Free An Honest Heart by Kaye Dacus Page A

in small talk, carefully avoiding giving specific details of patients or their diagnoses. As both were potential patients of his, he wanted to assure them he would not betray any confidences.
    The small porcelain clock on the side table showed he’d been here fifteen minutes. When Mrs. Howell paused in her tale of her grandchildren’s latest escapades, Neal cleared his throat.
    “If you will excuse me, I must take my leave.” He rose, took Mrs. Howell’s hand, and brushed his lips across the papery skin. She needed to drink more water and possibly use a hand cream to restore her skin’s moisture.
    “If you do not mind, Dr. Stradbroke”—Mrs. Bainbridge pushed herself up from the chair, holding onto the arms until steady—“I would beg your arm home. I fear I quite overtaxed Mary on the walk here.”
    Neal glanced at Mary in time to see the middle-aged nurse’s brows rise.
    “I shall be pleased to escort you home.” He offered her his hand. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Howell.”
    “Good afternoon, Dr. Stradbroke. Mrs. Bainbridge.” She saw them to the top of the stairs.
    Neal descended sideways, holding Mrs. Bainbridge’s hand and ensuring she didn’t take a spill. At the bottom, she let him assist with her cloak, then tucked her hand through his elbow.
    He matched his steps to hers, letting her set the pace. The March wind had a bite to it, but the sun had shone long enough to warm the air tolerably this afternoon.
    “Are you from Oxford, Dr. Stradbroke?” The feathers and flowers on Mrs. Bainbridge’s bonnet waved in the breeze.
    “No, ma’am. I came here from Winchester. I lived with my grandmother on a farm there.”
    “But that is in Hampshire County.” Confusion laced her voice, and her brows pinched together when she looked up at him.
    “Yes, it is.”
    “You do not have a Hampshire accent. I cannot place it precisely, but you sound more as if you are from the midlands or even the north part of the country.”
    Panic rushed in hot and cold waves through him—as it did whenever the topic of his origins arose. He could not lie to her, but he could not let anyone discover the truth either. He’d already learned what that revelation could do to a medical practice. He needed to pay tribute to his grandmother’s tutelage by remembering to use the accent she’d taught him instead of the one he’d learned as a child.
    “Perhaps it is because I have traveled much of this country and spent time with many of its residents that I sound as if I could be from various regions.” Not a lie.
    Mrs. Bainbridge seemed satisfied with that explanation. “That is likely. Mr. Bainbridge, before we were wed, went to Scotland on a tour before taking orders. When he returned, he amused all of us by speaking with a Scotch burr for weeks. I would imagine that Caddy—Cadence—would be like that. She’s always had his gift of mimicry.”
    “Mr. Bainbridge was a rector?” He remembered his earlier visit where Caddy told him her father had died four years ago.
    “Yes. He had a church just north of here in Tackley. ’Twas but a poor parish, so Caddy knew from a young age that she must fend for herself. But because of her father’s connections, she was allowed entry into a fine school in Oxford. She sewed clothes for her classmates to earn her own pocket money, and many of them have remained loyal customers these many years.”
    Yes, Miss Bainbridge struck him as the kind of woman who could make her own way in life. He caught a sigh before it escaped his lips. Women who could make their own way in life rarely saw the need for love or courtship or marriage. At least, that’s what his grandmother taught him.
    Of course, he hardly knew the woman. No need to be thinking about her in such terms anyway.
    As if his mind had the power to conjure her, Miss Bainbridge alighted from Johnny’s father’s cab just outside the shop. She took a bundle from Alice, who climbed down behind her.
    Caddy caught sight of them when she