Page 37

‘Oh, Miss Carew! Come, come and meet our new doctor.’

There is a pause, a rustle of leaves. Henry turns. A young woman steps through the arch of the hedgerow, a wicker basket in her hand, and any thought of pressing the vicar flies clean from Henry’s head, for approaching them is the most beautiful creature he has ever seen in his entire life.

Miss Carew, as Mr Dee called her, has the most striking combination of flame-red hair and amber-brown eyes set within a heart-shaped face; her skin is cream-pale, a smatter of faint freckles spans her straight nose like little stars and her mouth is bud-like, coral-hued. He tries not to stare.

‘Your servant, miss.’

A charming dimple appears in the cushion of the young woman’s round cheek.

‘Dr Talbot. A pleasure to meet you at last.’

A pleasure indeed. Her voice is clear and lilting, with a soft yet very distinct Welsh accent, smooth and fresh like spring water. Henry’s pulse thrums in his throat.

‘Miss Carew is our resident herbalist,’ Mr Dee says. ‘You will be working quite closely together, I should think?’

Henry thinks of the herbs Mrs Morgan showed him yesterday. So, that explains it. They did not belong to Dr Beddoe after all.

‘Perhaps we shall,’ Miss Carew murmurs. ‘But some doctors do not approve of the old remedies. Are you one of them?’

Not wanting her to think less of him, he chooses his words with care.

‘They have their merits,’ he says.

But Miss Carew clearly sees through the bluff and with a small smile says, ‘A clever gentleman’s answer. Unwilling to commit either way.’

Beside him, Mr Dee rocks again on his heels. ‘Methinks, Dr Talbot, you’ve already made a bit of a faux pas! Rowena is a discerning little thing, are you not, my dear?’

Rowena. What a pretty name.

‘I’m sorry,’ Henry tries, ‘it is not—’

But Miss Rowena Carew is shaking her head. ‘Do not trouble yourself. I’m not offended, truly.’

‘No need to be, either,’ the reverend remarks. ‘Your science and Miss Carew’s methods can find a way to work in harmony, I am sure.’

Henry finds himself at a loss for words. He feels embarrassed now, unsure of himself, green like a novice schoolboy. Seeing his discomfort, Mr Dee spreads out his arm.

‘Shall we walk on?’

He gestures in the general direction of the path, and taking Gwydion by the bit Henry gratefully obliges. The four pass through the gap in the hedgerow, back out into the lane, up in the direction of Penhelyg’s square. They walk in silence for a moment until, most delicately, Rowena Carew clears her throat.

‘You arrived late on Monday, I understand?’

Her step is light and feminine – not at all like Linette’s heavy determined stride. A breeze tickles Henry’s nose, and he detects on her the sweet perfume of lavender.

‘I did, yes.’

‘And how do you like Wales?’

Henry hesitates. ‘It’s not at all what I’m used to, I must confess.’

‘You’re from London, are you not?’

‘I am.’

‘A great change, then,’ Miss Carew remarks, ducking her red head to avoid the branch of a reaching willow. ‘I’ve heard medical men from the city are most enterprising in their methods. The people of Penhelyg are lucky to have you.’

The reverend, who has been walking up ahead of them, gives a low sigh.