Doing No Harm (34 page)

“Lady Telford gave me a huge key to that long building there,” Olive said, pointing. “I opened it—well, Charlie MacGregor did—and what do you think we found?”

His mind was mush; he shook his head.

“Lumber, and lots of it. Probably not enough for a yacht, but enough to begin.”

He clapped his arm around her shoulder and her hand went around his waist. “You’re awfully free with your charms,” he teased, and by all that was holy, it felt good to tease.

“Oh, shut up,” she said in a gruff voice. “May we kindly stumble home now?”

He wished she meant what she said. She would go to her chaste side of the street, and he to the other. With any luck at all, no one would need him for the rest of the night, except his usual assortment of demons and dead men. “Very well, if we must.”

“I have neglected Mrs. Aintree fearfully,” he said as they strolled along.

“No fears. Rhona Tavish is a remarkable nurse,” Olive said. “I find that quite a relief.”

“Coward.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” said the bravest lady he knew. “When you feel able—and it had better be by noon—Lady Telford wants you to peruse the corporation papers that her solicitor has drawn up. Charlie MacGregor—Doug, he is a brilliant leader—wants to hold a meeting with the shipwright and the men who have agreed to work in the yard.”

“Are you my secretary?”

“Mostly I am your friend. Good night.”

Chapter 31

W
ith no more fanfare than
that began the best summer in Olive Grant’s memory. The two journeymen and one apprentice arrived, stiff and rumpled, on the local bonecracking carriage, young, experienced, and ready to do battle in a long-abandoned shipyard. Even though nothing was ready yet, Homer Bennett and his Devonport crew repaired the faulty mainmast yardarm on the fishing boat, Homer’s face set and determined, which told Olive everything she needed to know about the man’s commitment.

When the boat was repaired, everyone in Edgar went to the funeral for Brian Hannay. The Church of Scotland was crammed to capacity for the first time in years, according to the bewildered minister. Scots and Englishmen mourned together the loss of a good man. They stood shoulder to shoulder, filled with a resolve that Olive had not seen in Edgar in years.

Douglas sat next to Olive. She saw the sorrow on his face and understood only the tiniest part of his suffering for every patient of his that he could not save. He took death personally, and Olive prayed for his comfort, as well as comfort to Brian’s wife and children. He was in his own little world until she took his hand and held it until the funeral ended.
Propriety be hanged
, she thought, filled with her own resolve.

Immediately after the funeral, Homer Bennett and Andrew Pine took that same bonecracker to Glasgow. When they returned in a week with contracts for lumber, masts, and rope, Mrs. Bennett had settled into their house overlooking the yards, and the Devonport builders had their own quarters, more rudimentary, but carrying the promise of steady meals at the tearoom.

Homer Bennett, an immensely capable man, had insisted the Highlanders wear blue canvas trousers and cotton shirts, which meant the Telford Boat Works corporation hired all the needlewomen in Edgar to cut and sew. “This way, I know their clothes won’t catch on anything.” He gave Olive a solemn wink. “Besides, Miss Grant, I’ve heard tales about what Scots do or do not wear under those kilts. Don’t want any such injuries, not this man.”

Douglas, the traitor, just laughed, and Olive felt her face go crimson.

The need for good workmen’s shoes meant that Edgar’s cobbler had too much work, so he hired another cobbler from Gatehouse of Fleet. And this meant the new cobbler and his wife needed a place to live, which meant the fledgling corporation hired more men and women work. Andrew Pine had whispered to Homer that his wife was wanting to come north too. Could they find a place in Edgar?

In no time, another of Lady Telford’s empty houses was rented out and prepared for Mrs. Pine, who, from the looks of her as she got off the carriage, was going to put Douglas to work in a few months. “I am discovering that delivering babies is the best part of my job,” Douglas said as he eyed Mrs. Pine’s gentle rotundity.

“Cobblers, seamstresses, house cleaners, kitchen help, retired surgeons: All of this means extra pay all around,” Olive announced to Douglas one evening when he slid into the tearoom after everyone else had finished for his own bowl of something and excellent bread. “And you’re busier than you want to be, Doug.”

He was Doug now, but only to her. Doug nodded and leaned back in his chair at a precarious angle. “That’s how it works, Miss G.” He rubbed his hands together and she saw the happiness on his face. “Do you know, I was even paid in coin for a baby I delivered today in Wigtown no less, and piles I tended. Not the baby’s. Pardon that, Miss G.”

“Did Rhona Tavish assist?” she asked, determined not to be overly embarrassed by plain speaking. “She went to Wigtown with you?”

“She did,” he said. “I had to convince Mrs. Aintree that I couldn’t do without her, and she reluctantly gave permission. By the way, Mrs. Aintree can move her fingers just a little. We might eventually have full recovery there.” He stretched his arms over his head, and she could almost feel his satisfaction. “I intend to sleep tonight. If you chance to see anyone heading toward my house in the middle of the night—providing you are awake—shoot them for me.”

As it turned out, Olive would have had to shoot herself. Lately, she was awake long past her usual bedtime, nothing new of itself even though the reason was. No more for her the sleepless nights, worrying for her own future as her legacy from Papa dribbled away. The tearoom had become the dining hall for the Telford Boat Works, which had meant hiring another cook and two girls to assist Maeve in the scullery and in serving hearty meals three times a day to workers and families.

True, Olive contrived just as hard to squeeze every penny until it yelped in pain—she would always be frugal. The difference was she knew there were more pennies. What wasn’t covered by the penny each worker and family member gave her for every meal was cushioned by her generous monthly allotment, spelled out so specifically by Douglas Bowden in the corporation bylaws.

She stayed awake now because she found herself alternating between the euphoria of love and its irritation. Since that memorable kiss in her garden, Doug had not attempted another such liberty. He teased her, told her his worries for Edgar, and strolled with her arm in arm to watch the steady work of a forgotten shipyard turning into a business again, but he did not kiss her.

She had no experience with love, beyond that of child for parent, but she knew, as sure as it rained every morning, that she was in love with Douglas Bowden. At first she had wondered about her faint uneasiness when the man was nowhere in sight, followed by the great lifting of her heart when he came through the door of the tearoom, more and more now in the company of others. He always gave her a wink and never minded when she bullied him about eating more, or wearing the same shirt over and over, or any number of little things. He had become essential to her peace of mind. If that wasn’t love, then she would never understand the emotion.

She realized quickly, no ignorant lass she, that he was still determined to move on in search of the perfect place for his medical practice. She saw it in his eyes as he stared at the progress in the shipyard, calculating just when things would move on their own and he could decently leave.

He even ticked off the progress on his fingers one night, after the evening meal was done and tidied, and she had a moment’s leisure to sit in her “wee parlor,” as he liked to tease her, and knit.

“Mrs. Aintree stopped me today on the street just to show me how well her fingers moved,” he said, his feet propped on the fender of the unlit stove. Olive loved the way he could relax so completely and so quickly, probably a result of taking advantage of every leisure moment aboard ship. “I set her some hand exercises, and she is diligent in doing them, for which I credit Rhona Tavish.”

He leaned over and touched her arm, lowering his voice at the same time, even though Maeve and her assistants were long abed. “The shed is empty now, and Mrs. Aintree blushed to tell me that the Tavishes are sharing a bed again.”

She nodded, relishing her own delight to see Joe Tavish always beside Homer Bennett, sketching what the shipwright wanted. “I heard Mr. Bennett say that he had never worked with a finer draughtsman. Joe smiled and looked so pleased.”

Doug gave her arm another gentle tap. “Tomorrow’s the day I remove Tommy’s splints. He’s been pestering me for a week, but I’ve been busy.” He kept his hand on her arm. “And Flora and her colleagues have a tidy business.”

“I know,” Olive said, enjoying the warmth of his hand. “She came to me only this morning in near-stupefaction and holding a pound note. Apparently Lady Telford herself has requested an … an extra-fancy fancy made of scallop shells in graduated sizes. She was quite specific and Flora is over the moon.”

He nodded and said what Olive had been dreading. “I’ve done what I set out to do here, or nearly so. Homer has the names of several men who might be interested in buying the yacht. Two are in Edinburgh. He wants me to take Joe’s sketches and test that interest. I can easily do that after I leave Edgar, perhaps as early as next week.”

She couldn’t help the tears that welled in her eyes and only hoped the room was dark enough to hide them. It wasn’t.

“Olive, I had no plans to stay in Edgar,” he reminded her, after a painful silence. “I’ll certainly come back and visit now and then, but …” He shook his head. “I’m still looking for the ideal medical practice. I just need to look a little more. It’s out there somewhere.”

She nodded and tried to swallow her misery. Her traitor tears continued to fall. All she could do was wish him a good night and leave him sitting in her parlor with a frown on his face.

She heard the door close a few minutes later and looked out her bedroom window. Hands shoved in his pockets, Doug crossed the street. He stared at his house for a long moment, then passed it and walked to the bridge, where he stood for a long time, watching the water. Discouraged, she went to bed, certain she would not sleep.

She resolved in the morning to write to Nancy Fillion in Plymouth. There was no one in Edgar she could talk to, and Mrs. Fillion seemed to understand what made men like Douglas Bowden tick. She stared at the ceiling for a long while, wondering what on earth she would say in such a letter that wouldn’t sound like whingeing.

He simply isn’t as interested in you as you are in him
, she thought at last, and decided there was no reason to write to Mrs. Fillion. A spinster she was and a spinster she would remain. Her tears slid from her eyes to her pillow. “I do not want to be a spinster,” she said out loud. It didn’t sound like whingeing to her self-critical ears. It sounded like a sensible woman realizing that as much as Edgar might change, she would not.

She must have slept then, because when she woke, the room was full dark. The moon had not yet risen. She lay in bed, uncertain why she had awakened.

There it was again, someone knocking on her door. She crossed to the window and looked down to see Flora MacLeod, wearing a shift that barely came to her knees.

“My dear? What do you need?”

The child looked up. “It’s my gran,” she sobbed. “She fell out of bed and I canna lift her back in. And her eyes are rolling around. Oh, please.”

Olive grabbed her robe and ran down the stairs. She threw open the door and Flora tumbled inside, reaching for her. Olive knelt beside her on the floor, holding the child close, feeling the rapid beating of her heart.

“I didna want to bother Mr. Bowden,” she sobbed into Olive’s shoulder. “Ye said earlier how hard he works and how tired he is, but Miss Grant, it’s my gran.”

She sat Flora down. “I’m going to dress and I’ll be right back,” she called over her shoulder as she took the stairs two at a time.

She threw on her clothes, despaired of doing anything about the hair so wild around her head, knowing that Gran was more important. After stuffing her feet into her shoes, she ran downstairs to see Flora with her head down on the table, looking as alone as anyone could. Olive put her own shawl around the child and took her hand.