Chapter 1
Oakham, Devon
Summer 1813
Agrown man of two and thirty did not gawk at something so pedestrian as the countryside. He most certainly did not press his nose against the carriage window to better see said view. Despite being quite guilty of the former, Arthur Vaughn contented himself that he hadn’t reverted to the latter—though that was due to the audience inside the stagecoach rather than any self-restraint on his part.
Having spent his life in what many considered the epicenter of elevated living, Arthur had heard the upper echelons bemoan the vast wasteland beyond London’s borders. Those wealthy enough to afford country houses did so out of an obligation to demonstrate their wealth and status and never because they harbored any affection for those desolate places.
And how wrong they were.
Hedgerows lined the road, forming a wall as sturdy and thick as stone; thankfully, the coach sat high enough that Arthur could peer over it into the fields beyond. Having read muchabout Devon, he hadn’t expected so many trees in a county famous for its moors—but then, Arthur wasn’t certain he could identify a moor if he saw it.
Clouds filled the sky overhead, but the gray didn’t diminish its loveliness; he’d never seen so many shades of green. London boasted many fine parks and gardens, and not one could compete with the richness of this untamed beauty.
Despite the noise of the carriage, everything seemed far too quiet, as though the air was a vast void. Though that wasn’t entirely true, for the breeze carried the scent of grass and soil, and above the rattling of the coach and the clop of the hooves, Arthur caught the distant call of sheep and trill of songbirds, both as unfamiliar a sound to his ear as a foreign tongue.
Though Arthur didn’t boast a broad knowledge of or affection for art, knowing people who claimed the creation or collection as favored pastimes had exposed him to paintings, and he’d seen his fair share of landscapes. However, artists were so overly generous in capturing the vibrancy of city life that he’d believed their depictions of the countryside were equally romanticized. Artists never captured the piles of muck in the streets left behind by both animals and humans, the grim fog blanketing the buildings, or the suffocating weight of people clogging the heart of the city. No, their paintbrushes depicted an idyllic version of city life, which was no more real than Camelot.
Never would he have imagined that the spark of life imbued in each landscape captured only a fraction of what nature possessed.
“Lovely, isn’t it?”
Jerking from his thoughts, Arthur turned his gaze from the countryside to his traveling companions. “That it is, Mr. Bacon. Had I known how captivating the country was, I would’ve left London far sooner.”
“I know precisely what you mean,” said the older gentleman, settling back into the squabs, though his gaze was fixed to the window. “When I arrived here some five and twenty yearsago from Manchester, I knew I wanted to make Devon my home, and I haven’t been disappointed.”
Though Arthur didn’t wish to say it aloud, he couldn’t help but feel as though he were standing on a precipice; a strong, unshakeable feeling that this step would bring about great changes in his life for the better. This was the direction he ought to take. This was where he was supposed to be. The rightness of it settled into his heart—
“How happy we are that you’ve chosen to make Oakham your home,” added the gentleman’s daughter, jerking Arthur from his thoughts once again.
Clutching her shawl tight around her shoulders, Miss Bacon lifted her gaze from her lap to meet his, an inviting smile turning up the corners of her perfectly pink lips. Meticulously cultivated ringlets framed Miss Bacon’s face, their golden hue highlighting the rose in her cheek. Her skin flushed, but for all her shy affectations, she didn’t turn her gaze away from him, holding his eyes captive in hers as they begged him to speak.
Arthur tried to think of a response, but his tongue was determined to be a free agent unto itself. Clearing his throat, he rubbed his hands against his thighs and shifted in his seat. With a sharp tug, he pulled his hat firmer onto his head, and thankfully, he was saved from having to sort out an answer when her father replied.
“Yes, quite so, my dear,” said Mr. Bacon, his gaze still fixed on the passing landscape. “I think you’ll find Oakham a perfect town, Dr. Vaughn. A good place to call home.”
“And heaven knows we could use a proper physician,” added the young lady.
“Too right, my dear,” replied her father with a sigh in his tone.
Miss Bacon opened her mouth to speak, but the words were cut short by a shrill trumpet from the horses as the carriage jolted to a stop. As they’d been moving at a slow pace, it wasn’t too jarring, yet Miss Bacon shrieked, her arms flailing and knocking his hat from his head as she “fell” into Arthur’s lap.
“Good heavens! I do apologize,” she said whilst straightening—yet remaining plastered to him. Her father kept his seat quite easily, but his attention was turned to the window, trying to spy the reason for the disruption, and not on his daughter.
As she turned her gaze up to meet Arthur’s with a delicate blush on her cheeks, Miss Bacon’s coquettish eyes widened in her first genuine display of emotion when her gaze fell on his bald head. Drawing in a sharp breath, Arthur reached for the displaced hat and shoved it down tight once more. With a brush of his hand, he had the remnant curls along the back of his neck in place, which gave the illusion that more blond locks resided beneath the felted wool.
“It appears there’s been an accident up ahead,” said Mr. Bacon, peeking through the door, as the window’s catch was firmly stuck.
A few scant words, yet they jolted Arthur from his seat; he snatched his portmanteau and shouldered past Mr. Bacon, who was more concerned with gawking than being of use. As he stepped onto the road, Arthur’s gaze fell to the overturned cart blocking the path. Hurrying forward, his mind took inventory of his medicines and tools at hand. His full surgical kit was packed in his trunk; if needed, the driver could fetch it, but Arthur always kept the necessities close at hand. He sent out a silent prayer that they would be enough.
Weaving around the agitated horses that the coachman and guard were attempting to calm, Arthur stopped before the overturned cart. It stretched across the road, and large metal cans lay upended on the ground around it, the milk spilling from the opened lids. The vehicle jerked as its horse fought to pull itself upright. Men leapt from the top of the coach and hurried to calm the beast and free it from its harness, but Arthur ignored the chaos and searched for the driver.
“Over here,” shouted a woman, waving at him, and Arthur hurried to her side to find the poor fellow pinned beneath the edge of the cart. Taking stock of those about him, Arthur considered how best to free the fellow—
“Mr. Jenkins, here! And Mr. Abbott, there!” said the lady, pointing to a spot along the edge. With a few more shouts, she positioned the other gawkers along the vehicle. “You need to pull him free when the cart is lifted.”
Arthur stood there, blinking at her—and only just realized she’d meant him when she frowned.
