Bitter Herbs

by Amandine Moxon

  * * *

  Bosco had given them a token to take to Tom as proof of their bona fides, and this was invaluable in smoothing their path by earning the gipsies’ trust more quickly than might otherwise have been the case with the Dixons in tow. John was able to have a quiet word with Tom who had shown him his stock while Miss Dixon was being entertained by Tom’s mother, Dorelia, inside her caravan. The shrewd old woman had watched the party arrive and observed each member well. She had seen the relatively formal courtesy shown by the doctor to the ladies, the lack of a smile as he helped them from his chaise, even a hint of impatience, and surmised that a mismatch might be in the offing, if the women had their way. She took care to tell Miss Dixon much that she wished to hear about her own prettiness and chances in the marriage market, but gently warned her off marrying an older man and told her to seek someone with more vigour and youth. Miss Dixon did not find this altogether displeasing, for she was beginning to see that the doctor was courteous but no more, and lately Tommy Sweetman had bowed over her hand at their meetings in a way that she liked; she rewarded the gipsy generously. The fastidious Mrs Dixon preferred not to venture into the caravan and so Grace took Miss Dixon’s place. She took sixpence out of her purse and gravely laid it in the old woman’s palm. Dorelia looked at Grace’s shining eyes and compressed mouth; the child was clearly trying to keep some excitement in check.

  “So, little Miss, what secret do you have? Let me see.” Dorelia cast some passes over the little warm palm, so white and soft in her own lined hands, tanned ruddy brown. “You nurse a great desire, I see. It is something more than most little wenches seek, yes? It is not a longing for a kitten or a doll, no, no.” Grace started to wriggle in her seat with excitement. “But will you gain it?” the gipsy went on, “let me see, let me see. Your success rests not with you alone, alas. If it did, then you might achieve it, but you must struggle, yes, there is toil in the life ahead, little one, many crosses on the life path. Are you prepared for that?” The gipsy looked intently into the little girl’s eyes, and Grace looked steadfastly back, for she saw respect therein.

  “I am, Mrs Boswell. I would work very hard.”

  “Would you even forsake taking a husband, my dear?”

  “Yes. For if I had my heart’s desire, I would help many people not just one.” Grace spoke without hesitation.

  “You have a stout heart, I think, little miss. It may win others to your cause, but it may not be you who achieves the end, but those who come after you. The future is not clear. Could you bear this, my dear? To be the one who lights the way but must let others pick up the torch and carry on?”

  “it would not be what I want most. But it would be a start, I suppose...”

  Grace came thoughtfully out of the caravan to where her father was waiting, while the Dixons were examining some gewgaws the gipsies were offering for sale. Dorelia followed her out.

  “Would the learned doctor care to have his fortune told by the gipsy woman?”

  “No, I thank you. We must press on,” John declined, but with courtesy. Grace exclaimed with disappointment, but the old woman smiled.

  “I understand, sir. You are a man of science and knowledge and you do not believe in my poor skill. I would not press you. But would you heed some advice?”

  “Willingly, Mrs Boswell.” He reflected that her experience of life must be wide and deep.

  “You have a deep love in your heart for this little one and for her mother, do you not?”

  She had seen his pride in his girl and carefully watched the shadow that passed over his countenance at the mention of her mother. She had noted too the mourning ring on his little finger.

  “I am sorry for your pain. A goodly man like yourself need not always be alone. You may find a helpmeet, one you can love with all that share of your heart that does not lie in the late lady’s grave, begging your pardon, sir, or alive in your daughter’s bosom. She should not be young and silly, however fair; many a man has regretted such a step in his time,” said she, glancing disparagingly towards Miss Dixon, just at that moment absorbed in catching her own charming reflection in a polished copper pannikin hanging from the side of the caravan.

  John blushed. He felt momentarily angered by the gipsy’s presumption, but he saw at once that there was no mockery, only keen interest, in her face. Some clever guesses about my likely age and inclinations, he thought, but nonetheless her words spoke to his hope and he did not begrudge her a silver coin. On impulse she fished into her apron pocket and drew forth a pretty little brass charm in the shape of an intricately carved padlock about a quarter of an inch high, which she held out to him.

  “Put that on your watch chain, sir. It even had a little key once, but that was lost long ago. It belonged to my uncle Rhidian who was a healer too. None of my family here has that gift, alas, and it should belong to someone who does. I do not forget your kindness to my kin, the Lovells. It will bring you good luck. Remember me on your wedding day and it will bring you a blessing.” She winked then and he blinked back in surprise at the familiarity with which she regarded him.

  He looked at the charm on his palm. It was well made, with a working hinge and tiny keyhole, and something more substantial than the usual tawdry things sold as charms by many gipsies. He was not a superstitious man, but he was pleased by the sincerity of the gift.

  “Thank you, Mrs Boswell,” he said, “I will keep it safe.”

  Chapter 17

  Dr Peplow soon sought an opportunity to acquaint Edmund with the information he had gleaned from Tom Boswell. A note would have sufficed but now Harriet was home and he was hopeful of another talk with her. He was disappointed that she did not seem to be in when he called.

  “He was a careful man, not just a charming rogue, as I half-expected, “ he began. “ He must be in his forties, with a family of fine children about him. He showed me his stock without hesitation and told me that he always warned the lasses about the effects. He scalds his bottles with boiling water before filling them, to prevent mould. He is well acquainted with many of the serving maids in the town and roundabout, and is sure that he did not sell any to Dilly, nor did she ever enquire of him with a view to purchase.”

  “I am most grateful to you, Peplow. It has saved me a long hunt to find him, so far from my own parish. It was particularly invaluable to have someone as observant and scrupulous as yourself undertake this task.”

  “A pleasure, my dear fellow. Have you any new acquisitions among the coleoptera?

  “Not lately, but come see the gorgeous fellow given to me by one of Mr Soane’s guests; he had two specimens and was glad to exchange this one for some notes on the habits of field crickets I was able to provide from my observations, inspired by White of Selborne.” Using the hand lens, the two men were soon absorbed in their study of the beast, which had been equipped by nature with powerful mandibles and adorned with many superfluous horn-like appurtenances.

  After a pleasant half-hour in this pursuit, the doctor took his leave of Edmund. As Deborah handed him his hat in the hall, Harriet came downstairs, carrying her basket and bonnet, ready to set out to visit several parishioners who had been referred to her by Edmund as needing broth or other necessities, or who had minor medical needs but could not afford even the services of the apothecary, let alone those of the surgeons of the town. She was much ashamed to be seen by him in her shabbiest gown, with an apron of brown fustian, for she had to go into one of the poorest and dirtiest homes that day. Coming forward to greet him, she explained this with a blush, but he only approved the practicality of such dress, and observed to himself that, though drab, it nevertheless fitted her figure well. He was quick to offer to accompany her and to carry her basket, as he did not need to return home until the evening. Though her brother was ready to do this office whenever he could, he was too often busy on his own rounds within the parish, and there was a piquant charm in having the man whose company was always pleasing to her undertake this burden with more than ordinary cou
rtesy, but she earnestly tried to put him off, as she would be visiting some of the poorest cottages.

  “I have seen great poverty in my own town, Miss Bredwardine,” he reassured her, “and attended inmates at the poorhouse there in their last hours. I am sure that I shall see no worse today. Pray let me accompany you.” She gave way graciously to his pleading, made well content by his evident resolve to bear her company.

  Their first visit was to the almshouses, where old Mrs Morris was laid up in her bed with rheumatics. Harriet went about the little cottage quietly, setting much to rights, seeing that the old lady was comfortable, her fire stoked and burning brightly and her medicine replenished. She did all the little chores whose unfinished state can vex an invalid and hinder recovery, without needing any to be pointed out to her. She watered her patient’s geraniums and picked off the dead leaves, tidied away her clean linen, and fed her tabby cat who rubbed against Harriet’s skirts, purring her pleasure. Mrs Morris had been a little alarmed at first to see the doctor with her, for she feared that his visit might cost her money, and then she had been struck by a worry that Miss Bredwardine actually thought her much more ill than she herself had realised, but he quickly put her mind at rest and then she had leisure to watch the couple who appeared to agree so well together. Her fancy could not help beginning to weave a little romance for them, for the hours often passed wearily for her. She sighed when they were gone and thought about her own good man, now at rest.

  Harriet and the doctor proceeded to the next cottage on her list, where Evan Jenkins, the local carpenter’s apprentice, was recovering from a deep gash to his hand, received in an accident at work when he and his employer had been replacing a window for a client. It had threatened his livelihood for a time but was now on the mend.

  Inside the well-tended little home, they found that Evan and his wife had followed Harriet’s previous instructions to the letter and kept the wound scrupulously clean. The flesh beneath the bandage was healing well and after washing her own hands well, Harriet filled a basin with freshly boiled water and added some nettle juice to bathe it, drying with the cloth previously boiled and dried stiff for the purpose, before smoothing a salve of her own making, containing wintergreen, onto the wound, and applying fresh wrapping. She turned to the doctor to explain that her observation of such cases had found that the adherence to a regime of strict cleanliness seemed to lessen the chances of infection and mortification of the flesh. The doctor nodded, much interested, and watched her quiet capability with approval.

  “I wish I could have such assistance on my own rounds,” he remarked as they left the grateful young couple. Harriet blushed, not just because of the praise. She hastened to divert her own feelings away from herself back to the hard tasks ahead of her, and paused at the door of the next cottage, where old Mr Benson awaited her visit impatiently.

  “I know you may have seen much worse, Doctor, but you might want to wait outside while I feed and wash old Mr Benson. It is not a pleasant task, but I am used to it.” She did not add that he might find the smoky and verminous old cottage something of an ordeal to enter.

  “On the contrary, Miss Bredwardine, I would spare you such a task if I could. I could help, if you would allow.”

  “No need, sir, though it is kind of you. I would feel that I would be shirking my duty and besides, you would not be here the next time I must do it.” She had shaken her head quite vehemently and it occurred to him with a sudden mortifying sting, that she might misinterpret his offer of help as officious. He hastened to explain.

  “I did not mean to intrude unnecessarily,” he assured her earnestly. “I have seen your nursing competence.”

  “Oh, sir, I did not impute anything so unworthy to your consideration, I assure you. Mr Benson’s home is not very seemly, but he is very old and has no one else, and he would sooner die than go to the poorhouse , though I think that must inevitably be his fate, since his great-nephew Robert died last month. Good Rob used to send him money each week for fuel and food, and now Edmund does the same from the poor box, but I think he is too unwell to continue much longer. ”

  “Let us go in together and I will act as your assistant but only if you need me.”

  “Very well.” She smiled at him so sweetly that he wished with all his heart that he could shield her from this duty and much else.

  * * *

  Both instinctively held their breath as they entered the old man’s hovel. There was little hope here of Mr Benson obeying Harriet’s gentle exhortations about cleanliness, for he was too infirm to stand a good sluicing under the town pump nowadays and his only other means of keeping clean were limited to bringing water from the well, and boiling it in a pot over a few sticks for the fire. More recently his legs had started to swell and pain him so that he had been unable to move far from his home. Dr Peplow’s eyes widened in horror as he realised that Harriet came here regularly. She and her brother rather regarded Mr Benson as the cross they had to bear since not only was his home and person alike dirty and odiferous but he was cross-grained and ungrateful in his personality too, rendering Harriet no thanks for her patient feeding of the good broth and her sponging of his hands, face, upper body and legs afterwards, like a baby, but instead complaining all the while of the pain in his legs and the wait he had been forced to undergo since her visit of yesterday. It required much self-restraint for the doctor not to give the old man a shake for his lack of civility, but at Harriet’s request he examined the old man’s legs, which were dropsical. His face was grave as he rose from his stooping position. He took Harriet outside where they both were grateful for the fresher air.

  “The oedema, that is, the swelling, is water being retained under the skin. It is a symptom of some disease within, affecting the heart or some other organ. He cannot live long, as you surmised, without treatment. Dr Withering, of Wellington, observed that a foxglove mixture was efficacious to treat such cases, but it is not always effective and is certainly not without its own dangers. I could prescribe and administer it for him if you wish and we could see how he fares.”

  “Is there a danger it could simply push him further down the path to death, Doctor?”

  “Yes,” he said simply. “That is always a risk with any poisonous herb.”

  “Like the case of poor Dilly Jones,” Harriet sighed. “I cannot say what would be best. Let us ask him what he would wish you to do.”

  The old man could by no means be induced to listen to the doctor’s suggestion however, even when offered the remedy at no cost to himself. Suspicious of medical men since the deaths of his wife, only son, sister and great-nephew, who had all received attendance from physicians at the end, he was convinced the doctor intended merely to play God with him, and perhaps, horror of horrors, to anatomise him afterwards, under the pretence of treating him first. Harriet begged the doctor to withdraw for she feared that Mr Benson’s language might become more heated and offensive so long as his perceived enemy remained in view, and he reluctantly left her to sooth the querulous old creature back to composure, which took not a little time. When she re-joined him in the street afterwards, they were both disturbed by the incident, seeing the fierce fight in the old man to live, while refusing the very thing that might help prolong his existence. They walked down the street together in silence until Harriet turned to the pensive doctor and tentatively asked him if he was not too discomfited by Mr Benson’s ingratitude, to accompany her to Mr Simmonds’ cottage, to read a little to him from the Times newspaper, as unfortunately her brother had not been able to perform that duty today. He consented readily. There they entered a cheerful room with a good fire, everything clean and bright and kept so daily by Mr Simmonds’ married daughter, who lived close by. The lively old man took a deep interest in meeting the doctor for his own sake as well as being as the friend of his priest, and was grateful for his ready complaisance in reading out items from the paper, including a report on the operation of the metropolitan police force, which Sir Robert Peel had set
up only last September, which the men then discussed between them as Harriet replenished the stock of medicine to treat Mr Simmonds’ cough, which had lingered after his cold.

  “I am very grateful, to you both, very grateful. You were very kind, sir, to spare the time to read to me. God bless you both,” the old man said as they left. The sight of the prosperous and kindly old soul waving to them from his doorstep, well content despite his blindness, did much to erase the disagreeable impression Mr Benson had left with them, and the doctor’s pity for the latter’s unhappy state outweighed once more his mild vexation at the old man’s intransigence, just as Harriet hoped it would. Harriet’s round being completed, they wandered slowly back to the benefice house, each content to take pleasure in the company of the other with little said after their tiring afternoon.

  Chapter 18

  As Harriet and John were thus engaged, Edmund had gone out on one of his rounds. He was determined to speak to Frank and hear his version of the events leading up to Dilly’s death. He visited the Mill Farm near Homer where Frank worked but had not found him. “’E’s gone back to Wenlock, sir,” said the maidservant who had opened the back door to him and had been much flustered to find the good looking curate, well-liked among the maids, before her, and she not in her Sunday best as he would normally have seen her at church, but with rough apron, hair straying beneath her cap and wet hands. “’E’s not been ‘imself since that poor little wench put an end to herself.”