The door opened behind her. It was Alistair, a new paper sack clutched in his hand. Molly stood, stuffing the letters back into her pocket. “I was just changin’ the bed.”
Alistair looked from her to the closet. “Did you take any?” He rushed to his pile of sweets, sitting down cross-legged like a child. “Because I count it every morning.”
“I’m surprised you can count that high,” she muttered, collecting the dirty sheets.
Alistair was too busy checking for signs of theft to respond. He opened the brown bag and dumped out what looked to be peanut brittle, which he added to the store. Molly watched him sort through the piles. His face had taken on a fat, flabby quality in recent weeks. The rest of him had followed suit, and Molly knew it was only a matter of time before one of her chores would include letting out the seams of his clothes. She had not yet spoken to anyone about the tree and thought it might be time. “Can I ask you somethin’?” she said, folding her arms. “I know where you’re gettin’ all those sweets from … But why sweets?”
Alistair narrowed his eyes, perhaps trying to discern whether he was being mocked. He shrugged. “They were just waiting for me.”
Molly nodded. Somehow the tree had known that he longed for sweets. Just as it knew that she longed to hear from Ma and Da.
Alistair dug into his pocket and removed a red gumdrop. He stood and held it out to her. “Would you like a piece?”
She had never once tasted a gumdrop in her life. It looked sticky and soft and delicious in his pale palm. “Are you offering?” she said.
“No!” he said brightly. He popped it into his mouth, chomping loudly. “If you deserved sweets, then the tree would give them to you.”
Molly shook her head. “I canna help but feel sorry for you.”
He snorted. “You? Sorry for me?”
“Any wish in the whole world, and all you can think of is your stomach.” She turned toward the door, but Alistair blocked her way.
“It’s not like that,” he said.
Molly cocked her head to one side. “Really? What’s it like, then?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “When I was little, before Penny even, Father used to take me round to the sweets shop in town. ‘Get whatever you want,’ he’d tell me. And together we’d look at all the different kinds. I used to agonize over what to pick. I didn’t want to seem greedy, and I wanted him to be proud of me, so in the end I’d just get one small thing—a lolly, maybe, or a square of fudge—even though I wanted more. I’d take that sweet home and have to make it last the whole week, sometimes even longer.” He drew another gumdrop from his pocket, this one yellow, and rolled it between his fingers. “When we sold our things and had to move away from town, I realized what a fool I’d been as a little boy. I should have grabbed all the sweets I could. Father never took me to a sweets shop again.” He shoved the gumdrop into his mouth, chewing violently.
Molly felt a sting of sympathy but only a slight one. Even if Alistair’s desire for sweets had come from some deeper loss, that loss had transformed itself into plain gluttony. “There’s lots worse that can happen to children than losing their sweets,” she said quietly.
Alistair shifted his weight, his mouth tightening. “You think you’re so much better than the rest of us? You and your secret letters?” Molly gasped, which seemed to please him. “I know all about them. I’ve seen you reading them to Kip out my window.”
Molly put a protective hand over her apron pocket. “The letters are none o’ your business, and you’re not to speak of ’em again.” Her voice was shaking.
A grin of discovery crept across his face. “Your brother doesn’t know where they come from, does he?” He took a step closer, close enough that she could hear the crackle of his spittle as he chewed. “Suppose someone told him? Would that bother you?”
Molly clenched the dirty sheets to her body. Her heart was pounding in her ears. She took a slow breath and then forced herself to smile. “Do whatever you please, master.” She took a step closer, meeting his dark stare with her own. “Though, I should warn you: it’s a dangerous game to cross the person who cleans your chamber pot. I might just accidentally spill it all over your precious sweets.”
Alistair’s face froze. “You wouldn’t dare!”
Molly shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe I already did and forgot to tell you.” She leaned close, whispering, “How’s that gumdrop tasting?”
His mouth fell open as horror washed over him. Molly had done nothing to his sweets, of course, but the idea had planted itself into his mind, and that, it seemed, was enough to keep him in check.
“Back to work.” Molly hefted the sheets in her arms. “Lovely talkin’ with you.”
She turned around and left the room before he could see her smile.
n Tuesday the postman finally came to Windsor Manor. Kip spotted the man on the road and ran to meet him at the bridge. “Any more special deliveries?” he said, out of breath.
“Ain’t heard of no special deliveries. Give this here to your mistress.” The postman handed Kip an envelope and rode on without another word.
The letter inside was not special, and it was not from Ma and Da. It was from Master Windsor, who had written from town to say that he had hired a doctor to check up on his family while he was away. Kip was to pick him up in the village the following morning. The Windsor children took this as bad news, complaining that they felt fine and didn’t need a doctor. Kip, however, was excited. He had never met a real doctor before.
Kip met the man in the village just after breakfast. “Master Windsor’s still in town with the carriage,” he said, scooting to one side. “You’ll have to ride up front with me.”
“It offends me not,” said the corpulent doctor, climbing onto the wagon. “The better to observe the local flora and fauna—I have something of a passion for the natural world.” He produced a handkerchief from his pocket. Inside was a leaf. “Observe this specimen I found while riding out from town this morning. Look at the size of this petiole. Why, it’s positively prehistoric!”
Kip looked at the leaf, which seemed ordinary enough to him. “Very impressive, sir.” He snapped the reins, pulling out into the road.
“Impressive … and perhaps unnamed.” He tucked the specimen back into his pocket. “Who knows what medicinal value such an herb might possess? The next time I visit, I shall have to bring along some equipment from my laboratory for testing.” The doctor wore a dark blue coat, white gloves, and a tall black hat. Kip eyed the black leather bag sitting on the man’s lap. Some letters were painted across the side in expensive gold script—
EZEKIEL CROUCH
M.D., PH.D., ESQ., ETC.
Kip could identify letters but struggled with whole words. He suspected these letters spelled out the doctor’s full name. It seemed an awfully long name for just one person. “Sorry for the bumps,” Kip muttered. “These roads is less traveled by far.” This was something Hester Kettle had said to him once before, and he liked the way it sounded.
The doctor raised a finger. “The roads are less traveled.” Kip’s embarrassment must have been plain because the doctor gave a conciliatory smile. “Chin up. I wouldn’t expect an Irishman to know grammar any more than I would expect a baboon to know table manners.” He chuckled. “Better minds than mine have tried to civilize your species—to little effect, I might add.”
Kip felt his cheeks go hot. English folks, especially the rich ones, often said things like this. If Molly had been in the cart, she would have given the man an earful. But Kip couldn’t afford to say anything. Not to this man. Instead, he bit his tongue and watched the road.
Kip had always imagined doctors to be like wizards—able to stay the hand of death with their instruments and books. Doctor Crouch looked the right age for a wizard, but instead of a long beard, he had bushy white whiskers that sprang from either side of his face like wedges of cheese. “It must be hard bein’ a doctor,” Kip said by way of conversation. “Seein’ all
them sick folks.”
“Hmm?” Doctor Crouch looked up from a book he had been reading. “Oh, yes … I suppose it could be difficult for a more sentimental sort—women and children and such—but to me it is chiefly invigorating.” He snapped his book shut, turning toward Kip. His weight made the wagon veer to one side, and Kip had to jerk the reins to keep it on course. “We are living in an age of medical wonders. Not a day goes by that doesn’t see the discovery of some exciting new disease or malady—and I aim to be one of the men doing the discovering!”
“Disease,” Kip said. “That why the master’s brought you here?” He thought of the pale faces of the Windsors, all of them bloodless and thin. Since arriving at the house, he had seen them go from pale to stony. He thought of his sister, in there with them—would she fare any better?
“Oh, nothing that severe—just a touch of fever, I’m sure. Old Bertie always was a bit prone to overreaction—but you didn’t hear that from me.” Kip was beginning to glean that this doctor had been acquainted with the Windsors back when they lived in town. This theory was confirmed when they reached the estate.
“Gracious,” the man whispered, peering at the house and lawn. “I’d heard that Bertrand had fallen on hard times, but this …”
“It ain’t bad as all that,” Kip mumbled. He had spent weeks taming the grounds, and it hurt his pride to think that the place still looked a shambles to this stranger. Kip flicked the reins and they rolled over the bridge. His hands were sweating, and he could feel a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. The house was fast approaching, which meant Kip would lose his chance to speak to the doctor in confidence. Just ask him, he told himself. But by the time Kip had mustered up the courage, they were already at the house.
Doctor Crouch consulted his pocket watch. “Oh, drat—it looks like I’ll have to work through tea.” He put his book into his case and clambered somewhat clumsily down the side of the wagon. “Don’t bother stabling the horse. I’ll be done within the hour.” He patted his pockets. “Er, here’s something for your trouble.” He held out a tuppence.
Kip eyed the coin but did not take it. Just ask him. “That’s kind o’ you, sir.” His stomach clenched up. “But I’d rather a question than a coin.”
The man lowered his hand, peering over the top of his spectacles. “And this question … would it by any chance have something to do with your left leg?”
Kip looked at him, amazed. “How did you know?”
“There is very little that escapes my eye.” He tapped the eye in question. “I first suspected it in the village when you did not offer to take my bag. And later I observed how you kept it tucked under the seat for the entire duration of our ride, never once adjusting. And then, of course, there’s the matter of that crutch.”
Kip drew Courage from its spot behind the bench. “I was born lame,” he said, and even though he knew it wasn’t his fault, he felt a gnawing sense of shame.
“Very well.” The doctor gave an impatient sigh, removing his gloves. “Let’s have a look at it.”
“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir.” Kip grabbed his crutch and climbed down the side of the wagon. He hobbled over to the man.
“Sit here,” the doctor said, indicating the front steps of the house.
Kip eased himself down and extended his bad leg. He rolled up his trousers, exposing the limb beneath. There was almost no muscle on the calf and thigh. The bone was curved inward, and the kneecap fell to one side, as if someone had let it melt in the sun. His skin was white and shiny but for a series of ugly red scars from countless falls.
“Oh, my,” said the doctor, taking the leg in both hands.
Kip looked away, feeling a surge of disgust. He could not stand the sight of his leg, and the idea of someone else looking at it was almost too much to bear. “I seen this advertisement in town,” he said, wincing as the doctor prodded him. “There’s a doctor. He has a special steel cage you can put around bad legs to heal ’em. Do you think one o’ them cages would work for me?”
The doctor let go of Kip’s leg, a pained smile on his face. The moment Kip saw the smile, he knew what the answer would be. “I’m afraid not. There are men out there who prey on the hopes of the weak-minded. They promise miracles that are simply outside the bounds of science. A steel cage could no more mend your crippled leg than grow you wings.”
Kip pushed the leg of his trousers back down. He felt his throat close tight. “Forget I said anythin’ …”
“Oh, chin up!” The doctor puffed to his feet, bag in hand. “We all have our crosses to bear. Why, I have a bunion on my right toe that swells up in the heat—come summer, I can hardly wear my own shoes—but you don’t hear me complaining.” He tipped his hat. “Thank you again.” He rang the doorbell.
Kip adjusted the crutch under his arm and hobbled back to work, one word echoing in his mind.
Crippled.
olly stood over the sideboard in the dining room, ladling weak stew into three bowls. Master Windsor had yet to return from his business trip, which meant she had not been given grocery money for the village market, which meant she was serving vegetable stew for the third night in a row—each pot a bit thinner than the last. Constance sat at the foot of the table, absently playing with the ring on the end of her finger, looking at her husband’s empty chair. Alistair and Penny sat on either side of her, engaged in some argument, the subject of which eluded Molly.
“More wine, mum?” Molly grabbed the carafe from the sideboard to fill her mistress’s empty glass. The woman reached to take it, and her hand brushed the back of Molly’s arm. “Oh!” Molly shrieked, leaping back.
The glass had fallen, spreading red wine across the tablecloth. “What on earth has gotten into you?” Constance snapped, scooting back to avoid it spilling onto her dress.
“Forgive me, mum.” Molly rushed to mop up the mess. “Nerves, I guess.” She snuck a glance at the woman’s pale hand. Her skin had been as cold as a corpse. Molly resolved to ask Kip to chop some extra wood that night so she could keep a fire in Mistress Windsor’s room. Most folks wouldn’t dream of a fire so late into the season, but she suspected the woman would allow it.
A door opened in the foyer. “Connie? Children?” It was Master Windsor. “I’m home!”
“We’re in here, sir!” Molly called, rushing to get another place setting. The Windsors no longer had a tureen, which meant she had to cradle the iron pot against her hip as she hastily ladled soup into his bowl. She placed the bowl and a spoon at the head of the table.
“Ah, victuals!” Bertrand Windsor appeared in the hallway, coat over his arm, hat in hand. Molly was surprised by the look of him. His time in town had apparently had an invigorating effect. His cheeks were flushed with color, and his black hair was now streaked with auburn. He looked ten years younger.
He turned to Penny and Alistair, arms spread wide. “My beloved brood! How I’ve missed you!” If he was expecting them to rush forward, he was disappointed.
“Did you bring us anything?” Alistair said.
Bertrand’s face fell as he made a great show of searching all his pockets. “Oh, heavens. I’m afraid I forgot …” His face lit up. “Ah! But what’s this?” With a great flourish he produced two packages from beneath his coat. The children sprang from their seats and seized their gifts. Bertrand watched fondly as they raced from the dining room, not even asking to be dismissed.
Molly took the man’s hat and coat. “Welcome home, master.”
Bertrand turned to his wife, who had yet to acknowledge him. “I had a promising trip to town, my love. Nothing’s set in stone, of course, but if the markets rally, I really think we have a chance this time.”
“How very familiar that sounds,” she said into her wineglass.
He stepped closer, almost touching her shoulder. “I brought something for you as well.” He reached into his vest pocket and removed a small bottle with a sort of bulb at the top. “It came all the way from Cologne. It hardly makes up for things, but??
?” He stopped short when his wife turned to face him. “Oh, Connie. You didn’t …” His eyes were fixed on the ring on her finger.
Molly watched from the sideboard, trying to read his expression. It was unclear whether seeing the ring made him worried or sad or both.
Constance examined the gift in her husband’s hand. “Perfume? Something to cover up unpleasant stenches that we’d prefer to ignore.” She gave him a pointed look. “How appropriate.”
“I only m-m-meant to …” He stuffed the bottle back into his pocket. “I know it doesn’t make up for what you’ve lost.”
“What on earth do you mean, darling?” Her gaze flicked down to the ring around her pale finger. “As you can see, I haven’t lost anything.” Molly all at once thought she understood why Constance had wanted that ring from the tree: it held some significance between them, and she had wanted her husband to see it on her finger.
If her aim had been spite, it seemed to have worked. Bertrand sighed and took his seat at the head of the table. The man seemed to deflate before Molly’s very eyes: his shoulders sloped, his cheeks caved, even his hair went limp. Constance watched him, too, a look of icy satisfaction on her face. She finished her wine and signaled Molly for more.
Molly took the carafe and set it hard it on the table. She looked pointedly at Master Windsor. “I thought it was a lovely gift, sir,” she said and rushed into the kitchen.
She had expected Mistress Windsor to follow her and scold her, but the woman did not. This was probably for the best, as Molly wasn’t sure she would be able to bite her tongue. She scoured the pots and dishes, imagining all the nasty things she wished she could say to the woman. Nasty but true.