JASMINE LANEY
It was a sultry afternoon in the early autumn when Michael knelt beside Mr Richards’ broken leg. There was no shade, no breeze, no relief from the sun that branded Michael’s neck. Perspiration gathered on his brow as he set to work, arranging the splint and binding it. Mr Richards jerked beneath him.
At last, Michael sat back on his heels and wiped his brow. ‘There, that’s the worst of it. That splint should hold until we get you to the apothecary.’
The farmer nodded stiffly, his face flushed. A short distance away, George stood with his hands knotted together.
‘Help me lift your father, will you, lad?’
George stepped forward.
Between them, they raised the farmer from the ground and eased him onto the cart. Michael checked the bandage once more before climbing onto the driver’s seat, gathering the reins. The cart lurched forward, its wheels grinding over the track, the steady clop of hooves disturbing the heavy silence of the afternoon.
Michael glanced at George. The boy sat stiffly beside him, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
‘You all right, lad? You're awfully quiet.’
‘Aye.’
‘How you feeling?’
George picked at a piece of straw stuck in his sleeve. ‘I’ll manage.’
The cart rattled over a branch on the road. Michael rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Suppose most of the work will fall to you now your father’s laid up?’
The boy shrugged.
‘Perhaps Reverend Cullens could arrange some extra help on the farm. He’s always willing to lend a hand.’
At this, George’s gaze narrowed. ‘Don’t need nothin’ from him.’
‘He might—’
‘I said I’ll manage! Just leave it, will you?’
Michael opened his mouth to reply, but George had already turned away, his jaw set. He frowned and returned his attention to the horse.
*
Michael finally drew the carthorse to a halt outside the apothecary, its familiar timber-cased windows overlooking the tranquil street. With George’s assistance, they managed to get Mr Richards inside. Michael then set about tending the leg.
Half an hour later, Richards was settled, his leg secured in a plaster-of-Paris cast. Michael was wiping his hands on a rag when he noticed George lingering in the doorway.
‘Dr Thorpe?’
‘Yes, lad?’
‘I—ah—just wanted to apologise for my snapping at you earlier.’
Michael’s expression eased. ‘That’s alright, lad. Stress can make people act out of character. I understand.’
George nodded, but made no move to leave. He stood turning his cap between his hands, his gaze wandering towards the room where his father lay.
‘Is there something else?’ Michael asked.
The boy looked up. His lips parted, and he glanced again towards the door.
‘Actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you—’
The bell above the door chimed, and George fell silent.
Edgar Cullens stepped into the apothecary. His keen green eyes swept the room. ‘Good heavens! What’s happened here?’
‘Uncle!’ Michael rose to his feet, smiling. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I’ve come to see how my nephew is faring, of course,’ Edgar replied, clasping Michael’s hand warmly. ‘I’ve just finished checking on Mrs Kelly, so I thought I might pay you a visit.’
‘How is she?’ Michael asked. George shifted beside him.
Edgar’s expression grew solemn. ‘Poor woman. Since her husband’s death, she can scarcely support herself. She avoids crossing the river into town as much as possible.’
Michael nodded, remembering how Mr Kelly had drowned in the river. ‘Must be difficult for her.’
‘Nevermind. How have you been, my boy?’
Michael gestured to the examining table with his rag. ‘Been keeping busy.’
The clergyman caught sight of Richards’ leg and stepped back. ‘Good Lord. How did you manage that, Bertram?’
‘Fell off the haystack.’ The farmer grunted.
‘Terrible luck.’
‘Don’t have to tell me tha’.’
Richards attempted to sit upright but then grimaced and sank back against the table with a curse. George stepped forward, but Richards waved him away.
‘I’m fine, boy! Quit hoverin’ like an expectant father! Go make yerself useful and tell yer Ma what’s happened.’
George didn’t move.
‘Ye hear me?’
‘Now, none of that, Bertram.’ Edgar said, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘You just worry about that leg. I’ll take George along and explain the things to Edith. You’ve enough to occupy yourself with right now.’
Richards looked away. ‘Ye needn’ trouble yerself, sir. Yer a busy man.’
‘Nonsense, man. Tis my duty.’
Richards studied him for a long moment before swallowing. ‘Thank ye.’
Edgar smiled. ‘Of course.’
He then glanced outside where black clouds were now festering. ‘Well. Perhaps we’d best get moving before this storm catches us.’
He turned back to Michael and clasped his nephew’s shoulder. ‘Take care of yourself, will you? You’d work yourself into the grave if you’re not careful.’
Michael smiled, ‘I—’
But Edgar had already turned to George. ‘Come along, lad. Your Ma is probably beside herself with worry.’
George swallowed. His eyes flickered towards his father, who answered with a stern nod. After a moment’s hesitation, the boy rose and disappeared through the door. Michael watched them go.
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
*
A fortnight passed. With the dairyman’s son now helping on the farm, the Richards family could face the coming winter with some relief. George, however, had grown increasingly withdrawn, answering Michael’s attempts at conversation with little more than silence.
Meanwhile, the rain continued without respite. Day after day, it swept across High Weald, turning lanes to mire and blurring one day into the next.
By the time Michael reached Mrs Kelly’s house, his coat was damp through, and he was shivering on her muddy doorstep.
‘Mrs. Kelly?’
He knocked again, louder this time.
Footsteps sounded on the other side of the door before it was hastily swung open. Mrs Kelly’s comely face appeared in the doorway.
‘Oh! It’s you, Dr Thorpe.’ She hastily stepped aside. ‘P-please, come in.’
She motioned towards a chair. ‘Do sit down.’
Michael lowered himself into one of the straight-backed chairs, grimacing as water trickled from the hem of his coat onto the floorboards. Opposite him, Mrs Kelly perched on the edge of her chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her knuckles pale.
He gently set his bag beside his feet and turned to her. ‘How can I help you, Mrs Kelly?’
‘I burnt meself this mornin’.’
Michael leaned forward. ‘May I have a look?’
She hesitated before pushing back her sleeve. The skin of her forearm was an angry red, already beginning to blister in places.
‘How did it happen?’
‘Caught it against me cast iron.’
He grimaced. ‘Sounds painful. One moment. I believe I may have something that may help with the pain.’ He rummaged within his bag and produced a small jar. ‘Ah, here it is.’
She took a small jar of salve from him.
‘There’s enough for several applications. My advice would be to apply the salve daily and keep it covered. Otherwise, it should heal. There’s not much else I can do for a burn. Though, if it does begin to swell, or turn colour, send for me.’
She nodded.
He rose to his feet, replacing his hat on his head.
‘Dr Thorpe?’
Michael turned. ‘Yes?’
Mrs Kelly twisted her hands. ‘I—ah, would be grateful if you didn’t mention our appointment to anyone.’
Michael blinked. ‘Oh. O-of course.’
She searched his face for a moment before lowering her eyes. ‘Thank you.’
‘Of course. G-good evening, Mrs Kelly.’ Michael turned the knob and stepped outside. He didn’t quite hear her murmured response as the door shut with a soft CLICK.
For a moment, Michael lingered beneath the dripping eaves, listening to the rain beating against the cobbles. He glanced at the closed door. Then, with a weary sigh, he took up his lantern and ventured back into the downpour.
He untied Madeline and deftly swung himself into the saddle.
The woods loomed around him like black ink blots against the gloom, their shadows shifting. Michael had never cared for them after nightfall. In moments such as these, he would almost have welcomed the dingy alleys of London.
Michael urged Madeline forward.
A sudden gust swept through the woods, jostling the trees into a frenzy. Black branches thrashed against the sky.
Madeline shied nervously beneath him. Michael tightened his grip on the reins. ‘Easy, girl.’
The wind fell away. There was nothing but the sound of rain upon the leaves.
Then a dreadful cry tore through the darkness.
Madeline reared, tossing her head. Michael clutched at the saddle, his lantern wildly swinging from his hand. He hauled upon the reins until the mare settled beneath him, and sat motionless, his heart in his throat.
He turned towards the woods.
Nothing stirred. The branches hung limp and still. Even the rain seemed to have withdrawn into the surrounding darkness.
He waited. The cry did not come again.
‘Only the wind,’ he muttered, drawing his coat tighter about him. Even so, his pulse refused to settle.
*
Sleep eluded him that night. More than once, he stirred at the muttering beyond his window, the cry echoing in his mind.
By dawn, weary and restless, Michael rose and dressed. He set out for the market in the hopes that the morning air might clear his head.
At the sound of the door, Mrs Barton glanced up from her counter.
‘Hullo. Haven’t seen ye for some time now, Dr Thorpe. I had Mr Cullens in here just the other day,’ Mrs Barton remarked, wrapping a parcel of dried herbs in brown paper.
Michael glanced up. ‘Oh?’
‘Aye, he was asking for some balm for Mrs Kelly. Seems he’s taken quite an interest in her welfare.’
Michael frowned. ‘Yes, well, my uncle wishes to see that she’s managing.’
Mrs Barton ran her thumb along the edge of the counter. ‘Aye, I daresay. I see him riding off in that direction most mornings.’ She hesitated. ‘Though, I sometimes wonder what Mr Kelly would have thought of all these visits.’
Michael’s brow knitted. ‘What do you mean?’
She shook her head. ‘They were never on the best of terms, as I recall.’ She glanced down at the parcel in her hands. ‘I sometimes wonder what Mr Kelly would have thought of all these visits.’
He opened his mouth to reply, but the tolling of the church bells stopped him short. He frowned.
‘What’s happened?’
Mrs Barton stared past him, the animation draining from her face.
‘What?’
She pointed.
He turned, following her gaze, then cursed and hurried out into the mist.
*
Clouds. They hung low over the rooftops as Michael ran towards the square. High Weald lay shrouded in mist, the morning light barely penetrating the gloom. Not a branch stirred along the hedgerows. He heard the wailing first.
By the time Michael reached the square, a crowd had gathered around something. He pressed through the onlookers, their murmured conversations fading as he approached. Then he caught sight of what lay before them and stopped dead.
For there, upon the grey cobbles, lay a boy. His clothes sodden and his fair hair clung to his brow.
‘George?’
He dropped to his knees, barely noticing the cold water around the body soaking through his trousers. He pressed two fingers to the side of the boy’s neck. Nothing.
‘What happened?’ he demanded.
Mr Jones cleared his throat. ‘Found him in the river. Huntin’ dogs picked up his scent.’
‘When?’
‘Half an hour ago, near enough. But he hasn’ been seen since yesterday.’
Michael leaned forward, carefully probing George’s head for swelling. He eased the sodden collar away from his throat, then stopped.
Dark bruises mottled the skin beneath his jaw, trailing down his throat. Michael stared at them, his fingers hovering just above the marks.
Behind him, Mr Jones spoke again. ‘Aye. Saw that when I picked him up. Same as Mr Kelly.’ He swallowed. ‘Can only think the current knocked him about.’
Michael lowered his eyes to George once more.
‘For heaven’s sake, someone fetch a blanket!’
His uncle’s voice broke through the silence as he strode forward, his footsteps sharp against the cobblestones.
Michael’s fingers trembled against the boy’s shirt.
He could scarcely think. He needed air. A moment to think.
‘E-excuse me.’
He rose unsteadily to his feet and pushed through the crowd, scarcely noticing the startled faces turning towards him. He did not stop until the voices faded behind him and he found himself in an empty alley. Bracing one hand against the damp stone wall, he bowed his head and struggled to breathe.
He saw George standing before him in the apothecary, the troubled look in his eyes. It couldn’t have been an accident. Why George? Why Mr Kelly? Why the bruise around their necks?
Familiar green eyes flashed before him.
Don’t you know?
Something deep within him cried out. The question echoed in a whisper that seemed to swell around him like a rising tempest.
He wouldn’t let himself think. He couldn’t.
Michael buried his face in his hands.
Beyond him, the phantom mists swallowed the last of the morning light, and High Weald vanished beneath the clouds.
Jasmine is continually fascinated by the worlds and characters created by stories and has a deep passion for exploring worlds and characters of her own through writing. She has a particular interest in historical fiction and is fascinated by the complexities of human nature and the incredible stories hidden within the lives of ordinary people. When she is not writing, Jasmine spends most of her time reading, painting, baking, and discovering new hobbies.
