The Merchant and the Clergyman (7 page)

“What are you implying, Mr. Shaw?” said the
doctor with reddening cheeks.

“Nothing at all. I am still gathering
information. My aunt has made charges, and despite her odd,
agitated manner, I must make certain they are not based on truth,
or I’ll have to bring in even more strangers.”

“Who can you mean?”

Shaw’s eyes glinted with gleeful menace. “I
mean alerting officers of the law.”

The doctor would lose his temper soon, and
they’d learn nothing.

“But of course we have Mrs. Darnley’s best
interests at heart, all of us,” James babbled. “And perhaps if we
could think of a…a course of treatment. Or discuss the doctor’s
plans. Like
civilized
professional gentlemen,” he added in
an undertone directed at Shaw, whose answering smile at him looked
far too genuine.

The doctor raised his chin, calm again. “Mr.
Shaw, your aunt is a sick woman. Her mind is deteriorating, and the
fears she express are based on phantasms. If she did not have a
caring family, I would be forced to label her a lunatic so she
might be cared for properly in an asylum.”

James blurted, “Surely not. The poor lady has
never harmed anyone.”

“She has made threats,” the doctor said.

Shaw leaned forward, interested. “To
whom?”

The doctor sniffed. “I’m not at all certain
that matters.”

Chapter Seven

Declan chewed on the inside of his lower lip
rather than taking a bite out of the doctor. He’d been trying to
pry information from the man for a quarter of an hour.

He opened his mouth to say
Any fool could
see Aunt Mary has developed some problems
…but Fletcher’s more
genteel approach seemed effective. He glanced at Fletcher.
Civilized professional gentlemen indeed. He tried, “I’m glad you’re
admitting there is a problem with my aunt—”

“Of course there is.” The doctor raised his
brows. “If you were a regular visitor, you would see how suddenly
her illness began.”

Declan bit the inside of his lip for a
change. “Could you explain why her manner changes from hour to
hour? Sometimes she seems to live in a fog. Would that be her
illness or the sedative you’ve given to calm her?”

“I would never harm my patients.” He sounded
furious, and Declan hadn’t even tried to insult him—not yet,
anyway.

“No, of course not,” Fletcher soothed. “But
her unhappiness and agitation are marked on occasion? And you do
what you can to help.”

“She grows disturbed, and Squire Darnley
quite reasonably asked for something to help her more frantic
times.”

Declan asked, “What exactly have you
prescribed?”

“My fellow doctor in London has a fine tonic
for the problems related to feeblemindedness. Very efficacious. It
contains a derivative of coca and other calming remedies.”

“What does that mean?” Declan tried to keep
the disgust from his voice, but the doctor might have been reading
from a patent medicine advertisement in any newspaper.

“It’s very effective.”

Declan snorted and gave up on diplomacy. “I
was unclear. I meant what the hell is
in
the stuff?”

“Unfortunately, the doctor has a proprietary
interest in some ingredients in the tonic.”

“In other words, you don’t know what you’re
prescribing for her? What kind of—”

“I—I’d thought conditions such as hers are
gradual events.” Fletcher cast an apologetic smile at Shaw. For his
interruption? Thank goodness the man was here, or Shaw would bite a
hole in his own cheek.

He nodded encouragingly at Fletcher, who
immediately looked away, wiped a hand over his mouth, then
continued, “Several aged people in the village have problems
similar to hers. I’ve noticed their deterioration is gradual. Mrs.
Darnley’s condition seemed to come upon her so suddenly.”

“Ah, you’re playing physician again? Such a
man to come to the rescue of the ladies.” The doctor chuckled.
“I’ve observed how the ladies of the village have made you into
their pet, Mr. Fletcher, but even countless conversations or
confessions of their funny little conditions could not turn you
into a doctor.”

Silence fell for several long seconds. Declan
tamped down his immediate instinct to defend Fletcher and leaned
back in his chair. He suspected the mild-mannered curate might
ignore the smirking doctor, but would wait to see.

Mr. Fletcher’s smile was charming. “Dr.
Tarkington, I base what I said upon
observation
. And I
recall, you recently
observed
that your best weapon in the
fight against diseases you expect to encounter in future patients
is
observing
the same symptoms in today’s patients.” Shaw
could have sworn he heard the tiniest emphasis on the repeated
word. Nothing obvious. Not as good as a knee in the groin, but he
supposed Fletcher’s response was better than cringing or backing
down.

Apparently, the doctor didn’t hear Fletcher’s
irritation or he ignored it. He addressed Shaw. “I believe Mrs.
Darnley suffered an apoplectic fit which left her brain
disordered.”

That was as close to an actual diagnosis the
man had given so far. “Will she make any more of a recovery?”
Declan asked.

“Impossible to say.” The doctor tilted his
head back, and Declan tried not to stare up the man’s nose.

Declan pulled out a small notebook and, from
the corner of his eye, noticed the doctor shift uneasily in his
chair. “I’ll just jot a few notes,” Declan said. “The name of that
patent remedy?”

“It is no such thing. The doctor who produces
it was in school with me.”

Shaw didn’t want to get into a tedious
argument with the man. “The name,” he repeated.

“Why?”

“I shall write to the physician and ask for
the formula.”

Dr. Tarkington looked as if he wanted to
argue, but he surrendered at last. He gave Declan the doctor’s name
and even his address, but without any enthusiasm.

Declan tucked his notebook into an inside
pocket and rose to his feet. “Thank you for your time,” he
said.

The doctor did not say he was welcome. He’d
lost all of his polished manners. “If there’s nothing else, I have
a busy schedule today.” Tarkington opened the door to the sitting
room. Instead of summoning the maidservant, he himself led them
out. They stopped on the stone step outside the house, and the
doctor scolded Declan in a low voice. “Your uncle deserves better
than your suspicion, young man.”

“Why do you think I suspect my uncle of
anything?”

Tarkington’s eyes narrowed, and he
practically slammed the front door behind them.

Declan put his hat on his head and grasped
Fletcher’s elbow before the curate managed to rush away and leave
him behind. “Well, that was productive.”

“Do you think so? I must live in this
village, and the doctor is important in our lives.” As they walked,
Fletcher pulled his arm away. He seemed seriously annoyed.

“What’s wrong?”

Fletcher sighed, and his shoulders relaxed.
He set off toward the vicarage. “You couldn’t have known it will be
a nuisance if he thinks less of me.”

Declan caught up with him. “Less of you? I
don’t see how that is possible. He considers you an emasculated
plaything for gossipy women and nothing more.”

“You’re right, of course. He does.” Fletcher
didn’t seem the least disturbed. Why wouldn’t he want to pound a
fist into the doctor’s face?

Fletcher shoved his hands into his jacket
pockets as they walked, and continued explaining. “What I mean is,
I’d rather have sneering condescension than suspicion.”

“Why on earth would you want that?”

“As long as he knows I don’t gossip and he
doesn’t feel threatened by me, he’s more willing to share
information about his diagnoses.”

Declan felt a surge of worry. “Are you
ill?”

“Oh no. Not at all. But some of my
parishioners are. Dr. Tarkington believes that some lower-class men
as well as all children and ladies are not mentally hale enough to
hear more serious diagnoses.”

“You mean diagnoses of death? And you go
against his wishes and tell them?”

“If they ask, yes.”

“All of them? What if they’re not strong
enough to take bad news?” He almost pointed out that Fletcher
wasn’t a doctor, but he did not want to sound like Tarkington.

“If they are strong enough to ask, then I
believe they truly wish to hear the truth. I’m not certain if any
of us are able to hear the news we will soon die. But I have
seen—
observed
”—his wry smile was fast, and probably only
someone watching carefully would notice it—“that some people rest
better knowing the truth and having time to put their lives in
order.”

“And at least they will see their creator on
the other side.” Declan watched Fletcher’s face, but the man didn’t
smile or agree. He only gazed out at the trees, lost in
thought.

“I shall have to bring him some jam,” he said
at last. “The doctor loves berry jam. A small bribe, but it might
work.” He suddenly grinned. “And I have quite a lot of it. The
doctor was correct in one sense. I have far too many gifts of food
and knit scarves.”

“Sounds hideous.”

“It can be dangerous. I dare not decorate my
cottage or wear anything made for me out in public for fear that a
young lady will take it as a token of my esteem. And I can’t put
anything in the poor box for fear of insulting its maker, who might
see someone else wearing it. My wardrobe is quite stuffed with
embroidered slippers and watercolor paintings of animals.” His eyes
sparkled with rueful humor, and his grin showed even more white
teeth. No wonder the females of the village swooned over the
curate.

He absently fingered the scarf wrapped twice
around his neck, a lumpy gray concoction that was truly ugly.
Declan realized he must be far too distracted by the man’s looks if
he hadn’t noticed that skinny knit worm.

“That thing must be from one of your
admirers. You would never buy that.”

Fletcher laughed. “Indeed, yes. But it’s safe
for me to wear—no one would think I’d marry the one who made it.
Jeannie is a simple-minded girl who crows like a rooster. Truly she
does, and it’s a terrible noise. She adores the fact that hers is
the only scarf I wear. It makes her so proud, I put it on even
during warm days.”

“You’re a martyr.”

“Not at all. Feel the wool.”

Declan pulled off a glove and fingered the
scarf—a fabric softer than any he’d ever felt. And warmed by the
curate’s skin. His thumb brushed the man’s neck, and he drew his
hand away reluctantly.

“See? Hardly a hair shirt,” Fletcher said. He
touched his throat absently, the same spot Declan had touched.

“Still, aren’t you suffocated by all that
attention?”

“It’s quite flattering. I’m in danger of
becoming the most conceited curate in all of England.”

“Seriously, Mr. Fletcher. Those fluttering
girls and ladies, all sobbing and pious and pouring out their sad
little hearts. It would make me run away as fast as I could.”

“I can imagine you running for your life in
fear.” Fletcher grinned. “I admit the attention is often unwelcome,
and occasionally smothering. Yet when I’m annoyed, I remind myself
that love in most forms must be the best gift God gave us—that is,
if it doesn’t lead to heartbreak and anger. If it doesn’t turn… If
it’s not depraved…” His smile vanished, and he grew serious.
“Otherwise, how can love be wrong?”

“Now you sound more like a preacher.
Depraved? What do you consider depraved?”

The curate didn’t answer.

The village was so small, they’d already
reached the churchyard and James Fletcher’s front door. Declan was
surprised by the depth of his disappointment. He didn’t want his
time with this man to be over so soon. Never one to hold back from
anything he wished to accomplish or possess, Declan blurted a
challenge.

“It’s half noon already. I’m empty as a
barrel and don’t know if I have the stamina to trudge all the way
back to the hall.” He looked pointedly at Fletcher. “Could you
spare a crumb or two? Doesn’t the gospel say something about
feeding wayfaring strangers?”

A flicker of dismay chased by something that
looked remarkably like satisfaction crossed those expressive gray
eyes. A slight smile came and went from the shapely mouth. Declan
saw Fletcher was glad for an excuse to invite him in, while at the
same time fearing a replay of that tense, charged moment by the
fire last night. Nothing had been said or done, but the feeling
between them had been palpable, obvious, undeniable. Once Declan
entered the little house again, where might those feelings lead? He
was dead set on finding out.

Fletcher nodded without speaking and led the
way inside.

A hum of anticipation filled Declan as he
followed, not stopping in the parlor as Fletcher suggested, but
accompanying his host to the kitchen. “Allow me to assist you in
raiding the larder. I’m quite adept at creating canapés.”

The tiny kitchen was clean and organized and
smelled of oranges. Some of the tension left Declan’s body the
moment he entered the room. Preparing food was his secret delight.
An utterly inappropriate activity for a gentleman and a
businessman, but there it was.

“It’s a cozy place you have here,” he
commented as he poked his nose into the pantry. “You have a
housekeeper?”

“One of my parishioners sees to tidying the
house and making sure I have a hot meal on the table once a day.
Other than that, I’m on my own.” Fletcher pulled out a baking mold
and sniffed at the contents, checking to see the custard hadn’t
gone over. “But, as I mentioned, there’s never a lack of food.”

“I can see that.” Declan avoided several
dishes of hearty country fare and went for a block of cheese and
some cold tongue from the icebox. He moved around the kitchen as if
he owned it, locating a knife and expertly slicing thin shavings of
meat and cheese. “Might there be a loaf of bread?”