Gemma turned to find her manservant Mr. Bing at her elbow. He'd pulled off his cap and stood with one shirtsleeve mopping his forehead, although she knew perfectly well he'd not lifted a finger to load the newcomer into the pony cart they had arrived in. Mr. Bing was never inclined to physical labor when there were younger, stronger folk available. He was very conscious of his prized position as the late doctor's majordomo and now as the primary — only — staff to Mrs. Oakes. He considered himself a cut above the dale folk, for he was from the fine town of Whitby, perched on the sea, which seemed to increase its sophisticate value, and therefore his own, at least in Mr. Bing's mind.

Of course, that did not stop him from joining the farmers and shepherds for a pint or three in the public house, which was really just a room off the sundries shop. There were very few businesses of that sort in Farby, population not yet one hundred souls. The postmistress, in addition to selling the sundries, was also the local alewife and brewer. Most people wore several hats in the small community. And being near them all, so did she. Arbiter of womanly disputes, primary purchaser of the aforementioned sundries, herbalist, healer, puller of bad molars and soon, by the size of Jennie Gosling's belly, midwife.

Over the past winter, the dale's midwife, old Mrs. Hirst had died at the age of eighty-two. Lofty and self-important Mrs. Hirst had archly allowed Gemma to attend several births in Swaledale, but she was only permitted to watch. Frustrated by the woman's medieval methods and superstitious practices, not to mention her abysmal lack of cleanliness, Gemma had been forced to hold her tongue in the face of the fearful worship the women of the dale had held Mrs. Hirst.

Now that Mrs. Hirst had gone to her reward, Gemma would have a chance to prove herself to the mothers of the dale. Jennie, knowing of Gemma's determination, had been the first to ask. When Jennie's child was safely delivered, Gemma knew that the other women would come around as well.

On the common, Gemma moved carefully through the scattered remains of many a farm wife's prized vegetables and flowers. Mr. Bing tut-tutted at the wholesale destruction.

"The smith ain't even 'anded out t' ribbons on them yet. And there'll be no dancin' now. Poor Jem Toms has gone and polished up his fiddle for nowt. T' village lads'll not be fond of your new stray, not now. Whoever he is, you'd best patch him up and send him on his way, before one of t' lads decides to take out his woman's tears on that toff's posh hide!"