Hesselius was completely bald, with gentle, wide-spaced brown eyes behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. The bowl of a pipe stuck oufaof the top of his waistcoat pocket, and the odor of tobacco smoke floated around him. "Any wound is serious," he was saying, in answer to William Holyoake's question. "This one is fortunately not deep—although it is long; it took sixteen stitches to close it—but there's always a danger of infection. Who's going to be nursing him?"Rachel glanced blankly at William, who glanced blankly back."Someone's got to change the bandage," the doctor explained, "and keep an eye on the wound for signs of infection.""Mrs. Fruit used t' do it, nurse the maids when they took sick and what-not," William said. "Since she left, we haven't had anybody. Haven't had the need o't."There was a pause."I would do it."Dr. Hesselius turned to Rachel with relief; he'd been waiting for her to speak up, she knew. She was the housekeeper—she was the logical one. "Have you any experience in this sort of thing, Mrs.
