The Night Gardener (20 page)

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.

Molly’s mother had a phrase she would utter from time to time: “Cold hands, warm heart.” It meant that seemingly cruel people could sometimes be kind. Molly was fairly certain that this did not apply to Mistress Windsor, whose hands were not just cold but downright
frigid
. Master Windsor had clearly been upset to see the ring on his wife’s finger—and why shouldn’t he be? While he was toiling away to provide for his family, she was focused on pretty jewels and petty jabs.

Still, even as Molly thought this, she knew it wasn’t entirely fair. Sometimes she would come upon Constance standing at a window or sitting in the garden, just staring at the icy blue stone, her face torn
with longing. But if the ring was valuable, it was clearly not valuable enough—for Molly had also seen her mistress return to the tree several times—no doubt hoping for a necklace and earrings to match. Thus far, however, no other jewels had appeared.

Molly touched the stack of envelopes in her pocket, wondering if a new letter might finally have arrived from Ma and Da. With so many people in the house, it was often difficult to get into the tree’s room. For that reason, she rarely missed an opportunity when it presented itself. Right now, Penny and Alistair were playing in the garden out back. Molly heard voices from the dumbwaiter, which meant that Bertrand and Constance were in the drawing room—arguing, no doubt. She wiped her hands dry and rushed out of the kitchen.