Peter Brooks nodded a bit awkwardly to those around him and grabbed hold of Steward Mason. “This isn’t Paul Brooks’s fault—it was I who insisted he take me out for a stroll in town. I never expected we’d run into trouble. With a matter of life and death, I couldn’t just stand by, so…”

Steward Mason turned around and snorted angrily, startling Paul Brooks, who had just entered carrying medicinal herbs, into shrinking his neck and putting on a pitiful, mournful face. Steward Mason strode forward, snatched the medicine bundle from Paul Brooks’s hands, and barked, “I’ll deal with you when we get back to the manor!” As he turned, his face had already returned to its usual honest look, and he hurriedly handed the medicine bundle to Peter Brooks. “Young master, the medicine is here.”

Peter Brooks couldn’t help but smile as he took the burlap-wrapped herbs from him. After opening it and examining the contents, he picked up some of the herbs and brought them to his nose for a sniff. The quantity and the herbs themselves were correct, so he called over the sick child’s father and carefully explained how to administer the medicine.

Seeing hope for his child’s survival, the man listened with utmost attention, then set to work. He poured the calming decoction into a clay pot at home and set it to boil over the fire, then emptied the other medicinal powder into a wooden bowl, added hot water, and brought it into the house.

After all this was done, Peter Brooks felt dizzy and realized that, apart from a large bowl of medicinal soup, he hadn’t eaten even a spoonful of porridge all day. He quickly steadied himself against the wall and sat down. Steward Mason, alarmed by this, rushed over to support Peter Brooks. “Young master, what’s wrong? Are you feeling unwell? I’ll call someone for you right away.”

The old man who had been following closely behind Peter Brooks saw the young nobleman leaning pale against the wall and was deeply moved. Look at that—The Brooks Residence’s young master, coming here sick himself to treat his own grandson, personally administering acupuncture and medicine. As a poor old man with nothing to his name, he had no way to repay such kindness. If anything were to happen to this young master, he would feel guilty for the rest of his life.

Peter Brooks quickly forced a smile at Steward Mason and the old man, then said a bit sheepishly, “I’m just a little hungry.” Hearing this, Steward Mason finally realized and smacked his own head, cursing himself. At that moment, the old man’s face showed a smile that was hard to tell if it was relief or gratitude. He turned and went into the inner room, and soon returned, nervously holding a wooden bowl in front of Peter Brooks.

“This is chestnut porridge I cooked early this morning. I’d hoped my grandson could have a good meal before he left, but thanks to your help, young master, he’s been saved. If you don’t mind, please have some.” The old man, hands trembling, offered the wooden bowl to Peter Brooks. At this moment, the once noisy courtyard fell silent, and all the neighbors stared at the steaming chestnut porridge in the worn wooden bowl.

Even Steward Mason, who was about to send someone home to fetch some cooked food, was momentarily stunned.

※※※

Seeing the old man’s patched clothes and the steaming chestnut porridge, Peter Brooks didn’t hesitate and took the bowl. “In that case, I thank you for your kindness, sir.” Without another word, he took the chopsticks and began to eat heartily, earning the respect of those around him. Steward Mason opened his mouth but said nothing, though the look he gave Peter Brooks had changed.

The poor scholar who had been chattering on the side shook his head and said, “The young master is truly benevolent, much like Old Governor Brooks of old. It seems the old governor has a worthy successor…”

At these words, the onlookers all nodded in agreement. Peter Brooks was a little surprised—apparently, his late father’s reputation in Jiangyang County was quite good. But he was truly hungry and didn’t think much of it, ignoring the many eyes watching him as he ate. Seeing Peter Brooks eat the chestnut porridge so naturally, the old man who had been so anxious finally smiled, a look of relief spreading across his face. Though it wasn’t an equal exchange, at least he had done what he could for the young master, and that brought him some peace of mind.

It didn’t take Peter Brooks long to finish the bowl of millet porridge. With food in his stomach, the cold sweat on his forehead finally stopped. He returned the empty bowl to the old man, who was now smiling sincerely, thanked him, and took the handkerchief Steward Mason handed over to wipe his mouth. Only then did Peter Brooks remember something. “Hmm? Where’s this family’s carrying pole?” No one in the crowd had brought in the pole with the prescription written on it. Paul Brooks quickly replied, “That pole was taken by the old medical worker—he said he wanted to study it carefully and would return it soon. I hurried back because I was worried about your instructions, young master.”

Study it carefully? What kind of people are these, fussing over a broken carrying pole? Peter Brooks couldn’t help but roll his eyes and was about to speak when a voice called out, “Here, here, the prescription is with me.”

Peter Brooks looked up in surprise—it was an old acquaintance, the medical worker who had treated his “soul-loss” before. Now, the old man was squeezing through the crowd with the prescription pole, panting but refusing to put it down. The pole wasn’t heavy, but it seemed the old medical worker had hurried over.