Olive was just adding the coley tothe 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, becauseshe 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.”
