There was nothing in his voice even hinting she could protest or act missish, which told Olive everything she ever needed to know about his handling of people in his sickbay aboard ship. “Aye, then,” she said.
He looked less sure of himself then. “I have a dilemma, Olive,” he said. He yawned and ran his hand across his face, which turned red. “My apologies! Babies are about as unpredictable as the Spanish fleet used to be. The least the grocer can do is name his son after me. I lost half a night’s beauty rest.”
Olive studied his face in mock-serious fashion. True, the bags under his eyes were more pronounced, but his hair didn’t look any grayer around the edges than it had the day before. He had such nicely chiseled lips, something a Scottish lady seldom saw north of Hadrian’s Wall. For some reason, Scotsmen had thin lips. Not Douglas Bowden, born and raised in Norfolk. He had a way of stretching out and unlimbering himself, probably the exact opposite of how he sat in cramped quarters in the Royal Navy.
As far as she could tell, Douglas Bowden had not suffered from his pre-dawn visit to the flat over thegreengrocers, and so she told him. “Apply some damp tea leaves to the bags under your eyes, and you should sparkle again,” she teased. “Mama told me once to apply buttermilk to my freckles.”
“They’re fading nicely,” he said, which gratified her. Who knew he would even have noticed them? “Do you credit the buttermilk?”
“I daren’t. I drank more of it than I applied, and Mama was none the wiser.”
“Seriously, they are a pleasant color,” he said, then stood up, his hands back in his pockets. He stood in front of the window that faced the river. “I’m stalling. Flora insists that she pay me. I told her I would think of something, but I have not yet.”
He half-leaned, half-sat against the front of his desk now, closer to her.
“Maybe after a night’s sleep I’ll have something. Would you think I had taken entire leave of my senses if I told you I want something that will put money in Flora MacLeod’s pocket, so she and her Gran will visit your tearoom once a day?”
She had no answer for him, but she did recite what she knew of the MacLeods, how Flora’s father had stood firm with the 93rd Highlanders at New Orleans, America, only last year, where he died and was buried.
“I doubt Flora ever knew him,” Olive said. She didn’t even try to mask her own bitterness. “The 93rd was the Duchess of Sutherland’s own regiment, raised by her father in her honor! And what have she and her husband done but drive out the families of the men who so loyally served King George to the death.”
She hadn’t meant to raise her voice. She put her hand over her mouth and looked toward the door, hoping Flora had not heard anything. Douglas got up and walked quietly to the kitchen door, peering in.
“She’s singing to little Pudding,” he reported.
“Forgive my outburst,” Olive said when he returned. “It was unmannerly and uncalled for.”
“And true,” Douglas concluded. “So it’s Flora and Gran?”
“Flora’s mother had been ill for some time.” It was Olive’s turn to cover her eyes for a moment. “I have this from one of the other Highland families, but apparently Gran pleaded with the Countess’s factor to let them stay until Annie MacLeod passed away. Apparently it would have been only hours.”
“No luck?”
“None. Neighbors helped Gran get Annie outside on her mattress. Soldiers burned down the cottage as the MacLeods watched. Apparently Annie died that night, lying on a mattress in the rain.”
She watched Douglas’s head rear back as if someone had slapped him. “And all this for sheep,” he murmured.
“More pound per animal than cattle. Those tiresome Highlanders who have been raising cattle for centuries can … can do something else,” Olive said, suddenly not caring how angry she looked or how shrill she sounded. “They can stop speaking Gaelic, discard their kilts for trews, and forget bagpiping.”
“The world is not a fair place,” he said as though to remind her. “My father worked so hard on his barrels, each one near perfection. One shire over, an inferior cooper who married into a scrap of money set up his shop and undercut my father at every turn.”
“At least no one burned down your family home,” she countered, unwilling to be placated.
“True, but inferior barrels did send me to sea at twelve years of age. There was no future in quality.”
He sighed and she felt shame at her hot words. “Edgar used to be a bonny little town, where everyone cared for his neighbor. With the dry dock falling apart, and fishing not what it was, and the young men gone, thingschanged. And when Highlanders fleeing their troubles landed here…” She couldn’t finish.
“And you’re trying to carry the whole burden?” he asked, but it was no question.
He crossed the room, gave her a hug, and kept his arm around her shoulders as he walked her to the kitchen door, where they watched Flora singing to her kitten, her cheek on the floor, her eyes on her pet.
“Don’t give up, Olive,” he whispered in her ear. “It’s too soon to give up. I haven’t thought the matter through yet. Don’t give up.”
Chapter 17
Olive stayed a few more minutes, after making Douglas taste one of the biscuits she had brought.
“I told Flora to test one and see if they weren’t too stale,” Olive said, when Flora was sitting up and listening to her.
