination. Unfortunately, her mother behaved like many matrons who treated their daughters like chattel to be disposed of through marriage.
Rose filtered her dismay into the energy it took to stroll through the beech trees along the narrow main road that ran before their house. A few birds twittered as she passed.
Cool spring air caressed her face, the atmosphere so different from the clammy marshes of South Carolina. Here you could breathe deeply, filling your lungs without clogging them with moisture. Still, she missed the piquant scents of jasmine and magnolia that once wafted in through her Charleston window.
In not quite a quarter of a mile, she slowed when the rush of a stream sounded to her right. A stone mill came into view. The mill’s wheel swooshed as it scooped up water and splashed it down at each turn.
Beyond that, the village spread out. She walked closer. Lankyp’s buildings were of granite, stacked slate, or wattle and daub with a timber frame—crooked structures from a fairy story, Claudia would say.
Rose scrutinized this medieval little gem tucked in its narrow valley. Doubts about her place here quivered through her.
She nodded to a few passersby who stared, no doubt disturbed that she was without escort—or they were curious about the American outsider.
Her Revolution had ended thirteen years before, when she was eight. She remembered vaguely three years before that, the attack on Charleston, the fire-bombs from the British ships. She inhaled slowly and continued her stroll, head held high.
She passed a rectory, a green grocer’s and butcher’s shop. At the corner, down a road marked Smithy’s Lane, was a stable and tavern with the sign, Pig & Whistle. A blacksmith’s smoky shop sat across from the inn, in the shadow of the rough-stoned mill.
Near the end of the main street, on the left, an arched stone bridge spanned a small creek. A weathered moorstone church with a tall, pinnacled tower loomed beyond. She approached the wrought iron gate between granite pillars that led to the churchyard. The gate’s bars glistened, dappled in morning dew. The air here smelled damp with decay.
A Celtic wheel-head cross sprouted like a mushroom from the yard’s grass. It formed a circle, much like the stone behind her house.
Rose stepped away from the gate, examining every groove and bump in the cross’s granite. Even with a slight prickle at the back of her neck, she found herself drawn to this relic of ancient history.
Opposite the church, as she’d been informed, the physician’s shingle hung over the door of a small white cottage with yellow shutters. Rose crossed the street, but a woman with a whining little boy in tow rushed past her and entered the doctor’s house.
Rose sighed. She’d save her visit for later, after her perusal of the lending library the housekeeper had also told her about.
The library, a timber-framed abode with blue shutters, sat a few buildings down from the doctor’s. She opened the door and stepped in.
Dim and musty, the long, narrow room held numerous shelves crammed with books. The lattice windows, shining pale diamonds on the opposite wall, let in little light.
The many books surprised her. She nearly laughed then reached out to touch them.
“Can I help you, m’dear?” An elderly, bird-like woman with a cloud of white hair shuffled out from behind a tall desk. Her face was the color and texture of parchment.
“Yes, I’m interested in the local history.” Since she lived here, and after seeing the ring, Rose was determined to know more about her past. “I’m Miss Rose Gwynn.”
“Oh, the new Americans, I warrant. Welcome to Lankyp. Everyone calls me Damawyn.” The woman’s smile was sweet, but her tone measuring. She peered at Rose through thick spectacles. “You’ve picked an odd place to settle, haven’t you?”
“My ancestors originated near this village.” Rose smiled to dismiss the woman’s implied disapproval. “I’m curious about their background.”
“’Tis local history you want?” The woman turned, went to a nearby shelf and pulled down two books. “These should do it for a start.” Damawyn handed them to Rose. “We have plenty of history here. Our Church of St. Nona dates back to the fifteenth century.”
“I was near the churchyard. The church is beautiful in an austere way.” Rose stroked the brown and green books, the rich feel of leather. “How old is the wheel-head cross?”
“It’s said to be far older than the church, perhaps sixth century. St. Patrick combined the sun worshiped by the ancient Druids with the cross of Christianity.” The woman pointed a bony finger to the right. “We’re on the edge of the Bodmin Moor, once called the Fowey Moor for the river that rises there. There’s much to see there, if you’re interested.”
“I might walk up there, thank you.” Rose opened the top book, releasing a fusty smell. “Lankyp is a unique name. What does it mean?”
Damawyn’s eyes sparkled now. “Lann means your church site, and usually with a saint’s name attached. The kyp is for St. Cuby, a bishop born in the fifth century. He was a nephew of St. Nona.”
“You’re very knowledgeable.” Rose glanced around again, though anxious to leave to visit the doctor. “I’m impressed by the large amount of books you have.”
“The current earl’s maternal grandfather donated his extensive library when he died several years past.”
“There’s an earl that lives nearby?”
Mother would be excited to learn about an aristocrat among the rustics. She and Claudia might be marched up for the earl’s inspection if he wasn’t married.
“He’s the Earl of Tideford.” The woman said it softly as if the information didn’t please her. “Who were your ancestors, m’dear?”
“My relative’s name was Gwyntir,” Rose replied.
“Gwyntir? Are you certain that’s the name?” The woman grimaced, her eyes narrowing.
Rose felt a rush of coldness. “That is the name my father told me. Perhaps I’ve mispronounced it.” She reached through her skirt slit into her inside pocket and handed the old woman a list. “Can you request these medical books for me?”
“I suppose; probably from Bodmin or Truro.” Her tone wary, Damawyn peered at the paper; her spectacles slid to the tip of her nose. “For your husband, I expect. He’s studying to be a doctor?”
“I’m not married.” Rose fought the familiar impatience. “I’m studying myself. Do you manage the library, Mrs. Damawyn?”
“Only ‘Damawyn.’ It means grandmother. Now I manage the place.” She glared with obvious suspicion. “My husband was the librarian. But after he died I took over to help out. If you’ve no husband, then send your father to pay the subscription fee.”
“The next time I’m in the village, I’ll pay the fee. Thank you for your help.” Rose clutched the books and left the library. Women always had to wait for men to clear their way, defined by who sired them or whom they married.
She smoothed the skirt of her green walking dress and strode to the doctor’s cottage.
Rose stared up then touched the wood of the physician’s sign that squeaked back and forth on two small chains. She sighed. How easy it was for males to grasp what they wanted. No restrictions, no preconceived notion of behavior. But envy would get her nowhere. She curled her fingers and rapped on the door.
After a few minutes, a fair-haired young man answered.
“Good morning. Is Dr. Nelson in?” Rose smiled at this youth who had to be the doctor’s assistant, or a servant.
“I’m Dr. Nelson. How can I help you?” He stood straighter as if to make up for his lack of presence.
“I…am Miss Rose Gwynn. I know we haven’t been properly introduced, but I’d like to speak to you, if I may.” She tried not to stare. Dr. Nelson, with his delicate features and slight build, didn’t look old enough to have begun—much less finished—medical training.
“Please come in. You must be one of the daughters of the new tenants at Avallen.” He stepped back and she entered a polished hallway.
“That’s correct. I’m the oldest and wanted to introduce myself.” Tall for a woman, she noticed that Nelson stood an inch or two shorter.
He showed her into a clean-smelling, small front parlor, which appeared to serve as a consulting office. Jars lined a shelved cupboard in an orderly fashion against the wall, each one labeled with a physic. On a table below sat a pestle and mortar, a wooden pill board, a pewter glyster, and wooden speculum.
“I look forward to meeting your parents,” Nelson said, as if he disapproved of her unscheduled visit. “Have you a particular ailment you wish to discuss?”
“I must confess that I’m very healthy and don’t require anything in that respect.” To refrain from touching the equipment, she stroked the ruffle on her three-quarter sleeve.
“That’s good to hear. Please be seated. What can I do for you?” The doctor even sounded boyish. His kind, though somehow cautious, gray eyes, enhanced his frail handsomeness.
“Have you practiced here long?” Rose walked toward the bookcases instead of sitting. She’d intended to ease into her aspirations. However, surrounded by all she coveted infused her senses.
“Over a year. Lankyp is my first practice.”
She perused his collection: De Morbis Cutaneis: A Treatise on Diseases of the Skin, by Daniel Turner, licentiate of the College of Physicians, 1731 edition. The Art of Surgery, also by Turner. But another book caught her eye. Without asking permission she lifted it out.
“The Female Physician, Containing All the Diseases Incident to that Sex, in Virgins, Wives, and Widows, 1724, by John Maubray.” She glanced over at Nelson, realizing she’d said this out loud. “I thought, foolishly I suppose, that it was about a female doctor, not a doctor of females.”
Nelson’s eyes widened for an instant. Then he looked away. “I don’t know of any recent treatises about women as doctors. They’ve been healers of a different sort.”
“But there have been women doctors throughout history.” She replaced the book and fingered the ones she carried. “I have tried to find information about such women.”
“Why are you interested in these things, may I ask?” His tone turned a little cold as he scrutinized her.
“That’s what I’ve come to discuss with you.” She scanned two other titles then faced him. “Since I was a little girl I’ve been interested in healing, practicing on cats and dogs, mostly. I set a dog’s leg, and he recovered quite well. I even treated our servants in America with poultices and syrups.
“I discovered a Lucretia Lester of Long Island who practiced midwifery for years, but she was respected as a nurse and doctoress to the women she treated.” Rose sat in a Windsor chair before a large oak desk, the books in her lap.
“Women have long been respected as midwives.” Nelson sat at his desk. The size of the piece dwarfed him, and it displayed no personal items and no portraits hung on the walls.
He stared down at his hand and tapped a finger. “Of course, since the use of forceps started twenty years ago, which brought men into delivery rooms, midwives were relegated to rural communities or serving the poor.” He related this as if delivering a lecture. His stiff words pushed aside any friendliness.
Undaunted, Rose plunged on. “I also read an article in an old edition of the South Carolina Gazette about a Mrs. Grant who attended lectures by professors of Anatomy and Practice of Physick in Edinburgh. She had a certificate and practiced as a doctoress in Scotland.”
“I have heard of her. That was almost thirty years ago.” Nelson looked up again, his frown deep. “What do you hope to accomplish, Miss Gwynn?”
“Women were allowed to be physicians in England until Henry VIII legislated to put a stop to it.” She pressed the history books against her thighs. “It’s time that women were allowed back into the practice.”
“Do you intend to find a way to attend a medical college? I’m afraid that’s— impossible.” His skin flushed as if he fought against a stronger emotion. “Being a physician has become a gentleman’s pursuit. Physicians must have licenses, and the surgeon or surgeon-apothecary is even more regulated now.” Nelson picked up a quill and scratched at his blotter.
She’d irritated him. However, she took it as a challenge. “But events are progressing. I’ve kept abreast of current medical practices.” She leaned forward. “You are aware that Dr. Edward Jenner of Gloucestershire just developed the small pox vaccine. How exciting to have—”
“Too bad Jenner is a man and not a woman, which would strengthen your point.” Nelson’s eyes softened in his smooth face. “Of course I’m aware of such a spectacular discovery. He used inoculation with the related cow-pox virus to build immunity against the deadlier smallpox.”
“My point is, I imagine he had a lot of discouragement before his success. The cure for the dreadful scourge of our time.” Rose slid to the edge of the chair, her mouth almost too dry to speak. “I was hoping you might lend me some of your books and offer advice. What college did you attend? It was in London most likely.”
He stood abruptly, his chair scraping on the floorboards. “Miss Gwynn, I don’t think my books will help you. Or that your parents would appreciate me lending them to you.” Nelson acted apologetic, yet hurried out into the front hall; he snatched a coat and hat from a row of wall pegs. “I must check on a patient on an outlying farm. I advise you to reconsider your idea. You might find it easier to delve into herbal healing.”
Rose stood. She’d expected this reaction, though he’d discussed far more with her than she’d anticipated on her first foray. She followed him, anxious to placate. “I’m sorry if I seemed too forward or wasted your time, Doctor.”
“Not at all. I just don’t wish to see you waste yours, Miss Gwynn.” Nelson’s voice held a tinge of regret before he held the door open for her. “We should speak no more of it.”
Her pulse skittered. She’d already alienated him with her brashness. “Perhaps we could talk again when you’re not so busy. I realize my enthusiasm…”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t elaborate on this subject. Enjoy your stay in Lankyp, and please come to see me if you suffer any ills.” He put on his hat and they stepped out to the street. He closed his door. “I give you good day.” The doctor nodded curtly and walked off.
“An eventful day...a beginning,” Rose replied as she dug her fingernails into the books’ edges.
The Pig & Whistle’s dark, low-beamed kitchen pressed in on Catern as she scrubbed the dishes. Two months had passed since her return to Lankyp, and she pondered her rash decision.
A shuffling movement came from behind her, then a hand dug into her bottom. She whirled about and slapped away the arm of the toothless old coot who hovered there. His tongue slopping out like a dog.
“Take yourself out of my sight, Hocken! I don’t stand no nonsense from the likes o’ you!” She cringed and fought the urge to run from the room and scour her skin clean from his oily touch.
Hocken grinned, exposing disgusting red gums. “You has the finest arse in all Lankyp. Why keep it to yourself now? You never did afore.”
Catern flung a fork at his head. He ducked and scooted out the rear door in his strange, sideways gait—he’d spent too much time down the mines. She retrieved the fork and slammed the door. The room quaked with the force of her anger. “This is what I come to, being pawed by filthy old men.” She shook her head and thumped her fist against the weathered jamb.
Raking her fingers through her curly hair, she returned to the tub. She resumed washing dishes with the soap made of beech ash mixed with quicklime, wincing as it stung her cracked skin. “If I had a lick o’ money, I’d travel to London an’ wash with fine, scented soap when I made my fortune. Like that Miss Moll Flanders.”
“What you grumbling ’bout, girl?” Big Jowan ambled into the kitchen. His sweet smile softened his long, pock-marked face. “Did I hear the door slam? Someone botherin’ you?”
“’Tis nothing.” Catern stared at Jowan Gay, a broad-shouldered hulk of a man with a thick waist. He looked strong and comforting, like a friendly bear, and was the kindest person she’d ever worked for. If she could only avoid the men who treated her like fruit ripe for plucking.
“You was thinking of travelin’ to London, were you?” Jowan checked a pot bubbling over the flames in the wide stone fireplace. The scent of mutton filled the room.
“Naw, no danger o’ that.” She knew she’d never trek that far from Cornwall, but wishes didn’t hurt anyone. And hers never came true. “I be talkin’ ’bout that book, Moll Flanders.”
“Now, Catern, I never seen you read a book.” His blue eyes danced as he picked up a large wooden spoon and stirred the stew. “Is that somethin’ you started in Truro?”
“Didn’t say I read it. But I can read.” If she read and spoke better she might find a job in a shop, something decent, but for now she had to survive. With no reference from her last place of work—she twisted the soapy rag until her knuckles turned white—her choices were sparse.
“I admire that, but I’ve no time for books. I only read well enough to run my business.” He clinked down the lid onto the pot, retrieved a hunk of cheese from a low cupboard, unwrapped the cloth and set the Yarg on a board on the table.
“When I was a girl, my da read to me.” She swished the rag around inside a pewter tankard. “’Course, never that Flanders book, it bein’ a bit full of—you know, things folk don’t discuss out loud in company.”
Big Jowan laughed, a deep, infectious rumble. “I remember your father. He were a hard workin’ man. Too bad he… You embarrassed by such talk?”
“Nothin’ embarrasses me.” She forced a smile to hide the ache buried beneath that lie. “But as I was sayin’, Da taught me to read, and I was grateful for it.” Grateful until he left, leaving her alone to face the wrath of her mam. “But I hear ’bout this book and this witty lass who made her way into society by her beauty and her brains.”
“Seems to me you has both, Catty.” Big Jowan gave her a friendly wink as he sliced the cheese into thick slabs. He cut an onion in half beside it.
“Don’t try to turn my head with such flummery.” She wrinkled her nose at the sharp smells. It covered the twinge at his remark, even from someone as brotherly as he. She mangled the rag again, hating the craven creature she’d become.
“If this Moll chit lived here,” Jowan said, “she wouldn’t have to go to London to make her way in society. She’d just pursue the earl. Now his father’s dead, he’s lord of all that estate.”
Catern bit the inside of her mouth and bent low to the dishes, rinsing and drying. “Fie, no one needs nothing from that place. Don’t speak of it again.”
“Was only a rib. Thought you’d be over—”
“Never you mind.” She dried the last trencher and dropped the towel on the table. “You know I didn’t care for it there at Nanskeudi.”
“I beg your forgiveness, girl,” he said, his tone contrite. “If you’re tired of it here, with them new people up at Avallen, the Americans, they might need a chambermaid.”
“A chambermaid again? Never.” A defenseless servant at the mercy of strangers? Catern stepped around the hearth and climbed stairs so narrow her hips seemed to touch both walls at once. She entered her room, a tiny space tucked under the eaves in the attic. Near the dormer, she lowered her head under the slant and plopped down on her bed. She squeezed both hands to the sides of her face, as if she could push down the tears that threatened.
Then rising, she pulled a small looking glass from atop her wash stand that rocked on uneven legs. “I be aging too much.” She inspected the dark circles under her eyes. At nineteen she’d hoped for something more in her life. “Was right pretty afore…oh, fie!”
She untied her rough linen apron and let it drop. Her faded russet homespun skirt barely hid the scuffed shoes. These old shoes crowded her toes, but she couldn’t afford another pair. She glared again at the woman in the mirror. Her green eyes, so like her da’s, were large and wide-set, her mouth plump, but rarely smiled anymore. She splayed her fingers through her frizzy light brown hair. Maybe she’d cut it short like those rebel women in France, just to scandalize the Lankyp villagers. They already sneered at her, so why not make it worth their trouble and have a laugh. Yet she couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed.
“I’d like to have one of them new risen-wasted gowns, to look well turned-out in.” Or would that entice the men she tried to shun? She loosened the yellowing kerchief tucked in her bodice and regretted she’d allowed herself to grow chubby, though she ate little on her meager wages. She pictured her fat, shrill, mam—who always scolded her for talking to herself—and grimaced.
Unbidden, her mind drifted to Nanskeudi, in the beginning when she’d been content. Her reflection glared back at her, the fear sharp in her eyes. “Why am I here, so close, after a year away?” The glass slipped from her fingers into her chipped ewer, nearly cracking. “Oh bother all men. I only need to sleep at night. Might have to visit the doctor for a draught to quiet these megrims.”
* * *
Rose rubbed her palm over her temple as she stalked from Dr. Nelson’s cottage. The doctor was an insufferably insecure man, even if she had acted too brazen. His rejection weighed on her confidence, but she’d have to make amends so he wouldn’t scurry off like a rabbit.
It shouldn’t be a sin to want to be someone useful, a student of medical science instead of a master of perfect hem stitching. She’d proven herself smarter in her schooling, plus applying in a limited capacity the medical texts she’d read. Now she yearned to use her knowledge to promote healing.
Rose blew out her breath. Forced to leave America, she’d convinced herself that as a stranger she might find it easier to establish herself among people who didn’t know her. Had she been foolish to believe she could shape this village to her wishes? An ancient land of castles and traditions might thrust up higher walls for her to scale.
Her resolution returned; she stiffened her spine. She needed to become a part of a doctor’s—any doctor’s—practice.
Near the mill, an old woman hovered, staring. She wore a threadbare blue dress over a squat form and a red shawl with fringe about her shoulders. Hatless, her round face a network of wrinkles, she had wispy white hair that floated in the breeze.
Rose nodded politely and kept walking.
“Dydh da, a good day to you, Miss.” The old woman smiled, revealing a missing front tooth. “I’m Mrs. Trew. Hebasca they call me, an’ I need to talk to you, if you please.”
Rose paused, not wishing to be rude to the villagers. “I’m Miss Gwynn and I’m actually in a rush. We’ve recently moved in and there’s so much to do.” Still flustered, she longed for time to plan her next strategy. “Why did you need to speak with me?”
“You’re one o’ the new tenants at Avallen, an’ look a mite disappointed.” Mrs. Trew drifted nearer in a scent of sage. She had odd, yellow eyes, which she prodded over Rose. Perhaps she suffered from jaundice. “I see you’ve visited the lending library an’ visited with our Damawyn.”
“I wanted to research my ancestors who are supposed to be from this area.” Rose gripped her books, restless to continue on. “And find out some of the local history. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
“I’m the village charmer.” The old woman touched her finger to the side of her right eye. “Ask me what you seek. I know the history here; you don’t need no books for that.”
Rose took a step away. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Trew. Perhaps another time?”
“Hebasca, I insist. An’ there’s no time like the now. Me cottage be over there.” She placed her gnarled hand on Rose’s sleeve and pointed.
A sudden breeze sent Rose’s hair tickling along her neck. The clob cottage—built with a mixture of slate into the wattle and daub her father had explained—crouched across the road in a yard tangled with brambles and gorse. Its roof had thatch missing in places, and the shutters were worn and peeling paint.
Reluctant to visit there, Rose tested the old woman. “Do you know anything about the big stone ring near the cliff behind Avallen?”
“Ess? You seen it already, have you?” Hebasca nodded slowly, a wry grin curling her thin lips. “The ancient ones believed, and some still do, that if you be ailin’ or struck down with disease, if you crame on all fours...”
“I’m sorry. Crame?”
“That be the local word. If you crawled on all fours through a ringed stone, nine times backened to the sun, the ancients believed it would cure your ills.”
Rose recalled the ridiculous sensations she’d felt when she viewed the ring. “How peculiar. I guess ‘backened’ means your back to the sun?”
“It do.” The old woman’s cat-like eyes gleamed.
“Of course it’s all nonsense.” Rose prided herself on her steadiness, not given to vapors or swooning as many girls were.
“Not to people here.” Hebasca grasped Rose’s arm and tugged her across the road. “Cummas 'zon, an’ we’ll share a cup o’ tea. I’ll tell you more tales. Your ancestors are from hereabouts. That story be a bleak time from Lankyp’s past.”
“Bleak?” Still skeptical, Roes allowed Hebasca to lead her, careful not to bump the old-fashioned panniers that encased the woman’s hips. “You’ve only just met me, how do you know who I’m related to?”
“That’s the sight of the charmer, me girl. I know all the secrets, the legends, the names of the spirits and the Celtic wisdom.”
Rose held in a laugh. The woman probably dealt in superstitions and ancient fears.
She’d wanted to return home, then remembered her burning pamphlet. Mother, smudged in ashes, could wait. “Very well, I should get to know you villagers. I might have a moment for a cup of tea.”
Rose stepped from the other’s grasp and into the unkempt yard. Her shoes crunched over dry, dead foliage never raked up.
Hebasca swept her skirts through the gorse bushes with their honey-scented yellow flowers. “We’ll have a nice chat. I’ll brew you my special tea.”
“Not too ‘special,’ I hope.” Right before the cottage porch, Rose passed a crude sign with the words “Mrs. Trew, herb potions, poultices, and Keeper of Lore,” carved into the wood.
A small creature rustled out of the bushes into her path and she started.
“Only me Familiar.” Hebasca bent to pet a striking orange tabby that twitched its tail and glared at the newcomer with slanted yellow eyes, much like its owner’s.
“Is a Familiar some sort of mystical friend?” Rose asked as Hebasca stepped up and opened her splintered front door. At the moldy smell that wafted out, Rose cringed.
“Ess, in some ways. Witches must have Familiars. Someone who’s their eyes in the dark, who shares their every breath.” The old woman beckoned her in. “Now don’t be shy.”
“No one’s ever accused me of being shy.” The young doctor wouldn’t think so. “Do you consider yourself a witch? Aren’t witches’ cats usually black?” Rose spoke in amusement to reduce her unease. Curiosity, and a desire to integrate herself in the community, won out. With the books clutched to her chest, she entered.
The tiny parlor, strewn with items of clothing over shabby furniture, appeared as untidy as its resident.
The cat slipped between Rose’s legs, ruffled her skirt, and sprang up on a worn settee to glare at her again. She pressed her knees together.
“Such creatures come in many colors.” Hebasca motioned for her to follow her to the back of the cottage. “How is Mary, your new maid?”
“How did you...?” Rose narrowed her eyes. “She’s very timid and quiet, though I’m sure she’s getting used to her position.” Rose held her breath and trailed behind.
“Mary’s a bit slow, but a good girl from an upright family. Give her time. Used to watch her for the special sight. ’Tis a pity she don’t have none.” Hebasca shrugged. “Now Mrs. Chegwidden be a stern one, but an honest woman.”
Already the villagers knew all their business.
They passed through a kitchen where Hebasca lowered a swinging trivet. She placed a kettle of water on it to boil in her sooty hearth.