His smile appeared forced. “I’m certain it does . . . However, please excuse me, Your Grace.”
“Of course, carry on,” the dowager answered and he left with a bow.
From that moment on, Gemma was bombarded with questions about her salve. Apparently, there were more aches and pains in Maidenshop than one could have imagined.
Of course, Gemma didn’t believe her salve was for everyone and she said as much. Once her doors opened, she promised she would listen to people’s ailments and see if she had a recipe that could help them. She told them about her gran and the healing history of her family and there was much interest. Mrs. Warbler beamed as if Gemma was her favorite child.
In this manner, she joined the flow out of the church. It felt good to be included. She also had the opportunity, now that she had her bearings, to thank many of the women who had given so generously of their time the day before.
At one point the dowager pulled her aside to let her know that she was serious about offering to pay for the salve’s ingredients. They stood amongst the gravestones surrounding the church. “I want that salve concocted with all haste. Why, I did more yesterday than I have for an age and I’m thankful to Elizabeth for sharing what you gave her. I could sleep without pain.”
“I will do my best, Your Grace.”
“See that you do. We are so happy to have you with us, Mrs. Estep—”
“Gemma,” Gemma said without thinking and then realized no one corrected a duchess. “Your Grace, I mean, please call me Gemma. I prefer that to my married name.”
The dowager’s brows lifted with interest. “There is a story.”
“And I will happily share it someday.”
“Very good, Gemma.” The duchess swept away.
Gemma drew a deep breath and released it. Over by the church door, people were milling around. She needed this quiet moment to herself and moved toward the back of the church building.
She was doing it. She was rebuilding her life, and it was better than she could imagine—
Her gaze caught on a headstone that was newer than the others. She walked toward it and before she saw the name, she knew it was her uncle’s. Andrew MacMhuirich.
The only date on it was of his death. That made sense. Gemma wasn’t even certain when he was born, either. Beneath the date was carved: Well-hailed member of the Logical Men’s Society.
That gave her a tickle of guilt . . . because Andrew had been proud of the role he played with the village men. He’d been happy to bake the pies they wanted because he was one of them.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I must claim The Garland. I have nowhere else. But thank you. Thank you—”
“We respected him,” Mr. Thurlowe’s voice came from behind her.
Gemma whirled to face him. She hadn’t even heard him approach.
He held his hat in his arms that were clasped behind his back. He appeared serious. Somber. Beyond them, in the distance, was the sound of wagons, carts, and carriages and the other parishioners. They were busy catching up and possibly talking about the changes she planned for The Garland. No one seemed to be paying attention to them.
“I thought you were off to your patients.”
“I should be. Of course, I was waylaid on my way out of the church.”
She held up a hand. “You can’t blame the delay on me. I had nothing to do with it.”
He shot her a look as if to say, Can’t I? Instead, he said, “I feel it is important that we talk. Would you?” He indicated with his hand holding his hat that he wanted her to walk farther around the church where they would be shielded from prying eyes.
Curiosity made her agree. She moved forward with him trailing discreetly behind.
Once she’d determined they had gone far enough, she stopped. “We have a modicum of privacy. What do you wish to say?”
The lines of his mouth flattened. It was a handsome mouth. In fact, this close to him, she was struck anew at how physically attractive he was.
But her husband had been handsome, too.
Except, Paul had never looked as grim as Mr. Thurlowe did at this moment. “Do you really believe handing out this rub is in the best interests of these women?”
“It eases pain.”
“Two good shots of brandy eases their pain, as well.”
She reacted to his sarcasm. “I’ll have you know that my gran and her gran and her gran before her worked to create that recipe because of its healing properties. I never said my salve was a cure. The pepper oil mixed with the other herbs offers relief, which I would think you would be glad of for your patients.”
He made a disgruntled noise. “Pain is part of life. She is growing older. That is her problem. Selling her remedies will not prevent her joints from worsening.”
“It will help her feel better.”
He hummed his doubt, and she had to admit, “As I’ve said, the salve is not a cure—”
“She thinks it is.”
“No, she doesn’t. Or else she wouldn’t ask me to make more. She just wants to move without pain. What is wrong with that goal? And it won’t harm her. Yes, the joints will grow worse because that is the nature of our bodies. However, the salve will be easier on her than soldiering on.”
That gave him a moment of pause, but then he came back. “I don’t want her thinking she has an antidote.”
“She is a sensible woman. She knows what she wants.” And Gemma had a sudden insight. “Or would you be speaking to me this way if the dowager was a man?”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“It is my observation that physicians have a tendency to discount the complaints of females.”
“What?” He took a step back.
Gemma took a step forward. “If the dowager was a driver or a yeoman or a carpenter or even a stable hand who used his hands all day, would you be more concerned about her joints?”
“Those men are working. They need their hands. They have no choice but to use them.”
She hummed her thoughts and asked, “What if the Reverend Summerall had pain? He doesn’t labor any more than the duchess does.”
He saw her trap. He gave a sound of frustration. “I don’t differentiate between my male and female patients. I want to see them all better. However, instead of medicating ailments, I want to see them cured.”
“Except you already said yourself, there are some aches that have nothing to do with disease. They are part of aging and if you can cure that, Mr. Thurlowe, then you are masterful. My recipe eases pain and works on men as well as women.”
“Why do I believe I’ve just received an advertisement?”
“Why do I believe you will criticize me no matter what I do?”
And she had him.
He frowned and looked away.
“We are not at cross purposes, sir. I might know more than you think I do. Or is your true argument with me based upon my sex? Let me assure you, women have very fine minds.”
“I’m not questioning your intelligence.” He sounded like a stubborn child.
“Yes, you are,” Gemma answered, because she was done with men acting as if she didn’t know her own mind. “And you keep women out of everything interesting, such as your lectures.”
He sliced the air with his hand. “The Logical Men’s Society is not an antifemale society—”