“Douglas,” she amended. “I was planning on leek soup but was short a fish or two.”
“Then here you are. This miracle is almost out of St. Michael’s gospel. What’s mine is obviously yours, since I haven’t a kitchen.” He handed her another wrapped packet. “Mr. McLaren says it is butter and insists he still owes me for that little dab of surgery on his pretty daughter’s face. I assured him I was paid in full.”
“You’ll never make your fortune in Edgar,” she teased, knowing he had no plans to stay.
“I hadn’t intended to,” he replied, which made her sad somehow, even though he had made his thoughts on the matter amply clear. “And look, Miss … Olive: we have the first roses of May simply because I stopped to admire them, and Mrs. MacDonald assures me she doesn’t mind Englishmen.”
Olive laughed out loud, which made Maeve open the door to the kitchen and stare at her.
“It appears you don’t laugh enough, Olive,” Douglas remarked, when Maeve closed the door. “You’re frightening the help.” He turned serious then. “Pardon me for prying, but I suspect you spend a lot of time worrying over what was probably your late father’s flock.”
“Aye,” she said. “Them and now the Highlanders too.”
He handed her the fish, butter, and roses. “I’m going upstairs to check on my patient …”
“…?whom Annys Campbell is sitting with.” She couldn’t help herself. She touched his arm. “Douglas, she is still eating here! I could not be more relieved.”
Just as briefly, he covered her hand with his own. “You’re everyone’s keeper, aren’t you?”
She nodded, too shy to speak. He gave her a wink, which made her face go hot. Then he went up the stairs, his hand on his ribs. He turned around. “When I come down, I want to tell you what I learned on my little walk.”
“I’ll be here.”
“And I want you to tell me just what has happened to Edgar.”
A brief glance at Tommy assured Douglas that Mrs. Campbell had matters well in hand. She had even managed to scrub some of the built-in grime from Tommy’s face and arms. Any fear that Tommy would resist and resent Mrs. Campbell vanished with one look. Still sleepy from the effects of generous doses of laudanum, the boy’s eyes followed the woman as she gently wiped down his face and neck, as trusting as a small child. Douglas doubted anyone had ever treated Tommy Tavish with such care.
Douglas hated to interrupt the peaceful scene even with the most cursory of examinations. He apologized tothem both before he loosened the bandages, pleased that Tommy did not flinch from pain. He rejoiced inwardly to see no redness and less swelling.
“Another day as good as this one, and I will replace your long splint with a short one,” Douglas promised. “There is a rumor afoot that one of Miss Grant’s diners is making you a crutch.”
“Just for me?” the boy asked, still unable to fully grasp what a good pasture he had landed in.
“Aye, lad. I predict that inside of a week, you’ll travel faster than gossip,” Douglas said.
“But where will I go? What about me mam?” Tommy asked, the worry returning to his eyes.
“A good question,” Douglas told him. “It’s one for me to worry about and not you. How old are you, lad?”
“Seven, sir.”
So small for seven, Douglas thought, remembering the boy’s infant sister and his mother’s malnourishment. He was reminded of any number of men and boys recruited from England and Scotland’s villages, probably much like Edgar, who were scrawny and short, the result of overwork and starvation rations. It astounded him that some of those sailors actually gained weight and inches on what passed for food in the Royal Navy. In an academic way, he had wondered what their homes were like if they could grow healthy on salted beef and ship’s biscuit. Here in Edgar, he finally understood.
“Seven? Then what happens to you is definitely my concern and not yours,” he said firmly. “As I see it, your job is to worry less and heal faster. Am I clear?”
“Aye, sir,” Tommy said, the worry still evident. “But me mam—”
“… is in Mrs. Cameron’s capable hands. I’ve been checking on her too. I tell her pretty much what I tell you.” Douglas turned his attention to the old seamstress, who had just finishing squeezing out the washcloth. “Asyou were, Mrs. Campbell. I greatly appreciate the way you have assumed nursing duties and freed Miss Grant for her own work downstairs.”
“She’s even providing me some meals,” Mrs. Campbell whispered to Douglas as she followed him into the corridor. “I couldn’t eat if I didn’t earn them.”
“Of course you could,” he replied. “She wants to help.”
“Where is she getting her money?” Mrs. Campbell asked. “Her father was only our minister.”
It was another good question. Douglas gave an inconsequential reply and walked downstairs, wondering why Edgar was becoming his problem.I’d better find a solution soon, he told himself.I only have a few days.
Chapter 11
