Page 13 of Atone, Adonis

He inclined his head politely. “Miss Farrow? I am Dr. Whitcombe. I’ve come about your brother.”

She blinked. “I’ve not called for a doctor, sir.”

“Nonetheless, may I come in? I was nearby on other business when I was told that Mister Farrow was in great need of a physician.”

“That is kind of you, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t let you see him.” She looked at the floor instead of into his eyes. “We’ve not the funds to pay your fee. I’m sorry for your trouble.”

She began to shut the door when he wedged his dusty boot into it. “As I’m already here, how about I take a few of the eggs I saw outside in payment. Will that suit?”

She hesitated, unease prickling her spine. She wasn’t sure there were any eggs. And she’d never heard of a doctor taking them as payment if there were. “I have yarrow, dried from last season. Perhaps that would do? For bleeding or fevers or—”

“Yes, alright.” He didn’t even let her finish, just stepped inside.

She paused, still uncertain, but Thomas’s ragged coughing had kept her up all night and she was too tired to argue. “He’s upstairs,” she said, finally.

The doctor wasted no time. He climbed the steps and settled himself into the chair by Thomas’s bed where Julianna had passed the night.

He took out a small pad and began to ask Thomas a series of questions:

When had the symptoms first appeared? How long had they lasted?

Were they worsening or did they show any fleeting regressions?

Was it worse in the cold, or at particular hours? Morning or evening?

Had he been eating?

Dr. Whitcombe then listened to Thomas’s chest, before he turned to Julianna, his expression grave. “I’d like a word alone with the patient, Miss. If you’ll give us a moment.”

She looked to Thomas who nodded toward the door. Julianna excused herself to the hallway where she waited, her breath held tightly in her chest and her fingers twisting the fringe of her shawl. She resisted the urge to place her ear against the closed door to listen in. Thomas was a grown man; he didn’t need her eavesdropping on his private conversations with his physician.

“Well?” she asked, almost breathless, when Dr. Whitcombe finally emerged from Thomas’s sickroom.

The doctor folded his hands in front of him. “Your brother is suffering from phthisis pulmonalis. Consumption, Miss. Or, as we now call it, tuberculosis.”

The hallway tilted slightly beneath her feet.

“No,” she whispered, although she knew it was true. She’d always known it was true.

“He is dying, Miss Farrow.” The words were blunt, but softly spoken, as though he had no wish to hurt her more than truth required.

“When?”

“Soon.”

She shook her head. “No. There must be something you can do. Laudanum, surgery…”

“There is nothing, I’m afraid. The best you can do now is ease his suffering. Keep him warm and ease any burdens of the heart he may still carry. Let him know he’s not alone.”

“He’s not alone.” And then her eyes narrowed.

Ease any burdens of the heart he may still carry was perhaps what he said to the family of every dying patient. But perhaps it wasn’t.

“You were nearby on business, you said. If I might ask, whose?”

The doctor turned away from her for the first time during this entire, terrible conversation. “I’m afraid I cannot say.”

“Cannot or will not?”