Free The Irish Healer by Nancy Herriman

passed since he had fallen from the tree. If the wound had not become infected in that amount of time, the risk that it might had passed.
    “I am very glad to hear that, Joe.” Books cradled in the crook of her left arm, Rachel retreated down the ladder that ran on a brass rail atop the bookshelf. “You haven’t said anything to Dr. Edmunds about cutting your arm, have you?”
    “Cor, no! I’d never get to be his ’ead gardener if ’e thought I were clumsy!”
    “You are not clumsy. Anyone can have an accident.” Shedropped the books onto the desk, slid the ledger nearer, and inked her pen. “I was merely thinking it might be best not to worry him, that’s all.”
    Rachel glanced at Joe. Nothing in his demeanor indicated he guessed Rachel’s real concern. If Joe never said anything to Dr. Edmunds about his wound, then Dr. Edmunds would never think to ask Rachel about her readiness to tend it. And she wouldn’t have to tell the truth.
    “’e’s so busy, miss, I doubt ’e’d notice if me arm ’ad been sawn clean off!”
    “He is not quite that oblivious, Joe,” she said, though his observation seemed apt. Dr. Edmunds had been busy, burying himself in his paperwork and patients. Although she had noticed him in the hallway outside the library more than once of late, and he had been in to see her quite often.
    “Some days ’e is obli . . . obluvi . . . em, awful daft,” said Joe. “Jus’ glad to know I’ve got someone else to go to if I needs medical ’elp. You’re a right good ’ealer.”
    Rachel shook her head at him as if his compliment was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “Mrs. Mainprice’s skill with a sticking plaster has more to do with your healing than my initial feeble efforts.” The housekeeper had tended to Joe’s wound after returning from services on Sunday, asking nothing about Rachel’s treatment or her knowledge. An ally. Rachel needed one.
    “Aw, Miss Dunne, yer always puttin’ yerself down,” Joe chided.
    “Your high regard for me is unwarranted.”
    “Not at all.”
    He winked at her the way her brother might do, makingRachel smile. Making her heart twinge over how much she would miss Joe when he left for Finchingfield.
    “You’ve a visitor,” announced Molly from the doorway, casting a pall. She frowned first at Rachel then at Joe, likely thinking how she would have to repolish the desk later. “Miss Harwood.”
    Her cousin Claire had come at last to meet her. “Please show her in here, Molly.”
    “I wouldn’t make it a habit to have visitors in the master’s library, Miss Dunne. Next time, you might want to use the Blue Room.”
    “I shall keep your suggestion in mind.”
    Molly lifted an arrow-straight eyebrow, sniffed, and went to retrieve Claire.
    Joe hopped down from the desk. “Best be goin’ then. Work waits for no man!”
    He scampered off, a whistled tune drifting behind him.
    Rachel removed her apron and tidied her hair. She wished she had time to make herself presentable. Instead, her first impression would be made in a rehemmed frock with frayed trim, her hair coming free of its pins.
    Molly reappeared, leading a slightly built woman dressed in the height of fashion—gray silk sprigged with violet, a cream pelerine and matching wide-brimmed bonnet trimmed in violet lace. Her features were even and might be called pleasant rather than pretty. Eyes the shade of cocoa assessed with intelligence and sympathy, and Rachel realized she knew next to nothing about her cousin. Least of all why she had agreed to help.
    Claire waited only a second after Molly had shut the door to rush across the room. “Rachel!” She pulled Rachelinto an embrace, hugging her tight. She smelled of rose water and the coal dust of London.
    “It is good to see you, Claire.”
    “And you!” A spray of smallpox scars fanned across her cousin’s cheeks, making her appear more careworn than Rachel had expected. “My goodness, but you were only five years