“I daresay the lady has her work cut out for her then. Dr. James Hall is rarely bullied into anything.”
“Except by you, or my aunt.” He lifted the note. “Or Lady Belle.”
“Come now, my boy, what is it Mrs. Fletcher is always saying? Trust your travels?”
“Trust the journey,” James corrected him, knowing the elder man knew exactly what Aunt Flora’s mantra was.
She had been repeating the same words to James since he was eight, when he had been sent to live with her after his parents’ deaths, both of whom had passed away due to consumption. James had been visiting his cousins south inDumfries when they received word about their deaths and he was immediately put in a mailing carriage and sent to Glencoe to live with Aunt Flora Fletcher. Trust the journey had been her way of trying to teach him to combat his anxieties about the uncertainty of life and death, a topic that he had obsessed about in his youth and likely influenced his desire to become a physician.
“I doubt my aunt’s folk medicine will help me with this.”
Dr. Barkley wagged his finger, as if tsking a school boy.
“Do not disparage your aunt’s belief in the old ways. She has proved time and time again that her little spells work. Remember, the best physician is also a philosopher.”
James rolled his eyes. He hated when Dr. Barkley quoted Galen to him, particularly when it made perfect sense. Still, he argued.
“Just because she couples a few words with medicinal herbs and good feelings does not make her a philosopher.” He shook his head. “It’s the power of persuasion, not magic.”
James had been dealing with his aunt’s eccentric beliefs and reputation for over twenty-four years. It had been difficult growing up in Glencoe as her nephew, especially when he first arrived. Some children had taken it upon themselves to tease him and throw rocks at him, led by a local farmer’s son named Angus. Of course, when Angus broke his leg, the whole town blamed it on the Witch of Glencoe.
Life had gotten easier after that, as the other children had suddenly become afraid to tease him, but there had always been a distinct look in the people of Glencoe’s eyes when they saw James coming. It wasn’t until he was a proper physician did they start treating him with respect as opposed to fear and even still, there were whispers about his healing abilities being linked to his aunt.
He had been trying to outrun their skepticism for years.
“Placebos are effective. And if it helps the locals of Glencoe to believe that she’s some sort of witch, well, why not? It keeps her relatively safe from anyone who would cause her harm. Half of them are terrified of her and the other half go to her for remedies when they think I’ve failed them.”
“I don’t know if trusting the journey will help me in this situation.”
“I promise, it will not be nearly as bad as you believe it.”
James would have loved to believe Dr. Barkley, but if there was anything he was sure of, it was that things rarely ever turned out for the better for him. Every time he had the idea of searching for the bright side of things, or being an optimist, he was always met with the cold hard facts of reality. His mentor and even his aunt had recently begun to be vocal about their worry for him always being so gloomy, but it wasn’t that he was a pessimist. He was a realist. And if there was one thing he knew for certain, it was that Miss Grace Sharpe was going to upend his life.
Chapter Two
“Goodness! This houseis impressive,” Arabella said to Grace, as she leaned over the polished banister in the foyer. While Aunt Belle and her faithful manservant, Andrews, took stock of the study at the back of the house’s ground floor, which would be converted into a bedroom since Aunt Belle had trouble climbing stairs, the two ladies followed the middle-aged house maid, Mrs. Stevens, who had been instructed to show them their rooms. “I’ve never seen such dark colors used for wallpaper. And there’s so many statues and busts. Your aunt must be a great collector.”
Grace smirked at her friend’s wonder as she held a small, three-legged tabby cat to her chest. Arabella had held the kitten most of the way to Glencoe, while Aunt Belle slept and Grace had read a series of her aunt’s pamphlets on a housing crisis that was currently sweeping the country, particularly in the cities. The severity of what she had read caused her a bit of anxiety and so she had put down the politically charged paper and picked up a cat instead.
“Look at that painting!” Arabella said, pointing to a sizeable portrait of King George IV. It was a profile painting of the former monarch, his hair upturned in regency fashion. Arabella bent slightly backwards. “That’s him, isn’t it? Your aunt’s former lover?”
“Yes.”
“He must have cared for her very much to leave her such a collection.”
In truth, Aunt Belle cared very little for the art world, and these relics that lined the walls were actually bits and pieces of the private collection of King George IV. Her aunt once having been the favorite mistress of his majesty, Grace was curious to know if these pieces had been gifts from the king or, if rumors were to be believed, pieces that he had lost gambling. Though whether he had lost to Aunt Belle or she had gone off and bought them all back from their winners, Grace did not know.
“Aunt Belle is an enthusiastic collector of things,” she said, as she bent down to let the cat go, as they reached the landing.
Aunt Belle was a collector, of newspaper clippings and gossip pages, but mostly she seemed to collect people. Friends and family had been elusive in her young life as the mistress of the king and she had come to cherish those close to her, having been particularly pleased when Grace and her sisters had come to live with her nearly two years ago.
“This will be your room, my lady,” Mrs. Stevens said as she opened a door at the end of the hallway. It was south facing, and the bright midday sun shone through the glass windows that stood floor to ceiling along the front of the house.
“Oh, my goodness,” Arabella gasped, spinning around the room as Grace followed. With cream and yellow striped walls, the room was a vision of sunshine and loveliness. The canopy was covered in lace that matched the curtains and bedding, and fine maple furnishings practically glowed in the bathing sunlight. “If this isn’t the prettiest room I’ve ever seen!”
Grace smiled politely, but there was something odd about this room. A melancholy took hold of her the moment she entered and it wasn’t until moments later that her usually fast mind realized why.
This room was decorated in the same delicate style as her grandmother Alice’s home in London.
