With a wave of her hand, speckled now with iridescent fish scales, she turned back to her work.
“I am not staying here,” he muttered under his breath, fully aware that his resolve was almost as slippery now as the waterfront. Tommy Tavish needed to heal quickly.
Chapter 10
What d’ye think of our CaptainBowden?”
Simple question, so there was no reason for Olive Grant to pink up. Her seamstress might be fooled.
“I’m thinking he won’t be staying much longer,” Olive replied. She gave the evening stew another turn about the pot with her spoon. “He seems immune to the charms of Edgar.”
The seamstress laughed and then gave another proprietary pat to the buns before putting them in the Rumford. Olive watched her with real pleasure, happy to have traded delicate stitching on her mam’s shawl to line the Tavish baby’s box, in exchange for meals. With any luck, Olive could spin out the debt owed for the stitching into a week of meals before the old lady grew suspicious. Mostly, Olive wished that Annys Campbell would privately convince herself that tea and toast once a day didn’t measure up to hot meals. That way, they could both overlook the matter and not speak of it again, as the meals continued. It was the Scottish way.
“No, no, not Edgar! What do you think of our doctor?” the seamstress persisted.
“He is kind and good at what he does, but he is a terrible brawler,” Olive admitted.
They both laughed at the folly of men in general and Douglas Bowden in particular. Olive pushed a cup of tea toward Annys and followed it with shortbread topped with lemon curd. To her relief, Annys gave a little sigh and took a bite.
I have you now, Olive thought, inwardly pleased.
“He must stay,” the seamstress insisted.
“I wouldn’t know how to coerce him,” Olive replied, which earned her a fishy look from Annys Campbell, almost a what-is-the-matter-with-you look.What is the matter with me?she thought and knew the answer immediately. Her parents had raised her to be useful, not ornamental. Experience and observation had taught her that men seemed to prefer the ornamental ladies.
Annys finished her shortbread and spread lemon curd on another piece. “This is going upstairs to Tommy,” she announced. “I can sit with him as well as you.”
“By all means, Annys,” Olive said. “Take along some kitchen scraps for Duke, if you will.”
“If he is up to it tomorrow, there will be soap and water for Tommy Tavish,” Annys declared.
“And the longer you are here, the more you will eat,” Olive whispered as she watched the old woman make the turn in the staircase with more energy than yesterday.
Since Maeve was washing dishes, Olive took her own cup of tea to the window and looked out on Edgar’s odd pastel perfection, which belied the need and want behind those curtained windows.
She turned her attention to the High Street and watched Douglas Bowden’s gradual progress from the docks, gradual because he was stopped over and over by village folk. He stopped once to lean over the stone wall and speak to Cora MacDonald, who—according to Olive’s late father—prided herself on her roses tothe point of worship. Well, never mind. Papa had been of strong opinion concerning pride and how it inevitably went before a fall, although not in Cora’s case. Olive had decided years ago that Cora’s roses were exempt from Biblical injunction.
And hark, she gave Mr. Bowden a handful of blooms, after wrapping the thorny stems in paper. He tucked them in the hand that already carried a paper-wrapped object, which she suspected and hoped was fish.
The next stop took him to the McLarens’ stoop, where Matthew McLaren came out with another package. The McLarens kept a Jersey cow. With any luck, it would be butter in payment for the surgeon’s effort, only that morning before tiny Deoiridh’s funeral, in removing a growth that otherwise marred the loveliness of wee Carlie McLaren’s face. He had done that bit of surgery tidily in Olive’s small sitting room, where the light was best. He had clamped the child between his legs, and whistling what sounded like a sea ditty, took a flick with his bistoury, and did the deed. He threw in a single stitch before she even had time to cry.
“Now stop at the Rutherfords and get me some eggs,” she said, and laughed, because the Rutherfords were about the only family that hadn’t dropped by the tearoom for medical consultation. No eggs.
He made the rest of the distance with no interruption, a half-smile on his face. Before he reached the tearoom, he turned back to stare a moment at the docks. His shoulders rose and fell, and Olive wondered what he had learned there.
He did have nice shoulders and a pleasant, hip-shot way of standing, which placed him squarely on a pitching deck. She wondered if he would always balance himself that way and decided that he would.
And I am wasting time admiring a man from the back, Olive scolded herself, even as she smiled, too, certainthat if her late father knew of such a thing she would be scolded. She smiled because she thought perhaps her late mother would be standing beside her admiring, too. All this led to a moment’s pleasant reflection of their similarities before the door jangled and the man in question came inside.
“We have made a haul,” he announced, which pleased her and embarrassed her at the same time. Such a statement seemed to promise more than she knew he likely intended.
With a flourish, he set the packet in twine on the table by the window where she stood. He untied the knot with dexterous fingers—he did have surgeon’s hands, no mistaking—and showed the fish.
“You remember that simple hook extraction in your overworked sitting room,” he said, his eyes lively. “Her little son wasn’t happy with me, but his mam was, to the tune of two fish called coley that I am not familiar with. Stew for supper tonight?”
“Aye, Mr. Bowden.”
He leveled a stare down his nearly too long nose at her.
