Anne made out long, wavy dark hair and a full-length mantle. The figure turned, and she saw his mustache and pointy beard. He was wearing a doublet jacket over pantaloons with a white ruff collar at the neck—a fashion two hundred years out of style.
A chill snaked up her spine.
King Charles I.
As if aware of someone watching, the figure looked up toward the house.
Anne gave a little shriek and jerked back from the window.
“What is it?” Lady Celia whispered.
“Sorry, I ... I saw someone. Or thought I did.”
“Who?”
Anne gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “King Charles’s ghost.”
“Oh, is that all?” The old woman exhaled and closed her eyes once more. “You would not be the first.”
12
The next morning, Anne strolled through town with Louie. She waved to the postmistress and stopped to chat with Mrs. Baylis over the low garden wall. Then she called on the druggist, Mr. Greaves, for the milkweed syrup, Louie’s nose twitching at all the spicy, exotic smells.
As they were leaving the shop, a muscular bull terrier came charging toward them, not on a lead nor with its owner. Anne reached down and picked up the smaller Louie.
A nearby cottage door opened and someone called, “Nelson, here, boy!” and the dog trotted off.
Relieved, Anne set Louie down again and the two continued on.
As they neared the butcher’s, Louie’s nostrils flared again at smells that were clearly tantalizing to him, although somewhat repugnant to Anne. She wrinkled her nose and began to walk on, but Louie surprised her by yanking the lead from her hand and running into the narrow alley beside the shop. He darted straight to a tipped-over rubbish bin and began rooting through the refuse.
“Louie, no!”
Heaven knew what vile things he might find in there.
Hurrying to retrieve the dog, Anne reached him just as he wolfed something down.
“Drop it, Louie! Drop it!”
But the dog did not—or could not—drop whatever it was.
He began to choke.
Panic gripped her. What should she do? Squatting down, she held the dog with one arm and attempted to pry open his mouth, but it was no use. She couldn’t do it alone.
She picked him up and ran to the butcher shop door, calling out, “Can someone help me?”
And suddenly Dr. Finch was there before her, medical bag in hand, an answer to prayer.
“What’s wrong?”
“Louie is choking on something. He broke away and got into the rubbish. Perhaps some gristle, or a bone? Hopefully nothing deadly to dogs.”
The butcher waved them away. “Get that cur away from here,” he demanded. “Bad for business.”
Dr. Finch paid the man no heed and turned his focus to Louie struggling in her arms. Setting his bag down just outside the door, he took hold of the dog’s jaws and gently but firmly opened them. “I can see it. Barely.” He released the dog and retrieved an instrument from his case. She recognized it as a probang, an instrument used for removing obstacles from the throat or gullet of people—and apparently animals as well.
“Hold him as still as you can.”
