Page 8 of Beneath the Harvest Moon

Papa snorted.

A musky stench turned her stomach. “This room is stifling. You need some fresh air.” She opened a diamond-paned window.

He grumbled under his breath, “You sound like Doctor…”

She turned.

Papa picked at the blankets.

Blythe hung her spencer on the back of a spindle-legged chair. “You can say his name, you know, and Doctor Sharpe is correct.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t argue with his modern ways. He’s a good doctor.”

“I do not doubt it.” Ignoring the sensations swirling within her, she perched on the edge of the bed. Her throat tightened upon closer inspection of Papa’s hollowed cheeks and the grey smudges beneath his eyes. Fine lines bracketed his mouth, and loose skin hung around his chin. “I am here to take care of you and help Mama, so both you and Jane can rest.”

“You always were an excellent nurse, but your mam won’t be happy. How will she crow about her handsome daughter living the life of a lady in York if you’re here?”

She refused to allow Mama’s opinions to dictate her actions again. Resting her hand on top of her father’s, she said, “I do not care, Papa. I am a farmer’s daughter after all.”

CHAPTER 4

Gabriel handed a small bottle of laudanum to Mrs Jackson. “Just a few drops, three times a day, should relieve his pain.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” The woman cleared her throat.

“I will come back tomorrow to check the splint.”

He ruffled Tommy Jackson’s blond hair. “No more climbing trees for a while.” Gabriel reached into his pocket and pulled out an apple. “Here.” He tossed it at the six-year-old, who caught it with his free hand.

The boy examined the red-skinned fruit.

“Do not remove the splint and keep that arm strapped to your body at all times, or it will not mend.”

“Yes, sir.” The little boy scampered off, munching the apple.

Gabriel would not be surprised if the splint had been removed by sundown. He packed his tools into his leather bag.

Mrs Jackson cleared her throat again, but could not hold back the rasping cough. She held out her hand to ward him off. “I am well, Doctor, ‘tis naught but a cough.”

“You have been coughing continuously for the last three weeks. Will you allow me to examine you?”

“I’m taking the syrup Mrs Sharpe recommended, and I’ve used a plaster or two. I’ll be well again soon, and besides, I can’t afford to pay you.”

“The parish keeps me on retainer to tend to your medical needs and will cover the costs.”

Well, it would if he logged it. The charity of the parish was limited, and the Jacksons had used his services frequently this past month.

“The harvest will be in soon, and I’ll be able to spare a few pennies.”

How often pride overcame common sense. “If you wait, your condition could worsen to something life-threatening. Please allow me to examine you before it is too late.”

A boy waddled around barefoot. Mrs Jackson may not have the money to afford a rag rug, but the bare stone flags almost gleamed.

Finally, she nodded.

He placed a hand on her forehead. Her skin blazed against his palm. “You have a fever. You should rest and⁠—”

“I don’t have time to rest with five young uns. And Mrs Briggs’ laundry and mending needs finishing by this evening.”