With a faintly troubled look on his face, Cromwell crossed all the way to the desk before announcing, “There’s a…gentleman asking to see you, sir. A Mr. Hagen from Wellingborough, although I believe he’s new to the district.”
Gregory set down his pen. “I’m fairly certain he’s not someone I know.” He studied Cromwell’s face. “Do you have any idea what he wants?”
“As to that, sir”—Cromwell drew in a breath and pronounced—“I believe the…gentleman is a medical practitioner.”
Gregory knew Cromwell’s hesitation over labeling the fellow a gentleman was a classic butler’s way of indicating disapproval. But why Cromwell would disapprove of a medical man, Gregory didn’t know. More, from Cromwell’s manner, the man’s occupation was supposed to enlighten Gregory in some way, but he couldn’t fathom what he was supposed to understand.
“Show him in.” On impulse—and because it was the surest way to protect himself from being caught out by things he should know but didn’t—he added, “And please ask Miss Fergusson to join us.”
Cromwell smiled approvingly. “Very good, sir.” He bowed and departed, closing the door behind him.
Gregory laid aside his letter to Ellen and clasped his hands on the blotter as the door opened again, and Cromwell ushered in a man of average height and build, with pale-brown hair and a distinctly round face. He was wearing a neat, dark suit and a tight, thin-lipped expression that suggested he was given to peevishness. Certainly, a growl seemed not far off as he glanced darkly at Cromwell.
In the manner of imperturbable butlers everywhere, Cromwell remained supremely unaffected. “Mr. Hagen, sir. From Wellingborough.”
Hagen walked forward and offered his hand. “Mr. Cynster.”
Gregory rose and, reaching across the desk, grasped the man’s hand and shook it, then waved Hagen to one of the chairs before the desk. Noting Cromwell scurrying out, in languid fashion, Gregory resumed his seat and hoped Caitlin would arrive soon. Something about Hagen set his hackles rising.
He took his time settling behind the desk, then met Hagen’s eyes. “Mr. Hagen. I confess I’m wondering what brings you here.”
Hagen was sitting bolt upright in the chair. “As to that, Mr. Cynster, I should perhaps inform you that I have recently moved to Wellingborough and set up my medical practice in the town.” Hagen noticed the crease in one trouser leg was less than straight and paused to tweak it into perfect alignment. Satisfied, he returned his gaze to Gregory. “It’s in my capacity as a medical man that I am here.”
“Indeed?” Deliberately, Gregory misunderstood. “I wasn’t aware anyone at the Hall was in need of medical assistance.”
Hagen frowned. “That’s not why I’ve come.”
A light tap fell on the door.
Relieved, Gregory called, “Come,” and watched Caitlin slip into the room. She shut the door, then stood beside it with her hands clasped before her, very much the perfect chatelaine.
Gregory nodded to her, but didn’t beckon her closer. Hagen missed seeing the nod as he’d glanced around himself.
Having noted who had entered, but plainly dismissing Caitlin as irrelevant to his business, Hagen turned back to Gregory.
Gregory arched his brows, inviting Hagen to continue.
The man’s features firmed. “I gather that, until recently, you lived in London, sir, so you’ll be aware that medical science is progressing in leaps and bounds. However, I’ve discovered that, in the countryside, local people, even those of higher station who should know better, cling quite tenaciously to outmoded ways.”
Gregory arched a brow. “I daresay that’s true, but I continue to be at a loss as to what the opinions of the wider population have to do with me.”
Faint but definite color rose in Hagen’s cheeks. “The crux of the matter, sir, is this. On making inquiries, I’ve learned that the majority of those who would benefit from my services prefer, instead, to seek the advice of one Miss Alice Penrose, an apothecary who, I believe, operates under your aegis.”
While he might be classed as Alice’s landlord, Gregory did not consider himself her overlord in any way, shape, or form. He’d also seen enough orders placed to comprehend how highly regarded the little apothecary was, not just on the estate but throughout the surrounding district.
He therefore had some inkling of what Hagen believed was the justification for his complaint.
Not that he agreed.
Mildly, he stated, “Apothecaries are a highly regarded profession and not solely in country areas.”
Hagen sniffed and waved dismissively. “Some—those who approach their art from a suitably scientific perspective—I have no argument with, but sadly, the Apothecary Guild allowed females into their ranks centuries ago and have yet to rectify the error. Consequently, especially in the countryside, apothecaries are often little better than hedge witches, what with their herbal remedies and potions and unguents and utterly unscientific ways.”
Hagen’s contempt rang clearly.
Still standing by the door in her self-effacing stance, Caitlin had noticeably stiffened. Gregory saw the glare she directed at the back of Hagen’s head; he was amazed the man’s hair wasn’t smoldering. Regardless, that glare clearly conveyed what she thought of Hagen and his attitude.
Calmly, Gregory said, “Be that as it may, as I understand it, no apothecary can force people to consult them. Their customers do so because they wish to, presumably because they have faith in the apothecary’s skills.”
