“If I pronounce it like the French, will you like it better?” He said in a deep and guttural voice, his r a throaty purr, “Retta, Retta.”
Louise collapsed into a fit of giggles, dropping on the ground and throwing her head back in the most unladylike, unrestrained fashion he’d ever seen. He chuckled, noticing how the smile on Henrietta’s face was like sunlight first breaking through a cloud, one timid crack at a time, until she laughed, too.
“If you speak to me with a French accent, then I shall certainly not dissuade usage of the name.”
A crackle of emotion traveled through him when he met her eyes. How bright and cheery they were, as if she had never known sadness. But she knew his dark secret. His future was, in a sense, in her hands.
Did she know how much power she had over him? The thought sobered him as he realized suddenly that the word of this woman, this doctor governess, could alter his life forever.
Chapter Eight
Henrietta was going to dredge up a talk with the earl.
She surveyed the unrepaired cottage, its roof sagging in the middle beneath a crookedly hung front door. Her horse, Starlight, shifted beneath her, stomping its hooves as if feeling her exasperation. It was the third cottage she’d found like this.
A chilly breeze nipped at her cheeks as she dismounted, tying Starlight to the post.
Louise slid off her own horse. “Can I pick flowers?”
“Find four different species to take home. We will catalogue them. I have a very good lens with which to study them.” Henrietta tied Louise’s horse up as well, watching with approval as the girl scampered across the grass to a patch of flowers near a copse of trees.
Their afternoon ride had proven fruitful in countless ways, but was also eye-opening. They’d need to head home soon as clouds gathered in slate-gray bunches and the wind slowly grew chillier.
“Missus, can we help you?” A woman appeared in the doorway of the cottage, her skirts as threadbare as the poorest farmers Henrietta had met in the Americas. Brown hair pulled back, the woman sported an infant on her hip and a toddler with smudged cheeks at her side.
Henrietta strode forward, holding out her hand. “I am Miss Gordon, Louise’s governess.”
The woman stared, as though having no idea what to say. Her gaze skittered to the girl, then rested on Henrietta once again. As if taking in the quality of Henrietta’s riding habit, the cultured cadence of her voice, the woman dropped her head and knees in a quick, dutiful curtsy.
“Pleased be to meet you. I’m Mary Smith.”
Henrietta had to listen closely to understand her due to the strength of her accent. “And I’m pleased to meet you.”
Mary stared in a wistful manner at Louise. “I have not seen ’er since the accident. Her parents used to bring her out to visit. Those were good days, ’ey were. Nice people. Took care of their tenants.” She pointed to the roof. “Do ye happen to know if his lordship be fixin’ this soon? My ’usband has had a request in for months.”
“That is not why I am here, but I shall certainly mention it to the earl.” Though she hadn’t ridden an estate in years, the state of the cottage caused concern. She noticed a mark on Mary’s arm and moved closer for a better look. “How long have you had that on your arm?”
“Oh, this?” Mary held up her arm, examining the purplish rash as though unsure. “Months, and it itches something fierce. The apothecary gave me a cream, but it hasn’t done nothing for the better, nothing for the worse.”
“May I see this cream? Did he say what’s in it?”
“Aye, come in, if you’d like. I’ll make you a spot of tea.”
Henrietta waved at Louise to let her know where she was going, and then stepped into the cottage. Small and square, the homey atmosphere stood at stark odds with the exterior untidiness. A clean sideboard held a bowl of fruit and nuts. A neatly made bed sat against the far wall, its bright quilt suggesting the owner’s skill with a needle.
She waited near the door while Mary rummaged through a wooden chest on the other side of the room. She brought back the cream, handing the glass container to Henrietta with a frown. “The smell is something awful.”
Henrietta sniffed it. Camphor and sage. Hardly beneficial for a rash. Perhaps the apothecary had mixed other things within, but one sniff told Henrietta all she needed to know. She gave it back.
“May I examine your arm?”
Though clearly surprised, Mary held out her arm, shifting her babe to the other hip. He gurgled, his toothless grin bringing a smile to Henrietta’s heart. “You’ve a lovely family here.”
“Thank ye, miss.”
After one more thorough look at the skin, which was dry and scaly in some places, yellowish with a putrid smell in others, Henrietta straightened. “I will bring you a special soap. You must wash with it, using clean water, three times a day, keep the rash dry. I also have a liniment that may prove useful, and it smells much better than what you’re using now.”
Mary nodded, but doubt was evident on her face.
The English did not trust a woman for anything but help in childbirth, evidently. “My uncle is Mr. William Gordon. I have studied with him for many years. Would you be willing to try my methods? If they don’t work, you can continue using what the apothecary gave you.” Even though that obviously had not worked, either. But Mary’s wide eyes and clutching of the baby said some verbal compromise was in order. “I don’t like the look of the scaling of your rash. Do you see that yellow crusting? It could be infection.”
“Infection?” Now Mary sounded panicked. “Could ye please just ask his lordship to fix our roof. We’ve paid our rent every month, and the leaking is damaging the floors.” She gestured to
