“Good heavens. We don’t need to resort to all that.” She opened her case, shifted through the contents, and lifted a bottle. “Drops of my father’s own making: oil of mullein with garlic and other herbs.”
“What shall I do?”
She took the crying child from him. “Fetch a cool, damp cloth and milk in whatever vessel he’ll take it from.”
When he returned a few minutes later, she gestured toward the rocking chair in the corner. “Sit there.”
He complied, and she handed the child into his arms. “Lean back at an angle, so the drops can penetrate and remain in the ear canal.”
He did so.
She knelt beside the chair and unstopped the lid. Gently tugging on the little boy’s earlobe, she administered a few drops into his ear canal, and rubbed the area to help the oil work its way down. Meanwhile the child continued to cry.
“It will take some time to take effect,” she assured the troubled man.
She offered the child the feeding bottle, which wasn’t so unlike an invalid feeding pot.
As the little boy drank, Anne laid the compress against the sore ear, and Dr. Finch held it in place.
A few minutes later, the child’s cries began to lose their vehemence and volume. And blessed relief, after a few more minutes he settled against Dr. Finch’s chest in relieved slumber.
“Oh, thank you, Lord. And thank you, Miss Loveday. You really are a wonder.”
“Not a wonder. I am simply my father’s daughter. And half sister to four young children who regularly come down with all the usual childhood ailments.”
“I am still grateful. And I value your experience.”
Watching him tenderly hold the child, Anne’s heart warmed even as a question rose to the tip of her tongue, begging to be asked.
She pressed dry lips together, then quietly ventured, “Is this your son?”
“No.” He took a deep breath. “Though he isn’t who I led you to believe he was either.”
Ernest Finch exhaled a long sigh. Then, still gently rocking, he explained, “When Dr. Marsland pressed me about the child living here, I said I was caring for my sister’s child, left as my ward.”
“You told me the same.”
“It was partly true. My sister and her husband did leave their child under my guardianship. Though it’s not Robbie, here. I am not good at deception, but I felt I had to protect his mother. Protect us both, if I’m honest.”
Recalling Rosa’s worry over an ailing loved one, Anne asked, “Is Rosa his mother?”
He hesitated, then replied, “Yes.”
“Are you and she ...?”
“She is my niece.”
“Niece?” Anne heard the incredulous note in her voice.
He nodded. “My sister is ten years older than I, and her daughter ten years younger. When Mary and Robert sailedoff to India, they left Rosa in my care. Many parents choose to leave their offspring to be educated or married in England when they go to foreign parts. I blame myself that things went awry. Rosa was sad when they left, so I tried to cheer her up. Took her and a school friend to Cheltenham for some diversion. That’s where she met him. I never guessed she might...” He swallowed hard. “To me, she was still little Rosa, sitting on my knee and calling me Uncle Ernest.”
“Did you meet Mr. Dalby in Cheltenham too?”
His brows lifted in surprise. “You guessed?”
“I overheard them talking.”
“Ah.” He lifted his chin in understanding. “I saw him there, but we were not introduced. Apparently, he was there for the horse racing. He danced with Rosa and her friend at the assembly rooms, attended the same concerts. It never crossed my mind that when she and her friend told me they were going shopping or to the Well Walk or gardens, Rosa was really meeting a man while her friend waited alone in the confectioner’s.
