Doing No Harm (12 page)

O
live was just adding the coley to
the leeks when he went to the kitchen. A dab of butter went in next, followed by another dab, until she was satisfied.

Douglas peered into the pot. “Maybe someone else who has a cow will need a surgeon between now and supper,” he teased. “I like a bit of cream with my fish and leek soup. I could do a shoulder resection and claim the whole cow. But only if the patient doesn’t die.”

She laughed out loud, not one of those missish laughs, but a hearty sound that made him smile just to hear it.

“That is wicked humor,” she said.

“On the contrary, Miss Olive Grant, it is surgeon humor. What do you do when everything is going wrong and you wish yourself somewhere else?” he asked, and then it struck him: all the years and all the men he could not save. He sat down with a thump.

The smile left her face and she fixed those marvelous eyes on him. What he saw beyond the beautiful color was a deep well of compassion. She understood exactly what he had just said. She sat down, too, and nearly touched his hand.

“Mostly I take a few deep breaths and think of Psalm 37, which begins, ‘Fret not.’ ”

“And that makes everything better?” He couldn’t help the sarcasm; he just couldn’t.

She reflected on his angry question a moment, her lips pursed. “Not really, if I am honest. What it does is make me better.” She handed him a small ceramic jug. “Mrs. Aintree next door has a cow. I usually promise her lemon curd, but you can do better than that.” That smile returned. “In fact, I will wager—”

“Your late father would be shocked …”

“Wretch! I will wager that she might just offer you a year’s worth of cream. Take a good look at her when you see her.”

Chastened but puzzled at the same time, Douglas took the jug from her and walked next door. He knocked and was charmed when a pleasant lady of ample years opened the door. He started to explain who he was, before he remembered how small Edgar was.

She took his arm and pulled him inside her house. “Such a laddie,” she said. “Everyone knows who you are.” She peered closely at his face. “That dreadful scoundrel really planted you a facer.”

He laughed to hear such cant coming out of an obviously genteel mouth. “In his sorry defense, I have to state for the record that I hit Joe Tavish first with a stick.”

“Good! Too bad you didna hit him harder. Would you be wanting some cream?”

He nodded, at home with Mrs. Aintree. “Olive … I mean, Miss Grant … is making leek and fish soup and I told her I wanted cream in it. Since it was my idea, I’ll happily pay for it.”

She took the jug from him, and then he knew exactly what he could do for Mrs. Aintree.

“Set down the jug and let me look at your hand.”

She did as he asked, no question in her eyes, because she knew too. She held out her hand and he lifted it, looking closely at the ring finger and little finger.

“How did this happen?” he asked.

“The silliest thing! Last year I spilled hot oil on my fingers.” Mrs. Aintree looked at him apologetically, as if it were her fault there was no medical care in Edgar. “I cleaned it as best I could, and bandaged the two fingers together. Alas, they grew into one finger.” She couldn’t look him in the eyes. “I should have known better.”

Edgar needs me
, Douglas thought.
I swear it does
. He tried to wish the thought away, but it hung around his shoulder like a guardian angel wanting to perch there, but hesitant.

“How were you supposed to know?” He turned over her hand, such a dainty one. “I can fix this.”

Tears filled her eyes. “Really and truly?”

“Really and truly. It will be painful, because I have to separate your fingers, stitch up the open sides, and wrap them independent of each other. And then when that heals, you’ll have to keep flexing your hand, because the muscles have surely atrophied. That part might not be successful, but at least your fingers will be separate again.”

He gave her an inquiring look and she nodded, with no hesitation. “Do this for me, Mr. Bowden, and darling Olive will have cream whenever she wants it.”

“Done, madam!”

Her face fell. “I won’t be able to milk my cow, will I? Twice a day, without fail, Lucinda must be milked.”

He smiled inwardly at Lucinda, remembering a sweet girl of the same name that he had mooned over when he was ten years old. “Probably not for a while.” He thought a moment and felt that guardian angel land and nestle near his ear. “I have a solution. Young Tommy Tavish is about ready for a half-splint. With that in place, there is no reason he cannot sit on a milking stool and do the honors.”

“I doubt he knows how to milk,” Mrs. Aintree said, which told him everything he needed to know about her concern for—ahem—Lucinda. “I doubt the Tavishes have ever had a cow. They are from the poorest part of Scotland.”

“You will teach him. When he is good enough for your satisfaction—and Lucinda’s, I don’t doubt—then I will perform this little surgery.”

“It might be a week or more. Lucinda must be taken care of properly. And then I pray you will remain here to make certain my hand is properly healed.”

“I fully expect this to take at least six weeks,” he replied. “I never leave my patients before I am confident all is well. We must be certain there is no infection, and that you can hopefully bend those fingers.”

Mrs. Aintree nodded, satisfied at last, as Douglas wondered about the workings of fate. Man proposes, God disposes. He remembered one of his captains booming that from the quarterdeck after every reading of the Articles of War on Sunday, followed by a miniscule sermon more threat than encouragement. The captain also shouted that after a battle, and generally while facing a French or Spanish foe.

He stood there contemplating his immediate future, while Mrs. Aintree took the jug into a back room. She returned with cream for the leek and fish soup, plus a small sack. “I made a nice soft cheese yesterday.”

He took the items with his thanks and let her open the door for him. “I’ll tell Tommy of our arrangement for his future.”

“I could pay him a visit,” Mrs. Aintree said.

“Delightful. Every convalescent likes to be remembered.”

Douglas was silent through the fish and leek soup, which had enough cream to please him. He sat in the little dining room and watched Olive Grant and little Maeve serve the pensioners. A few paying customers came in, but so few. He knew it wasn’t his business how she managed to keep the tearoom open, but it began to dawn on Douglas Bowden that he now found himself in the middle of life in Edgar. Nowhere was it written in any surgeon or physician’s oath that he was responsible for everything, but he knew himself well. He had his own credo, which had served him well aboard a ship: If it moved and breathed, and, in the case of sailors, swore a lot, he was accountable to God above that it kept moving, breathing, and swearing in good health.

A visit upstairs and bowls of soup for Mrs. Campbell, Tommy, and Duke confirmed his confidence that Tommy could not have a better nurse. He was cleaner and more alert, without the bewildered look of someone in pain and mental turmoil.

Duke thumped his tail in approval of the leek and fish soup. Even the dog looked cleaner. A questioning glance to Mrs. Campbell made her blush. “He didn’t mind a good brushing and a little water, think on,” she admitted.

An inspection of Tommy’s sutures proved satisfactory. “I’ll craft a short splint today,” Douglas said. “I see no reason for you to not begin walking about.”

“Then I could help Miss Grant, couldn’t I?” the boy asked, hopeful.

“Aye, lad, but there might be something else for you to do,” Douglas told him. He patted the boy’s shoulder, wishing he had more meat on his bones. “Rest some more today, and I’ll apply that splint tomorrow morning.”

He walked down the stairs slowly, knowing that he needed a surgery for Mrs. Aintree and a place for himself. Olive Grant deserved better than to have her little parlor full of bloody lint and bandages and smelling of camphor and alcohol. He fingered the coin in his pocket, the one he had been tossing for heads or tails and then ignoring.

At the foot of the stairs, he tossed the coin again.
Heads I stay in Edgar for at least two months
, he thought.
Tails I stay in Edgar even longer
. There. He had finally quit fooling himself.

The coin went up and over, rolled a bit, then came to rest on its edge, leaning against the carpet. “I need a new coin,” he said as he pocketed buggy-eyed George III.

Luncheon was in full swing, so Douglas helped himself to leek and coley soup and slapped down that coin on the kitchen table, through with it. Olive stopped long enough to look at the coin and murmur, “You’re overpaying me,” before she edged out of the door with a tray of bowls and chunks of bread.

When he finished, Douglas stood in the dining room a long moment, hands in his pockets, nodding to the meek members of Miss Olive Grant’s dining society. They remained a mystery to him. He would have to commandeer Olive to explain them and what ailed Edgar.

Most of the people took a second bowl of soup and more bread, which told him that luncheon was probably their first meal of the day, perhaps their only meal. He recognized the pale skin, rheumy eyes, and air of futility that he had seen on the faces of prisoners—him among them—languishing in a Spanish prison. He saw no hope on their faces.

He made up his mind. When Olive and Maeve came out to gather the empty bowls, he helped them. “Can you enlist some of these old dears to do dishes? You and I need to talk.”

He saw the surprise in her colorful eyes and then apprehension. “I’m not leaving anytime soon,” he assured her, pleased to see surprise replaced by relief. “In fact, I also need you to tell me how I can rent that empty house by the bridge.”

Without a word to him, she touched two ladies on their shoulders and gently herded them toward the kitchen, where Maeve stood scraping bowls that didn’t need scraping because no one left anything uneaten. The door closed. When it opened, Olive wore a chipstraw bonnet and her plaid shawl.

He fell into step with her as she walked toward the bridge. They paused at the empty house. He smiled to see Olive peer into a dirty window, almost as though she wanted to see the pitiful place pass muster before she agreed to his scheme.
Are you determined to nurture all of us?
he thought.

“I have heard it is haunted, but I suppose it will do,” she announced finally. “You could have an office on the first floor and a surgery. I know there is a large-enough cupboard—see there?—for your medical supplies.”

He came closer and peered into the window too. He looked where she pointed. “There is a kitchen?”

“You can cook?” she asked.

“No. I can compound medicine and roll pills in a kitchen,” he told her, then looked at her freckled, earnest face, so close to his own as they looked through the window. “I was planning to take my meals at Miss Grant’s Tearoom, if I can work out a paying arrangement with the proprietor.”

She smiled at that, and he admired her crooked incisor. Amazing how a woman with so many interesting and varied elements to one face could look so charming. Douglas wondered again what was wrong with the men in Scotland. Didn’t they understand that absolute perfection becomes tedious?

“We can do that,” she said, stepping back because he probably was standing too close.

“Who owns this house?” he asked.

She pointed across the river to the mansion just below the castle ruins. “Lady Telford.” She glanced back at her tearoom. “Matters are well enough in hand there. I like to give Maeve more responsibility. Let us pay a visit on Lady Telford.”

“We will walk slowly, because I want to you explain to me what is wrong with Edgar,” he said, flattered by her concern and knowing her well enough in their brief acquaintance to know that idle moments with Olive Grant were few indeed.

She nodded, and he saw the trouble return to her eyes. She pointed to a stone bench on the other side of the bridge. “We can’t walk that slow, sir. I have such a story for you.”

Chapter 12