Ned experienced a driving desire to walk toward her. All he had to do was take the first step—
“Doctor, are you listening to me?” Michaels’s plaintive voice said, breaking the spell. “Don’t you agree that the duke has enough power in the village to decide where The Garland should go?”
Ned blinked like a man startled out of a trance. It was as if he had forgotten where he was. And he must be imagining things because Mrs. Estep hadn’t slowed her step at all.
In fact, Mrs. Burnham, the wainwright’s wife, had come running out of her cottage to greet her. They said a few words to each other and then Mrs. Burnham noticed Michaels and Ned and gave them a frown that should have sent them both to hell.
She’d never done that before. She and Ned had always been on good terms.
“Do you agree?” Michaels pressed again. “Because we have to do something. Gemma is turning the village against us.”
Mrs. Burnham’s frown said Michaels was right.
Grabbing what was left of his wits, Ned tried to make sense of it all, especially Michaels’s suggestion about the duke. “No one is above the law,” he declared brusquely. “We don’t live in a feudal society. Tell His Grace and the others that Marsden will deal with the matter. He is the law. We want the women angry at the law and not at us. Meantime, stop standing out here.”
“Winderton said we need to guard the place. Gemma plans on planting flowers. My mother was telling my father last night that Gemma will be off to market day in Fullbourne to purchase seeds and the ingredients the dowager needs for her knee. The dowager is going to send her in her own coach.”
Ned swore under his breath, and not because of the flowers.
“Be that as it may,” Ned said, “there is a right way to go about this and a wrong one. Standing on the streets trying to intimidate Mrs. Estep will serve no purpose. For one, she apparently isn’t intimidated.”
“Then we may need to be rougher—”
“You will not.Or you will find yourself answering to me.”
Michaels mumbled under his breath but Ned chose to ignore him. “I must be off. You go on now.” He waited long enough to see the man shuffle away.
Ned looked to Hippocrates. “I may need to have a word with the duke.”
Hippocrates shook his head, letting Ned know he was impatient to either ride on or eat grass. The choice was Ned’s.
Ned chose to ride.
His first stop was to pay a call on Simon Crisp to check on his hand. He’d saved Simon Crisp’s finger, or at least he hoped he had. Crisp had been sharpening his tools when he’d tripped carrying his scythe. The cut had gone to the bone. To ensure Crisp didn’t use the hand, Ned had placed a block of wood in the palm and wrapped the hand around it.
Of course, Crisp had complained. He didn’t like the restriction. “How am I going to work?” he’d demanded.
“You have sons. Let them be your hands for now,” Ned told him. “Besides, that is some of my best handiwork. You should treat it with respect.” Crisp had laughed and that had been it—Ned hoped.
He was pleased to see Crisp sitting in his house, taking his leisure. Mrs. Crisp hovered around and the yeoman appeared at peace with letting himself heal.
Ned took the chair that was offered and looked over the hand. No red streaks. That was a good sign.
“Does it hurt?” he asked his patient.
“It throbs.”
“That will stop. I hope you are keeping the cider jug close.”
Crisp laughed, reached for the floor beside his chair, and held up the jug with his good hand.
“You are a model patient, Simon. I wish they were all like you.”
“I’m keeping my eye on him,” his wife declared. “We need him well and soon before we start planting.” She was a cherry-cheeked woman with a pointy nose and a no-nonsense manner.
Crisp bragged, “My sons have picked up my work and proud of them I am.”
“I’m pleased,” Ned assured him.
