Page 2 of Bernadette’s Dashing Doctor (The Bookshop Belles #4)
CHAPTER 2
Meddlesome Chit
G lynn Williams had met any number of officious people who thought they knew better than a doctor, more often than not the patients he was trying to help, but he’d never had a young girl knock on his bedroom door and attempt to order him about before. She placed her hands on her hips and tried to stare him down, some feat as she was significantly shorter than he was.
“How old are you anyway, little girl?” he said a little mockingly. She might be Lord Ferndale’s granddaughter by marriage or some such connection, but he doubted she was more than sixteen. Playing at nursing to keep her busy, he suspected, like several of the idle, wealthy young women he’d met in London.
“I’m almost nineteen, and my name is Miss Bernadette Baxter, not little girl ,” she said indignantly.
Glynn failed to smother a laugh, which made her hazel eyes snap with annoyance.
“Do not laugh at me, sir! You know nothing of the people of Hatfield, whereas I have lived here all my life!”
“All eighteen years of it,” he said mockingly.
He could swear he nearly saw steam coming out of her ears. Her teeth ground together quite audibly, but her voice when she spoke was commendably level.
“Eighteen years longer than you. Do you even know the ailments of your employer, Lord Ferndale, and his sister Miss Yates? That Lord Ferndale has a cough brought on by changes in the weather, but eased by a tonic of…”
He held up his hand to stop her. “What can you know of such things? You’re not an apothecary, or a midwife; you’re far too young to be either.”
“My mother was an extremely well respected herb woman,” Bernadette said with great dignity. “I’m proud to carry on her caring tradition.”
“Oh, your mother ,” he said, not missing that she spoke in the past tense. “And I suppose she gave you her book of recipes?”
“Yes she did. And trained me in all her knowledge,” Bernadette declared proudly. “May her soul rest in peace.”
“Let us get one thing straight. You’re playing with people’s lives if you attempt to diagnose and treat them without training or qualifications and I will not have it!” Even as he spoke, Glynn realised he could be making an error. She was Lord Ferndale’s granddaughter, after all, even if it was only an honorary relationship, and Lord Ferndale was his employer.
Nevertheless, Glynn meant every word. He’d seen too many people sickened or even killed by those who meant well but didn’t understand what they were doing.
“I’ll take your list,” he said, as a small peace offering, “and consider your suggestions.” She was right that he did not know the people of Hatfield, and local knowledge was something he needed. But he would prefer to get it from people who were actually qualified. “Can you tell me who the local midwives are, and where to find the apothecary? And who is the doctor who has been providing services since Dr Rasley’s passing?”
“Mr Lennox is the apothecary; his shop is around the corner from here. Go past the bookshop and take the next turning right. The midwives are Mrs Bell, who lives almost directly across the street from our bookshop, in the house with the green door, Mrs Tristan and Mrs Leywood…”
“And the doctor?” Glynn prompted.
“There is no doctor here, not since Dr Rasley’s passing. Dr Edmonds in St Albans will not travel this far. A few people who were well enough and wealthy enough to travel will have visited him, but most of your patients could not afford to do so.”
“Can they afford medical treatment at all?”
She stared at him. “Why should they pay you for medical treatment? You are paid by Lord Ferndale!”
Glynn paused, readjusting his thinking. “You’re quite correct.” He’d just spent two months working beside another doctor in a practice in London, being paid to attend to wealthy fainting ladies in their salons. Mr Jackson offering a steadily-paid job where he could attend to real people with real ailments had been exceptionally appealing. “I am being paid by Lord Ferndale, but I had assumed that he would…”
“You make a lot of assumptions, Doctor. A habit I’d advise you to get out of.”
Why, the little madam! Annoyed all over again, Glynn almost tore the list into pieces right there and then.
“Thank you, Miss Baxter. Good day to you now.” It was getting late, and he was tired and hungry. He hoped the Red Lion served a good dinner.
“I shall see you soon, Doctor.” Bernadette gave him a knowing little smile before turning on her heel and walking out of his room.
“Not if I see you first!” Glynn muttered under his breath, closing the door firmly.
The memory of that knowing smirk stayed with him all evening.
The next morning, after a hearty breakfast courtesy of the Red Lion, Glynn packed a valise and made ready to set out to visit some patients. He grimaced at the list that smirksome young girl had given him. He had to concede that it was a fair list; it seemed to have been arranged in an order of priority that he didn’t think completely inappropriate. Top of the list was a farmer whose shoulder had not set properly after a dislocation. There was a chance they could reset it, but if the injury had happened weeks earlier, the arm joint might not go back. The sooner he attended to that matter, the better. He packed a bottle of laudanum and asked Mr Haye for directions. Then he collected his horse, Canterbury, from the livery stable behind the Red Lion. Lord Ferndale was paying to have Canterbury boarded there.
He arrived at the Allom property just a little out of town. A pretty place redolent with the unmissable smell of fattening pigs.
“Right good of you to come out, sir,” Mrs Allom said, showing him into the thatched-roof farm cottage and then into the bedroom. It had a low ceiling and he had to hunch down to avoid whacking his head on the beams.
“He’s been in dreadful pain,” the farmwife said, wringing her hands. “Miss Bernadette did what she could, like, but she said she didn’t have the strength to put it back in. She warned us not to touch it, because if one of the labourers did it, he might do it wrong, like?”
“Hm.” Glynn examined the man’s shoulder, noting the sheen of sweat on Allom’s upper lip as he gently manipulated it. Glynn hated to admit it, but Miss Bernadette had been correct in her diagnosis - ‘ shoulder out of socket ’ was written neatly on the list - and equally sensible in her assessment of the injury as both beyond her abilities and too hazardous for someone untrained to attempt to remedy. And Mr Allom would have been in no condition to travel to St Albans for proper treatment, even if Lord Ferndale had paid the bill for them.
“Well, I am here now,” he said briskly, putting his annoyance with Miss Bernadette aside to focus on the task at hand, “so let us have this back where it belongs. I shall strap it tightly after that and you must not use the arm for at least two weeks, do you understand me?”
“It’s been five days already,” Allom grunted, but he nodded at Glynn’s raised brows. “Aye, I’ll mind you.”
“Very good. Bite down on this.” Glynn handed Allom a padded stick. “It’s going to hurt, but it’ll be quick.” Carefully, he placed two fingertips of his left hand on the misshapen joint, took hold of Allom’s thick biceps in his right hand, and with a deft twist and shove put the shoulder back into place.
Allom fainted.
“My word,” Mrs Allom said in admiration.
“Keep him out of action, Mrs Allom. I mean it,” Glynn advised as he took a bandage from his bag and began tightly wrapping Allom’s shoulder joint. “And not straight back into the heavy work after two weeks, either. You make him mind.”
Mr Allom groaned as he came around. The sight of Glynn standing over him startled him, and then his wife quickly explained.
“The new doctor has come, and he’s fixed your shoulder,” she said.
His eyes flew open. “It doesn’t hurt!”
“But you’re not to use it, all all, for at least two weeks,” Glynn warned him again. “Then light duties only for a good while longer.”
“Yes, Doctor,” Mrs Allom said, answering for her husband.
Glynn saw the resolute glint in her eye. She’d take care of him.
He’d learned from experience that men generally did recover much faster when there was a woman about to make them mind the doctor’s orders. He gave instructions for small amounts of laudanum - Allom would be in considerable pain for a few days - but advised that it should be taken for no more than five days, and both husband and wife listened carefully to his instructions, nodding in agreement.
“Can I offer you a cup of tea, Doctor?” Mrs Allom asked, but Glynn shook his head.
“I’ve a lot more patients to see, ma’am, thank you kindly. Have your husband call into town next week and see me… I’ll be arranging a consulting room as soon as possible, check at the Red Lion and they’ll be able to tell you where.”
Mrs Allom accepted this, but pressed a pork pie on him as he left, which Glynn happily accepted. He folded it into his clean handkerchief and tucked it in his coat pocket. It would make a good lunch.
After visiting some more injured and sick townsfolk, in which Bernadette Baxter’s name was spoken often and with praise each time, he headed to visit the apothecary to introduce himself. The two of them would do well to get along, if at all possible. His patients would need proper medicines and compounds. It would also give him a chance to see what out-dated tinctures and brews were still for sale. They did more harm than good, and perhaps he could persuade the apothecary to take them off the shelves.
Mr Lennox was a cheery older fellow and walked on a prosthesis with a crooked gait. Happy to show Glynn around his shop and discuss his product range, he hissed slightly as he made the last step towards a cabinet where he showed off some of the goods for sale.
“Mr Lennox, I’ve noticed your leg is giving you discomfort.” Glynn tilted his head to look at the peg leg.
“Aye,” Lennox said. “Hasn’t been right for a while now, but I manage.”
“Would you like me to take a look? I fitted a good many men with new limbs after amputation. They can be tricky to get right.”
“Were you a sawbones?”
“That I was, with the army in the peninsula. Then I came back to England and went to medical school,” he confirmed, as he looked at the apothecary from the front and then the side. “I think one of your hips is higher than the other. Has it always been like that?”
“I don’t think so,” Mr Lennox shook his head. “Was all right to start with, but in the past few years it’s been getting worse.”
“Can’t have that,” Glynn agreed. “I think perhaps you’ve worn down the sole of your shoe on your good foot, and now your prosthetic leg is too long.”
His eyes widened. “I stopped wearing boots! Well, a boot. It must have had a thicker sole.”
“I think the answer is to either trim a little off the bottom of your prosthetic or slip a riser in your shoe to get level,” Glynn suggested.
“I’ll try the shoe riser first, and see how that goes,” Lennox said. “Well, I am jolly glad you made time to see me today. Fortune smiles upon Hatfield indeed. Now, is there anything I can get you for your assistance?”
“Your happiness is my thanks, Mr Lennox. I am being amply compensated by Lord Ferndale - I even have a horse at my disposal. He’s called Canterbury, but he generally likes to walk.”
Mr Lennox laughed at the pun. “He’s a good one, Lord Ferndale, but I still want to give you compensation. You noticed something Dr Rasley completely missed.”
He directed him to a shelf of jars filled with wrapped lozenges, a basket with sachets of herbal mixes for headaches and another piled high with little tins of honey balm for cracked lips. Glynn was impressed with how sensible they were, and the ingredients were safe. He didn’t recognise any of the packaging, though. Not supplied by any of the big London firms.
“They’re some of my most popular items, all made locally by Lord Ferndale’s granddaughter, Bernadette Baxter.”
Glynn stifled a groan at hearing that name yet again. The meddlesome wench apparently knew everyone and had a hand in everything.
And most vexing of all, she was using the right kind of ingredients that would genuinely help people. Where had she learned these skills? It was deeply annoying to find himself incorrect in at least one of the assumptions he’d made about her.
“Has Miss Baxter been supplying you long?” Glynn asked.
“Took over after her mother passed four years ago, God rest her soul. Michelle Baxter had forgotten more about herb healing than I’ll ever know, I reckon.” Lennox nodded sagely. “Bernadette has the knack for it too. She’s been taking good care of the folks of this town for a long time. Don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but Dr Rasley… well, he didn’t bestir himself much. It’s why Lord Ferndale decided to pay the new doctor a regular wage; folks as couldn’t pay in cash weren’t getting help. Miss Bernadette don’t mind if they pay in eggs or honey or potatoes.”
“So, she’s been treating people who should by rights have seen the doctor?”
Mr Lennox stared at him. “Weren’t you listening, son? If the doctor wouldn’t see them because they hadn’t the blunt, what were they supposed to do? Just up and die?”
“No, of course not!” Glynn flushed red. “Well, since Lord Ferndale is paying me to see anyone who needs it, you can just let everyone know to come to me now instead of Miss Baxter.”
Mr Lennox looked quite amused, but he tipped his head in a nod. “I’ll do that. Good to meet you, and thank you for your recommendation about my leg. I’ll try the riser in my shoe and let you know if it works.”
Glynn bade the apothecary a polite good day and exited the shop, silently stewing. It had been obvious from Lennox’s expression that quite a few people would continue going to Bernadette Baxter for her herbal remedies rather than see an actual doctor, which was quite ridiculous. He needed to put a stop to that, and soon.
Marching along the street and around the corner, he stopped outside Baxter’s Fine Books. He’d been told by any number of people that it was where Bernadette lived, in the apartments above the shop.
“Give her a piece of my mind,” he muttered. “Tell her she needs to send patients to me first, and stop meddling where she’s no business!”
Opening the bookshop door, a bell tinkled gently above his head. Glynn closed the door and stood still for a moment, letting his eyes adjust. While it wasn’t dark in the bookshop exactly, it was much dimmer than the bright sunshine outside.
“Hello, there,” a deep voice rumbled, and Glynn smiled as he spied Shaun Jackson, Lord Ferndale’s man. He’d been the one to interview and hire him in London. Jackson was standing at the counter, in conversation with a tall young woman, who despite being at least a head taller was so much like Bernadette she could only be a sister.
“This is the new doctor, Louise, Doctor Williams. Glynn, this is Miss Louise Baxter.” Jackson’s voice softened as he said her name, and it only took a single glance for Glynn to realise that the two were sweet on each other.
“Welcome to Hatfield,” she said.
“A pleasure to meet you,” he said, bowing.
“I hear you’ve already met Bernadette.” Hazel eyes sparkled teasingly.
Glynn smiled tightly. The old adage ‘ never come between sisters’ reverberated in his head. “Indeed. Would she be about, by any chance? I’d like a word.”
Jackson laughed quietly. “A kind one, I hope.”
Apparently, Bernadette hadn’t wasted any time sharing her opinion of him. Glynn took a slow, deep breath, well aware that Jackson worked for Lord Ferndale too. He needed to watch what he said, or he’d put the entire town against him.
“She’s been doing a fair job of taking care of folks,” Glynn said, honestly if rather unwillingly, “with obviously limited resources at her disposal, but I’m here now. I’d prefer she left treating patients to me.”
“Would you, indeed?” a light voice said behind him, and Glynn turned, startled. Bernadette had appeared apparently out of nowhere and stood with her arms folded across her bosom, looking up at him with that annoying little smirk on her face. “I’ll be sure to tell all the ladies with feminine complaints that the new doctor will be most sympathetic.”
“If necessary,” Glynn said through gritted teeth, “though surely that is a job for the midwives?”
“Perhaps you’d like to discuss that with them.” Bernadette’s smirk grew wider. “Mrs Bell lives just across the street, the house with the green door.”
“Yes, you mentioned that last night.” Glynn realised he’d better leave before he lost his temper and said something he’d regret. Jackson was watching him warily. Yanking the door open, he nodded a little curtly. “Good day to you all.”
“Crafty, no!” Bernadette yelled, and Glynn blinked at her, bemused.
“I beg your pardon?”
She flung herself forward, lunging low - at his knees? - and Glynn looked down just in time to see a furry black streak dash between Bernadette’s reaching hands, jump over his feet, and race out into the street.
He’d let a damn cat out.