“I know a few ship builders Clydeside who will help, now that you mention it,” Homer said and returned to his sketches. “I have heard they are even experimenting with steam power in Glasgow.”
Douglas sat back, contemplating the wonders of this modern age. More than that, he wanted to contemplate the wonders of Olive Grant, and not for the first time.
Not for the first time, some sense assured him that once Olive dug herself out of the financial pit her own generosity had placed her in, she would change in no way. He would probably have to keep an eye on her to make sure she didn’t take herself back down the same path. She had the heart of a servant, probably much as her parents before her. She wasn’t a woman to shirk hard things.
And how was he to keep an eye on her, except to marry her? There, he had thought it, even though he knew Edgar was not the place he had in mind during lazy days at seawhen he had time to lie on deck in the sun and contemplate a future beyond war.
That had been early in his career, on long voyages to the South Pacific, when he was still optimistic and before war stretched from one year to the next and finally had no end in sight. He had stopped imagining anything but war. And so dreams died.
First things first, he told himself. There was a shipyard to make fully operational. He had put off his own wants and desires for so long that he did not know how to introduce them into his life. Maybe they were better left alone, to be considered later, when he found his ideal medical practice. Maybe he didn’t even remember what they were.
They spent the last night away in Dumfries, where Douglas replenished his medical supplies and pharmacopeia in the morning. He followed Homer Bennett into a stationery store and watched as his shipwright bought many tablets and pencils, and single sheets of stiffer paper.
While Homer made his purchases, Douglas wandered next door to a shop simply titled “Clothier.” Trust the Scots to be frugal even with signs. The shop seemed balanced evenly between apparel for ladies and gentleman. He bought him a pair of gloves, banking on winter eventually returning, and then found himself drawn to the ladies side of the store.
“Something for your wife, sir?” asked a young woman in a black dress.
“Oh, no, I … Yes.” What was the point in trying to explain his relationship to a shop girl he would never see again?
“Do you have something in particular in mind?” she asked.
“I’ll know it when I see it,” he assured her, hoping she would leave him to roam alone.
He did know it, a fringed shawl made of silk—if hecould trust his fingers—woven into little kidney shapes of yellow, red, and orange design, with splashes of royal blue. He had seen something like it in the Persian town of Qerm, in the Straits of Hormuz, where they had once taken on water and vegetables.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” The shop girl had materialized at his elbow without his being aware of it.
“Aye. What do you call it? I saw something like it in Persia once.”
“Paisley,” she said. “There is a town named Paisley not far from here where the weavers use those Persian designs.”
Maybe she wanted to spare his feelings. He was wearing one of his new suits, but he had been traveling in it for days. She leaned closer and whispered. “It’s rather dear, sir. I can show you something less expensive and more practical.”
“No matter. The lady I wish to buy this for has had her fill of practicality. This will do.”
She named the price. He winced inwardly but forked over the money. She wrapped the impractical bit of cobweb in prosaic brown paper and knotted it with twine. He was out in the street, purchase tucked under his arm, when Homer emerged from the stationery shop with his more substantial burden. Douglas took on his share of the load as they ambled back to the waiting post chaise.
Purchases stowed, Douglas could barely understand why he looked forward with such eagerness to Edgar; he knew what Edgar was: worry and work.
But there Olive was, standing on the stoop of the tearoom as the post chaise swept past and deposited them at the Hare and Hound. The day was cool and she had bundled herself in her Grant tartan. He waved to her as they went by and she clapped her hands, either pleased to see him, or pleased to see that he had not returned alone. He hoped it was both.
He directed Homer Bennett inside the Hare andHound, where Mr. Dougall took charge, his broad face wreathed with smiles. Telling Homer he would return, Douglas went outside and nearly ran into Olive, who was coming up the steps. He took her by the shoulders to steady her and walked her back down to the street.
“I did what I said I would,” he told her, his hands still on her shoulders even though she was perfectly capable of standing on a sidewalk without his assistance.
“I knew you would,” she said. She touched his face, then withdrew her hand quickly when she must have realized how forward that was. “There you go! Which eye are you looking in?”
“Both at the same time. I’m talented.” He held out the brown paper package. “A little trifle for you, alas, from nowhere farther than Dumfries.”
As she hurried to open the package—her delight so abundant that he wondered when anyone had ever given her a gift—he teased, “What, you’re not going to say ‘You shouldn’t have?’?”
“Not I,” she replied quite stoutly. “I love presents.”
She sighed when she pulled out the paisley shawl, which looked like butterflies exploding into the misty afternoon. Wordless, but with her eyes expressing every particle of her gratitude, she handed him her old plaid and draped the pretty thing around her shoulders.
“I don’t know where I will ever wear it,” she said, “but, oh, thank you.”
“Save it for the christening of the yacht that Homer Bennett, his crew—they’re coming—and a lot of Highlanders are going to build,” he replied, wondering if he had every seen anyone as beautiful as Olive Grant.
