Page 25 of Beneath the Harvest Moon

Jane placed her hand on Blythe’s. “First, knowing my luck it will be another nephew for you, and second, I wish I had nothing more to think about than gowns, tea and gossip.”

“You do not. It is beyond tedious.”

Jane’s fingers wrapped around hers. “I shall have to take your word for it.”

Gabriel’s warm eyes bored into her as though he were trying to decipher her thoughts. Thank heavens he could not, for what he would find would only cause further hurt.

Jane cleared her throat, and they flinched, breaking the connection. “I’m glad you will both be here to bring forth my daughter. Perhaps we can keep Mother Dixon out of the birthing room. What say you, Doctor?”

“I would not dare to imply Mrs Dixon’s presence is anything but industrious.”

They all chuckled.

CHAPTER 9

Gabriel tried to heed Reverend Worthing’s words, but they merged into a monotonous murmur.

In her family box pew, a few rows ahead, Blythe sat between her two children. Her feathered, pale-blue silk bonnet matched her spencer and probably made her eyes sparkle.

She had slipped back into life here as though she had never left. She’s slipping back into your heart too. No! The Blythe he had loved was gone, and she would never return.

A rough jab in his shoulder drew his attention to Mother, who shook her head. He was a fool.

Across the aisle, Miss Foster sat with her family, wearing a plain straw bonnet. She offered him a timid smile.

He returned his attention to the pulpit. It was wrong to imply they could be anything other than acquaintances.

“Let us pray,” Reverend Worthing said, and the congregation dipped their heads.

“Dear Lord, we give thanks for the continued fine weather, allowing the harvest to proceed. We ask you to bless the industrious hands that gather your bounty.”

“Bless our brave soldiers fighting against tyranny on the continent. May they stand against the invasion of our isle and ensure justice comes to the papist dictator who wishes to destroy the freedoms for which our country stands.”

“We pray for the sick of our parish, including Mr Heywood, Mrs Thatcher and Master James Farrer. May you bless them and keep them, and in your divine wisdom, ensure their recovery.”

A murmur spread through the nave.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”

“Thanks be to God,” the congregation mumbled.

Reverend Worthing headed down the aisle, and his flock filed out. The bells in the tower rang out a joyful peal.

Once beyond the studded oak doors, Gabriel squinted in the bright sunshine when Mrs Harrison approached. “Doctor, I hear James has smallpox. Is it true?”

“Mrs Harrison, you know I am disinclined to discuss the private matters of my patients.”

“But this cannot remain a private matter. If he has smallpox, we should be told. It could spread through the village. How are we to protect our children?”

“James has been isolated as a precaution, but I need someone to nurse him. My mother and I are too busy to devote the time needed for his care.”

Before he could reach the lychgate, he was surrounded by concerned faces.

Mr Sykes said, “This is distressing news, Doctor. Is there nowt else that can be done to protect us?”

Yes, but you always refuse. “You and your children should be inoculated.”

Mrs Harrison shook her head. “You’re not cutting me open. Inoculation kills more than it cures. I read so in the newspaper.”