In London, rivals came and went, their names and faces blurring together with little meaning. A physician might retreat, but there wasn’t any true surrender, for there were always other patients to claim and a never-ending supply of sickness and injuries to treat. Oakham was supposed to be a haven away from that competition, and instead, Arthur found himself locked in a far more bloody and brutal battle where his victory wasn’t a mere inconvenience to another.
That weight settled heavily in his chest, and as much as he wanted to curse Miss Templeton and say she deserved whatever fate came next, Arthur couldn’t dismiss his part in this debacle because he had threatened her livelihood. However unintentionally.
Whatever their feelings now, her partnership with her brother served the needs of the town. Mr. Templeton’s penchant for over-diagnosing had only harmed a few purses. And though their education lacked the latest theories and medicalbreakthroughs, Miss Templeton’s skill with medicines outmatched and outweighed that deficiency.
If he hadn’t arrived in Oakham, the townsfolk wouldn’t have thought twice about the level of care they were given, as the Templetons were far better off than most. But when presented with the opportunity to patronize a “proper” doctor, suddenly the Templetons were labeled charlatans and crooks.
Which, if he were to be honest, was somewhat fitting. Mr. Templeton had tricked a few of his patients out of a few coins. However, though Arthur found it an abhorrent practice, such gouging was commonplace enough that few physicians were entirely honest with the patients who could afford to pay more. Heaven knew that most apothecaries made significant money from placebos and cure-alls, but in those cases, they often did more harm than merely cheating the patient.
Standing there like the fool he was, Arthur couldn’t say what he thought about the circumstances in which he found himself or his feelings for Miss Templeton, for he was no closer to understanding his heart than when she’d confessed. He was simply so very, very tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of success coming at others’ expense. Tired of having his heart tossed aside. Tired of returning to an empty home.
So, Arthur did as he’d done whenever such thoughts arose over the past few days: he walked away. He only hoped sleep would provide an equally easy escape when he climbed into bed; he didn’t think he could manage another night of staring at the ceiling. Perhaps exhaustion would finally give way to oblivion, rather than memories of a haunting pair of brown eyes.
“Dr. Vaughn?” called a quiet voice from just behind, and Arthur turned to see Mr. Grant standing on his doorstep, a lantern held high.
The fellow laughed and lowered the light. “‘Tis you. My misses swore she saw The Gray Man traipsing about the road, although he’s only ever haunted the fields. It’s awfully late for you to be out and about.”
“I am returning from the Slaters’ home,” said Arthur, nodding back the way he’d come. “They are resting peacefully now, which means I am free to do so as well.”
“It’s lucky my wife spied you when she did,” said Mr. Grant. “She’s getting that cough, and I was hoping you might have some of the tisane on you. I’ve heard that it works a treat.”
“Unfortunately, I used up the last of mine,” said Arthur, glancing at the makeshift bag he’d been using of late. It wasn’t large enough to carry all the medicines he required, and the instruments inside were the inferior ones he’d used during his student days, but as he wasn’t ready to face the Templetons and rescue the valise he’d left behind, it would have to do. “I will mix some tomorrow morning, and if I have time or happen to pass by, I’ll bring it by. Though I fear it might be a day or two before I’m out this way.”
Mr. Grant’s expression fell. “She’s struggling to sleep. I’d sure welcome some tonight.”
Arthur nodded down the road, drawing the fellow’s attention toward the light still burning bright in the Templetons’ home. “It was Miss Templeton’s recipe, and I know she is still awake. If it is a dire need, then I have no doubt she would be willing to supply you with some this minute.”
Drawing in a deep breath, Mr. Grant sighed. “No doubt she would, but when I dropped by this afternoon, I was informed that they’ve raised their prices. The apothecary shop in Bentmoor doesn’t charge so much, even if it is less convenient.”
“Larger suppliers can afford to sell their wares for less, but I guarantee their products aren’t as fine a quality as Miss Templeton’s.”
“That may be, but medicines are already so dear. I suppose I shall have to wait until tomorrow and buy it from you or make the trip to Bentmoor,” said Mr. Grant. “Now, off to bed with you, Dr. Vaughn. Morning will come quickly.”
“That it will,” replied Arthur, forcing his feet to continue down the lane.
Heaven help him, why did he feel the need to defend her? Mr. Grant’s decision had no bearing on him, yet Arthur couldn’t help the words. Miss Templeton’s actions may not have been honorable, but he couldn’t entirely blame her with so much at stake. Especially as it was clear that his hope for a peaceful coexistence had been flawed from the start.
And if the Templetons’ rising prices drove their patients to him or Bentmoor, then what would be left for them to live on?
That problem was not Arthur’s to solve. Miss Templeton’s lies and manipulations were unacceptable. She’d used his feelings against him. Betrayed his trust in such fundamental ways. And understanding the context of her choice didn’t alleviate that guilt.
Arthur drew in a deep breath, his gaze falling to the ground, but try as he might, he couldn’t rid himself of the hope she’d presented and the possibility that had laid within her smile. He rolled his eyes at himself and slipped through his front gate. Relief settled on his shoulders as he considered the soft bed that awaited him—only to find two bundles on the doorstep.
It was difficult to discern what they were precisely, for they were shrouded in shadow and wrapped in so much waxed paper that it would take a veritable tempest to get past the protections. Opening the door, he put his bag inside and picked up the two bundles, bringing them to the console table just inside the parlor.
The maid-of-all-work had banked the fire, and Arthur retrieved a spill from the mantlepiece and lit the twist of paper on the coals. As he lit the waiting candle on the table, his eyes burned at the sudden brightness, little though it may be; as they adjusted, Arthur examined the basket and what appeared to be his proper medical bag beneath the waxed paper.
Lifting it, he drew it closer to the light and found polished leather gleaming back at him; all scuffs and signs of age were gone as though it were new. Opening it, he found the bottles arranged perfectly, filled, and newly labeled with script far finer than his.
Turning to the basket, Arthur found a wealth of vials and jars, each nestled amongst enough straw that it would take a fair bit of mishandling for them to break, and the boxes were individually wrapped snugly with more waxed paper, ensuring that not one had been ruined by the rain. Tucked between them was a small letter with his name on the front.
Inside were just a few little words.
I am sorry. —V.
No desperate pleadings for forgiveness. No excuses or explanations. Arthur didn’t know how such a little thing could have such an impact, but then, when taken as a whole, the offering wasn’t small. Any other delivery she’d made had included a bill for her labor, but there was none in sight. The medicines in his bag and the basket were worth a tidy sum, something her family desperately needed. To say nothing of the hours poured into the gesture that went far beyond simply supplying him with the medicines he required.
Leaning back, Arthur sat on the back of the sofa and stared at the gift. He wanted to hold onto his anger. He certainly tried to nurse the hurt, but with each passing day, it grew more difficult to see her as the villain he wished her to be.
