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At sea, 1832
My name is Rachel Dunne. I am not a murderer."
Rachel tightened her grip on the ship's wooden rail, as if she might choke into silence the echo of her own voice. Better to focus on the receding sight of Ireland's blue-green hills, seek to memorize every bounding stream, every wisp of misty fog, every rubble-walled farmer's field, than to remember. For who knew how long—if ever—it would be before she saw her beloved homeland again.
"Oh, Mother," she murmured over the slap of the paddle wheels and the hiss of the steam, the scree of persistent seagulls skimming the boat's wake. "How did it come to this?"
This parting, this going. Deoraiocht. This exile.
Mother was not there to answer Rachel's question; they could only afford ship's passage for one, and Rachel was the one who had to leave. Mother and the rest had stayed behind in Carlow to mend the damage Rachel had never meant to cause. Restore the honor of the Dunne name in a town already prone to dislike them for their English ways. Once Rachel had been a healer, but she could not heal the scar upon her family No more than she'd been able to heal poor Mary Ferguson, who had died so quickly and so quietly even Rachel had been at a loss to explain the how and the why.
I would never harm the ill. I am a banaltradh ...
A healer. If the thought didn't hurt so much, Rachel might laugh. She had vowed never to let herself be a healer again.
Against the cool spray of the sea, Rachel knotted her fringed shawl around her neck, the charcoal wool warming her skin while her thoughts chilled her soul, and wrapped her arms about her waist. Cove of Cork dwindled, its pale stucco and limestone homes that snaked along the hillside becoming indistinct, its proud fleet of yachts bobbing at anchorage transformed into specks of white upon the cerulean blue waters. Two islands, bristling with storehouses, obliterated the last of the view The paddle-steamer chugged past the looming stone forts that guarded the mouth of the bay, Forts Camden and Carlisle, names Mrs. O'Rourke had helpfully supplied when they'd set out. Next, according to Rachel's traveling companion, would be the lighthouse guarding the shoals, white-splashed with waves, and then the Irish Sea.
Mother's birthplace, but an alien land to Rachel.
She reached into the pocket hidden deep within the folds of her brown kersey skirts. Her fingers closed around the muslin bag tied with a grosgrain ribbon to keep the contents intact—dried leaves of mint, pennyroyal, and gentian. Mother had pressed the sachet into Rachel's hand when they'd parted in Carlow, a final gift as Rachel had readied to climb onto the post chaise bound for Cork Harbor. Her mother's soft green eyes had brimmed with tears, tears she'd kept at bay to stop the twins, clinging to Mother's skirts, from crying. Poor Sarah and Ruth. Too young to understand what was happening. And Nathaniel, trying hard to be the man of the family, straight-backed and sober, but at fourteen not truly ready for the role.
Rachel clutched the bag. The mixture of herbs was meant to help Rachel should she feel faint or dizzy. If she had not fainted in a stifling Carlow courtroom with her fate in jeopardy, however, she would not faint now. Lifting it to her nostrils, she inhaled, the aroma pungent and sweet. Right then, she would rather the herbs had been dried heather from the knoll beyond their house, or the lavender her mother used to scent the linens. Or maybe snippings from the peppery scarlet nasturtiums that grew by the kitchen door. The aromatic bits of her life.
"Ho! Stop now!" A proper English gentleman, coat collar turned up to graze his whiskers, shouted at a scrum of boys quick to turn the quarter-deck into a play field. They shouted back a string of Gaelic curses and chased each other along the length of the planking.
"Don't let those hooligans bother you, miss," the man said.
"They do not bother me, sir. I have a brother who is just as high-spirited."
His gaze made a quick assessment of Rachel's status as a lady. He could not fail to note her serviceable dress, well-worn shawl, and Irish-red hair—and find her lacking. "Heading for England for work, I presume?"
"I have a situation with a physician in London." She shuddered anew at the thought. At the irony After all she had been through, to find herself in service to a medical man.
"You do?" The gentleman's tone curled upward with a cynical lift.
Rachel lifted her chin. "I do."
"Hm." He cocked a disbelieving eyebrow and shook his head. "What next."
The man tapped the brim of his hat and hastened off, his attitude a foretaste of the reception Rachel expected she would receive in London.
The boys taunted him as they tossed the bundled rags they were using as a ball over his head. They brushed past Rachel, boisterous, laughing. Seemingly untroubled that the sliver of earth they had called home probably all their lives was inching out of reach.
Rachel faced the dwindling shoreline. Then I should be untroubled like they are. For what good does it do me to mourn what I have lost?
Rachel looked down at the bag she clutched and felt hope for the first time in weeks. Months, actually Slowly she unwound the ribbon and tucked it in her pocket. Turning the bag upside down, she released the dried leaves, flecks of slategreen caught by the wind. She dropped the bag after them.
"I have your strength, Mother. I do not need herbal remedies when your love bolsters my spine." Rachel watched the speck of cream fabric until it was dragged underwater by the churn of the float-boards. "I shall do very well in London, and someday we shall be reunited. I promise you that."
Because to do anything less was to fail, and she never wanted to fail again.CHAPTER 2
London, three days later
Well, Edmunds?" asked Hathaway, leaning across the bed to prop up his patient, too weak, too faint to sit up on her own.
Resting his ear against the circular ivory ear plate, James Edmunds moved the stethoscope down the woman's hunched back. Her breathing was shallow, rapid, and he could hear the thickness in her lungs. No sound in the low portion of the left lung at all, the tissue hepatized into a useless mass. Or much of the right lung, for that matter. She wheezed as she struggled to drag in air and expelled a shuddering cough. Acute pneumonia.
"Well, Dr. Edmunds?" echoed Mr. Bolton from the spot he'd taken up by the window. The family's surgeon tapped his fingers against his elbows. "Are you finished with that contraption?"
"It's a stethoscope, not a contraption."
"It's a bit of wood tubing and a bunch of poppycock, is what it is."
"What color has her sputum been?" James asked Hathaway, ignoring Mr. Bolton's ridicule.
"When it comes up at all, it's rusty."
Blood. No surprise.
James set aside the stethoscope and released the woman's linen shift, the color of the material not much different than the gray pallor of her flesh. With Hathaway's steady help, he lowered her onto the stack of thick feather pillows. A relation—aunt? cousin?—sobbed quietly in the corner of the bedchamber. There would be more tears to come.
Separating the cedar stethoscope into its three pieces, James nestled them in their velvet-padded box and closed the lid. He caught Hathaway's watchful gaze and shook his head.
"No," his young colleague mouthed, face falling.
"Can I get back to my leeches, Dr. Edmunds?" Mr. Bolton asked impatiently. The creatures squirmed in their bottles near his feet. "The only cure for her condition. Draw out the congestion in her lungs."
"You've had them on her since yesterday" The inverted-Y bite marks were still evident on her back. "If they haven't worked by now ..." James wouldn't finish that sentence.
He swept back the woman's hair, a blonde the honeyed color of demerara sugar, her cheeks flushed from the fever that was burning her alive. He recalled seeing her at some social function long ago, in a teal silk gown with her hair dressed in pearls and feathers, smiling, charming everyone. Even Mariah had commented on her poise and her beauty All of that lost, now.
In her half-conscious state, she muttered incoherently, drawing her relative to the bedside, who soothed, "Hush, my dear."
The older woman looked around the edge of her lacetrimmed cap at James. He saw the question form on her face, the one he had been expecting. The eight years he had spent doctoring hadn't taught him how to respond with cool indifference, like his father had always done. Instead, James only felt disheartened, the loss another chink out of his armor of confidence.
Soon, though, very soon, he would never have to face that question again.
"Doctor?" The relation's eyes, puffy and red-rimmed, begged him for a hopeful answer.
"I must consult with Dr. Hathaway, ma'am. He is her physician and will speak with you in a few minutes." James pressed her hand, the only reassurance he could offer, and stood, setting the stethoscope box inside his medical bag. "No more leeches, Mr. Bolton. If you agree, Dr. Hathaway."
"Whatever you say," Hathaway concurred.
"What?" The surgeon scoffed, drawing himself up to his not-insignificant height. "What am I doing here if you two are not going to listen to me?"
James snapped the medical bag closed and leveled an even gaze at the man. "I am sure I don't know, Mr. Bolton."
Nodding a good-bye, he left the bedchamber before the surgeon could compose a retort. Hathaway strode out behind James and shut the door.
"So the situation is bad," said Hathaway.
"Let's walk over there, away from the door." James inclined his head toward the far end of the hall, steeped in dark and a quiet so profound it was as if the entire house held its breath in anticipation of James's verdict. "It's definitely advanced pneumonia. She might only have another day."
"Dash ... But I did everything I could think of." Hathaway scrubbed his tired hands through his hair. "She has two small children, you know, and she's only four-and-twenty. My age."
Cold tension spasmed along James's neck. Four-and-twenty had been Mariah's age as well. He pushed the memories back before they could rise, ugly like distorted fungi in a damp, dark corner. The memories of his ultimate failure.
"Edmunds, you all right?" Hathaway asked. "You've turned a funny shade."
"I'm fine." James waved away the query, letting the cool hush of the hallway still the tumult in his soul. Hard to believe more than three years had passed and the shock—and guilt—could still strangle. "No need to worry about me. Concentrate on your patient. She needs your full attention."
"I don't like to admit this, but I'm at a loss what to do next. Nothing, I suppose."
"All you can do is provide some comfort. A scruple of niter for the fever, keep her cool and quiet, laudanum for the pain." He glanced over at the door. "And get Bolton out of there. She can't handle any more blood loss."
Hathaway nodded briskly. "I just wish I had your fortitude, Edmunds. I've never lost a patient before, you know? I don't know what to do."
James felt his gut clench. He had precious little advice to offer. Show a bold front, lad. His father's favorite words. "Pray."
"Easy for you to say."
"Not really" James started down the carpeted stairs, his coattails slapping against his medical bag in his haste to depart. "Do you have an attendant to sit with her? That might provide you some relief and let you clear your thoughts."
"I've been so busy lately, I haven't had the time to hire one."
James glanced over his shoulder at his colleague. He remembered when he'd been like Hathaway—young, fresh, throwing life aside to plunge into medicine headlong and heedless. After eight years, though, that eagerness was already burned out of him. "I would stay to help you, but I've a woman coming from Ireland any minute now, and I have to get back home and see her settled."
"You've decided to hire a replacement attendant?" They rounded the landing, Hathaway hurrying to keep up. "I thought you were quitting your practice and leaving London, heading at last for your little farm in Essex."
"I am looking for someone to fill in for Miss Guimond for the next month, but this Irish woman isn't a nurse. I've hired her for what is only a temporary situation. A favor for a family friend." James descended the final steps. "It doesn't mean I have changed my mind about giving up medicine."
Hathaway uttered a sound halfway between a laugh and a grunt. "Which I still cannot believe."
At times, neither could James.
They reached the entry hall, and Hathaway shook James's hand. "Thanks for helping me here and good luck to you. You're a good man and will be hard to replace."
A good man. Am I? "You think too highly of me, Hathaway."
James bade the other man farewell, and Hathaway headed back upstairs to deliver his bad news. The maid, waiting by the open front door, held out James's hat and gloves along with his discreetly bundled fee. A young child hid behind her skirts; James could see a tiny hand clutching the edge of the maid's apron.
"Here you are, sir," she said to James. She twisted to pat the child on the head. "Come now, little miss. Stop hiding behind my skirts there. The doctor here's been to see your mum. She'll be up and about soon enough."
The child shuffled out from hiding. She smiled shyly, a lass three or four years of age, her eyes, her hair ... James's chest constricted. The child was so like Amelia—nearly the same size, the same golden curls, blue eyes. In a day or so, the girl would be motherless too. Just like his daughter.
An impulse opened James's mouth to say hello, but he couldn't get the word to come out. Not when he could hardly breathe. Pulse tripping, he nodded to the girl and made a hasty escape.
A good man.
Dearest Lord. Help me believe it's still true.
* * *
"Here we are, dearie." Mrs. O'Rourke brandished a hand in the air above the steamer's railing, the thunk of the gangway upon the stone pier nearly drowning out her words. "Londontown."
Rachel stared at the masses of people churning on the wharf like chickens fighting over a fresh throw of feed. "Oh my heavens."
"Truer words were never spoken," concurred Mrs. O'Rourke.
They had steamed up the Thames for several hours, the city approaching like an advancing storm cloud. Buildings pressed against the riverbanks in such quantity they blocked out the view of the alleyways beyond, so thick Rachel could imagine their steamer was chugging through a tunnel of brick and stone. A tunnel jammed with drifting barges and scuttling wherries and blackened colliers, thick as fallen branches choking a weir.
And now this.
St. Katherine's Docks were the greatest collection of buildings and masted ships Rachel had ever seen in her life. Ever dreamed she would see. She'd tried to count the boats, tucked so tightly against each other it seemed a man could jump from one deck to the next without fear of getting wet, and lost track after two hundred and forty. At the water's edge, yellow brick warehouses six stories high surrounded the basin, bristling with pulleys at open windows, bales and barrels and wine casks stacked to the vaulted ceilings. Men and boys clambered everywhere, thousands of them. They scrabbled for space between loaded carts and wagons, crates of chickens waiting to be loaded onto the next boat out, sacks of flour and coffee. Deafening shouts bested the rattle of boat chains and the squeals of pigs being toted off ships, the clang of ships' bells and a band on a foreign steamer heartily blowing unfamiliar tunes. All of it a noisy sea of flesh and commerce writhing beneath a hazy, reeking, smoke-heavy sky.
And not a blade of grass or patch of heather to relieve the oppression.
"It is not like home, is it?" asked Rachel, her heart hammering. London will completely consume me. But wasn't that what she wanted it to do? Let it hide her from her past?
"Nothing is like home." Mrs. O'Rourke sniffled, wiping a coarse woolen sleeve beneath her nose. "Arra, you'll make me cry, you will. And here I've held it back all this while."
"I am sorry. I did not mean to upset you." Rachel tucked her carpetbag with its cracking leather handles against her hip and took her companion's arm. "Shall we go?"
Mrs. O'Rourke nodded. "'Tis nothing else for it."
Stiff-legged from three days spent in the cramped confines of steerage, they pushed their way into the throng tramping down the gangway and onto the teeming wharf. A dockworker knocked against Rachel and continued up the plank to become part of the stream of people moving on and off the steamer. If they didn't move speedily, they would either be run over or shoved into the oil-slicked water like so much garbage.
Excerpted from The Irish Healer by Nancy Herriman. Copyright © 2012 Nancy Herriman. Excerpted by permission of WORTHY PUBLISHING.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Posted April 15, 2012
I love historical romances, rich in perfect period detail, well researched, and lushly written. The Irish Healer, Nancy Herriman’s debut novel, is all of that and more.
I will be honest and say I would normally have bypassed this one since it’s billed as “inspirational/Christian” romance. That is way outside my reading comfort zone as a non-Christian. And that would have been a tragedy. I would have missed a tender, beautiful, glorious romance that made my heart sing and left me with happy tears at the end.
Rachel Dunne—the Irish healer of the title—is running away. Although acquitted of murdering a child under her care, she’s come to London to escape the scandal of her past, vowing to give up her gift of healing, believing it’s really a curse. She finds work with Dr. James Edmunds, a man with tragedies of his own in his past, a physician who is also in the process of giving up his medical practice. Rachel vows only to work as a sort of secretary for him. She will not help him in medical matters, will not sit at the bedside of patients, will not trust or use her own special gifts.
James and Rachel have each in their own way given up on God, as they believe God has abandoned them. This love story is about healing—not only the bodies of those they comfort and serve, but their own hearts and faith and each other.
Inspirational references are woven in subtly, without browbeating the reader with it, which was what I had feared from an inspirational romance. Again, I could not have been more wrong. This is a book about the universal themes of loss and forgiveness, about finding redemption, and most powerfully, about finding love. It transcends a specific, single belief system. It’s about learning to forgive yourself, and love yourself; about accepting love and forgiveness from others.
And make no mistake, this is first and foremost, a romance, as sweet and delicious and yummy as you could want. There is no overt sex in this book; there’s barely a single kiss. But oh, the yearning! The longing! Ms. Herriman beautifully, powerfully builds the tension, page by page, a glance, a touch, a sigh at a time, until the reader is as wound up as Rachel and James, an ember about to burst into a conflagration. This is a truly romantic romance.
The power of faith is the backbone of this feast of a novel, but love—God’s and man’s—is the heart and soul of it. I’ve never been happier to have been wrong about something. Missing out on this wonderful book would have been a tragedy indeed.
10 out of 13 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted May 7, 2012
I thoroughly enjoyed this debut novel from Nancy Herriman! The story captured my interest from the first page and didn’t let go! I hope there will be a sequel! I look forward to this author’s next release!
6 out of 6 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted March 24, 2012
There are some things that certain people are called to do, and no matter how far that person runs the calling follows.
"The Irish Healer" took me to 1830's England. I enjoyed seeing what it must have been like to step off a ship and onto English soil for the first time, alone. Ms. Herriman's writing pulled me into the story, and I was thoroughly entertained from beginning to end with Rachel Dunne's plight, both from her internal need to heal, and from her desire to make it on her own.
This beautiful love story touched my heart and I highly recommend it to any who enjoy reading historical romance.
5 out of 5 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted March 12, 2012
Rachel Dunne is the Irish Healer in this story. In her hometown in Ireland a child under her care died. Now she’s accused of murder and is fleeing to London. There her cousin has obtained a position as assistant for her with Dr. James Edmunds.
Dr. Edmunds’ wife died three years ago and he blames himself for her death. His father also died over a year ago and left him the family estate. The last wish of his father was that James would raise his daughter on the family property. Therefore Rachel is helping him pack his belongings.
Rachel vowed not to use her healing abilities anymore, but she finds out it’s harder to ignore her calling than she thought. Soon she falls in love with James, but she thinks there are too many obstacles that make a relationship seem impossible.
Both Rachel and James feel abandoned by God. But when the cholera epidemic is sweeping through London they must learn to pray and trust God again.
Nancy Herriman writes a promising debut novel! She really made me feel like I was in London with her lively descriptions. Her knowledge of healing seems accurate and therefore she writes a believable story. She also knows how to attract attention to the story. The more I read the more I liked the story. Good job, Nancy!
4 out of 9 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted March 16, 2013
Another possible good book ruined by excessive plot spoilers intent on revealing way too much in their book reports. Just state if you like it or not. We have the overview that tells us the gist of the story. We dont need you to reveal the entire book. That is rude, inconsiderate and hateful.
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Posted October 15, 2011
I have always wanted to visit Ireland. Perhaps one day I will, but for now it is a place relegated to random daydreams and the occasional novel that transports me its bonny hillsides. So, imagine my disappointment when The Irish Healer by Nancy Herriman does not happen to take place in Ireland at all! Despite this unfortunate circumstance, The Irish Healer is a solid piece of historical fiction. I never found myself at the edge of my seat, greedily turning pages so that I could discover how the story ends. But instead read quite leisurely, enjoying the characters and the novel's conclusion.
Rachel Dunne's journey takes place in the dark and dirty streets of London. After being wrongly accused of murder, Rachel flees her homeland and takes refuge with the friend of a distant relative. The irony lies in the fact that by leaving her role as a healer in Ireland, Rachel runs straight into the arms of an English doctor desperately in need of an assistant during a cholera outbreak. Both James and Rachel must let go of past hurts in order to discover the hope God has for their future. Their love story unfolds despite social and racial boundaries, broken families, death, sickness and bitterness.
The Irish Healer is a testament to God's grace and the power of forgiveness. I very much enjoyed Rachel Dunne. She is a wonderfully smart character, displaying grace and maturity in extremely trying situations. Her conversations with James often showcase a bit of her Irish spunk, which makes her even more delightful to read. The story was at times predictable, and I personally could not get past the sickness and death that prevailed throughout the novel. But the beauty of The Irish Healer is Rachel's ultimate realization that true healing comes from God.
Disclosure of Material: I received a complimentary copy of this book from Worthy Publishing. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own.
3 out of 6 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted August 10, 2012
This story is set in 1830s London and involves the gentry class - professional Dr. James Edmunds, his widowed sister-in-law, and others along with the servant class. We see the main character, an Irish young lady who was a "healer" back in poverty stricken Ireland. The lovely Rachel Dunne has come from Ireland to London with the financial and emotional support of her cousin, Clarice - another member of the gentry. Rachel must leave Ireland because shame and ruination has been brought on her family because one of the sick that she was nursing dies and Rachel has been accused of murder in the situation. Though a jury acquitted her of wrong doing, the rumors persist. She and her mother have lost their means of livelihood. Hence the move Rachel makes to London to seek employment. Temporary work arrangements have been for Rachel with Dr. Edmunds through the good graces and recommendation of her cousin, Clarice. Rachel is not accepted readily amongst the servants but graciously holds on to her position by working hard and being kind to others. The story moves along revealing the definite class distinction and bias of London in the 1830s. Nancy Herriman portrays these distinctions vividly through the actions and conversations of each of the characters. Though the household of Dr. Edmunds is busy with preparations for a move to the country, the city of London is plagued with a break out of cholera. The scenes and conversations of the sick, the sick room, the odors, the sights are quite descriptive and your senses will feel the vivid descriptions very thoroughly. The filthy streets and back alleys of London are also vividly portrayed which helps to understand the rapid spread of disease during the time. Dr. Edmunds and his other physician friends practice medicine typical of that period with sweats, leeches, purges. However, Dr. Edmunds tends toward a more gentle practice. Rachel tries to keep her skills as a healer hidden because she fears her past being revealed and the consequences of such a revelation, nonetheless, her skills are needed from time to time and her secret does come out. This is a gently told story of individuals with personal struggles of failure and fear of past and present. It is a story of disappointment and a story of love and the need to be loved. It is also a story of a bleak time in London's history when disease was rampant, filth and poverty abounded, and health care so inadequate. It is a story of triumph and of faith. It is a gently told story of rediscovering one's lost faith in God. I was provided a complimentary copy of Irish Healer by the author for review purposes.
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Posted November 12, 2011
The Irish Healer by Nancy Herriman I took a glimpse into the minds and hearts of a young Irish woman, a healer falsely accused of murder and a London Physician, not healed after the death of his wife. They both must face their own demons as well as the very real and ravenous demon cholera. Both are searching for a way back to their faith and to a peace that has eluded them for too long. An unflinching look at life in those hard times.I was fortunate enough to be able to read an advance copy. This is a book you should read.It will truely make you grateful for the lives we live today.
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Posted May 6, 2012
A most captivating and enthralling novel that reads like a classic with true depth of what life is all about in old London with its intrigues and dangers. Nancy Herriman is a very talented writer and offers a well written story of the struggles that faced the Irish and English during a time that cholera and other diseases were decimating old England.Yet it is a story of the personal struggles of two people in the "Medical" profession who are helpless to save the lives of many. She makes you feel like you are there with all the class distinctions, antiquated medical treatments, putrid living conditions, coal dust air, and mental attitudes of these people. There is much going on in the book. There is love between two classes that is not an acceptable thing even within their own minds; relationships within one household of different classes; issues of losing faith in oneself and in God; animosity between the English and Irish; and much more.
Basically a young Irish healer is accused of Murder when a little girl under her care dies and although she is acquitted she must flee Ireland and try to find employment and a new life in London at a time when the Irish were disliked and accused of everything from thieves to carriers of cholera. She refused to let anyone know she was a healer (or been on trial for murder) nor have anything to do with healing after losing her patient. But she is thrown into a Doctor's household who is also struggling with similar issues and abandoning his medical profession. He also has many secrets (including a daughter no one knows about)and he is not willing to share these secrets that are tearing him apart, yet both of them feel the attraction of each other although of such different classes a relationship seems impossible.
The characters jump off the page and into your heart. And the ending will not disappoint you. A really great read that could easily become a classic.
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Posted April 4, 2012
Irish Healer by Nancy Herriman
It was good but I did not connect with the characters somehow. Its a regency romance in 1830's in London. No sex scenes. Also made me glad that doctors are better now.
Rachel Dunne is a Irish healer like her mother. A young girl she was trying to get better died while she slept by her side. Rachel was tried for murder and was found not quilty. But her mothers business dropped right off and had a hard time feeding their family.
So Rachel left for London to work for awhile at a doctors house and then planned to be a teacher. Rachel was finshed being a healer.
James Edmunds was a Physician and was closing his practice in London. He was moving to family country estate to be a gentlemans farmer.
He could not save his wife or father and tired of failing. So he was leaving medicine.
Rachel had lots of guilt and hard times but everytime she saw a need to help she did give the help. She turned away from God because she did not believe he was answering her prayers.
At this time a lot of people were dying of Cholera in London.
I was given this ebook to read in exchange of honest reviews from Netgalley.
04/03/2012 PUB Worthy Publishing
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The story seems a bit improbable; but that's no reason to not enjoy it.The characters are constructed well: all believable. The age old angst between God and suffering is also addressed well. I like period books and this one was very rewarding.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted April 21, 2013
The story is a wonderful, relaxing read. It is a feel good book like visiting with family. It possesses all the good values and morals that are appropriate for today as well. Loved it!Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
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