The Lost - J. D. Robb [80]
She fell more deeply asleep, sure she could feel Father Joubay’s hand comforting her.
“Do you remember that moment in New Orleans?” he asked. “How I threw out my prepared sermon and talked about how much help was needed on this little Caribbean island?”
“Of course I do. How no one had the most routine vaccinations, and health care was centuries out of date.”
“The Church of Lost Souls was filled with people who understood, who’d been through Katrina.”
Their eyes met as Isabelle remembered, as Joubay announced he was looking for someone trained in medicine willing to accompany him and volunteer for a year. Isabelle had smiled and Father Joubay had smiled back, and their pact was made.
“Dearest Isabelle,” Father Joubay spoke with some urgency as his body began to fade and drift upward. “Do not abandon your commitment. Do not grieve, or better yet, let grief fuel your good deeds. There is so much need here and you are the key.”
All right, Isabelle decided as Father disappeared into the clouds. Let her grief fuel her good deeds. She would stay for the year she had promised. She would sing hymns as Sebastian Dushayne demanded. She would do her best to update the medical care, introduce routine inoculations and set a standard that could save lives. It was what Father Joubay had asked her to do. It was why she had come.
From her own experience she knew that if God wanted her to do something else, she would know.
Finally, at last, Isabelle’s sleep was as pure as her body and as sweet as her heart.
When she woke the third time, Isabelle had no idea what time of day it was or even if it was the same day. She did feel one hundred percent better and decided that the healer’s salve was worth investigating.
The sun shone, so she pushed up from bed, wrapped a sheet around her nakedness and went to the window.
The opening looked out onto a village that was a few hundred yards from the castle, or was this a fort? The one main street was quiet, only a woman and a girl walking its length.
That meant it was probably noontime. This part of the world still understood the merits of a siesta, though more sleep was the last thing Isabelle needed right now.
If she could find some clothes and dress, she would ask someone to show her to the cottage that was going to be her clinic and her home.
There was a shy knock at the door and Isabelle turned back from the window just as a woman came into the room, carrying a bundle of neatly folded clothes.
“Good afternoon, Mistress Doctor. It is a surprise to see that you are up and about. Are you feeling that much better?”
“Yes, thank you, amazingly better. What is that ointment that Mr. Dushayne gave me?”
“Ointment?” She seemed uncertain for a moment. “Oh, yes, it is the curing cream that the healer makes. It is all most of us need.”
Isabelle heard the defensive tone in that last sentence and recalled Father Joubay’s They do not want you. Well, she had faced that before in so many different guises that she was not surprised.
“I can see why you find the cream essential. It really worked. I am so looking forward to meeting the honored healer.”
The woman cackled. “She is no more honored than a witch doctor. She drinks too much, demands the finest pieces of fish and gives the best care to those who bring her anything that shines.” The woman raised her index finger, making the final point. “But she does know how to heal almost everything and that makes us tolerate her shortcomings.”
“Thank you for the insight.” She gave the woman, most likely the housekeeper, a deferential nod. Isabelle would judge for herself, but every piece of information was useful, so she told herself this was not gossip. “My name is Isabelle Reynaud. And I am not a fully trained doctor but a physician’s assistant.”
The woman shrugged as if that made no difference. “I am Vermille, Mistress Housekeeper of the castillo. You may call me Mistress Vermille. I will take you to the bathing room and