02-11-2023, 09:03 AM
(This post was last modified: 02-11-2023, 09:04 AM by Tristan Wells.)
Tristan worried whenever Pippa went out these days. Ever since she had told him about this man apparently out to murder her, he was secretly keeping track of where she went and how long she was gone for. He still hoped that all of this was in her head, some kind of paranoia brought on by the shock of losing her family. But he couldn’t take any risks. And with Douglas’ man not there to watch her when she went out, he felt even more responsible to keep an eye out.
As such, when she was not back five minutes after the time he had estimated, he was already starting to worry. He was downstairs in his practice, preparing medicine, but all the time he was listening carefully for the sound of the back door opening. It didn’t come. Ten minutes. Should he go looking for her? No, he was being overbearing now. Maybe the bridge was open.
The doorbell rang. Tristan put his work down, strode over to the door, opened it…
It wasn’t Pippa, but a younger servant girl, asking him to come to an address uphill on St. Hilda’s Terrace where her a child lay dying. No time to write Pippa a note. He grabbed his bag with the most essential medicine and tools and hurried after the girl.
Chickenpox. The little boy had chickenpox with a mild fever.
After spending a good twenty minutes assuring the anxious young mother that the child was fine, that it was certainly not the bubonic plague (for the love of God) brought on by the homeless person whom the servants had found sleeping on their doorstep last night, and that it was enough to give the child some simple pills to lower the fever, plenty of fluids and put mittens on his hands to keep him from scratching – no his “handsome little face” would not be maimed forever –, he managed to leave. God have mercy. At least the rich paid him in money rather than barter. If he had to eat one more egg…
It wasn’t until he was close to home that he remembered Pippa and quickened his step. The home was quiet and deserted. His stomach sank. By now she should nearly be done preparing dinner. This wasn’t like her. Something was wrong.
Was it too early to go to the police? He put his bag down and went straight back outside, walked around the town looking for her, returned home in the hopes of finding her there at last…
That’s when he went to the police. Did he know how understaffed they were? They couldn’t just go looking for maids who missing for an hour, probably having a tumble with a fisherman in the Cragg to supplement her income. Tristan looked at the big-bellied policeman indignant, but he knew better than to make a stink. Instead he begged and told PC Wood that he had reason to believe the girl was in danger.
Trying to explain that was even more frustrating. After a lot of questions he struggled to answer, and Tristan feeling the humiliation by the incredulous looks the policeman gave him, PC Wood promised they’d send someone over – “later”, no doubt to get rid of him for now. He thanked PC Wood through gritted teeth and returned home, anxious to find Pippa there.
Still no sign of her. After checking every room, he half expected a stir outside, when people would hear and spread the news that a body had been found on Whitby Sands. Maybe that was where he should look. He returned downstairs, opened the door, and…
“Pippa!” There was relief in his voice. “Are you alright!?” He looked at the young man who accompanied her, then back at the maid. “Where have you been?” Relief now made way for accusation.
As such, when she was not back five minutes after the time he had estimated, he was already starting to worry. He was downstairs in his practice, preparing medicine, but all the time he was listening carefully for the sound of the back door opening. It didn’t come. Ten minutes. Should he go looking for her? No, he was being overbearing now. Maybe the bridge was open.
The doorbell rang. Tristan put his work down, strode over to the door, opened it…
It wasn’t Pippa, but a younger servant girl, asking him to come to an address uphill on St. Hilda’s Terrace where her a child lay dying. No time to write Pippa a note. He grabbed his bag with the most essential medicine and tools and hurried after the girl.
Chickenpox. The little boy had chickenpox with a mild fever.
After spending a good twenty minutes assuring the anxious young mother that the child was fine, that it was certainly not the bubonic plague (for the love of God) brought on by the homeless person whom the servants had found sleeping on their doorstep last night, and that it was enough to give the child some simple pills to lower the fever, plenty of fluids and put mittens on his hands to keep him from scratching – no his “handsome little face” would not be maimed forever –, he managed to leave. God have mercy. At least the rich paid him in money rather than barter. If he had to eat one more egg…
It wasn’t until he was close to home that he remembered Pippa and quickened his step. The home was quiet and deserted. His stomach sank. By now she should nearly be done preparing dinner. This wasn’t like her. Something was wrong.
Was it too early to go to the police? He put his bag down and went straight back outside, walked around the town looking for her, returned home in the hopes of finding her there at last…
That’s when he went to the police. Did he know how understaffed they were? They couldn’t just go looking for maids who missing for an hour, probably having a tumble with a fisherman in the Cragg to supplement her income. Tristan looked at the big-bellied policeman indignant, but he knew better than to make a stink. Instead he begged and told PC Wood that he had reason to believe the girl was in danger.
Trying to explain that was even more frustrating. After a lot of questions he struggled to answer, and Tristan feeling the humiliation by the incredulous looks the policeman gave him, PC Wood promised they’d send someone over – “later”, no doubt to get rid of him for now. He thanked PC Wood through gritted teeth and returned home, anxious to find Pippa there.
Still no sign of her. After checking every room, he half expected a stir outside, when people would hear and spread the news that a body had been found on Whitby Sands. Maybe that was where he should look. He returned downstairs, opened the door, and…
“Pippa!” There was relief in his voice. “Are you alright!?” He looked at the young man who accompanied her, then back at the maid. “Where have you been?” Relief now made way for accusation.
