He reached into his bag and produced a collection of bottles and packets, setting them on the bedside table with the efficiency of long practice. The medicines were labeled in neat, professional script: names that Lillian did not recognize, preparations that she suspected cost more than the entire contents of her household budget.
"I cannot accept these," she said.
"You can and you will." Harrington's voice was not unkind, but it brooked no argument. "Your father needs them. That is all that matters."
"Mr. Harrington..."
"Miss Whitcombe." He turned to face her fully, and for the first time, Lillian saw something beneath his professional composure, something that looked almost like sympathy. "I understand your reluctance. I understand your pride. But there are times when the wisest course is to accept help when it is offered, without demanding to know the source or the motive. This is one of those times."
"Who sent you?"
"I am not at liberty to say."
"Was it the Duke of Wyntham?"
Harrington's expression did not change, but Lillian saw his hands still for just a moment before resuming their work.
"I am not at liberty to say," he repeated. "Now, if you will excuse me, I should like to fit the new supplies to your father’s leg. It will be more comfortable for Mr. Whitcombe if you wait outside."
Lillian wanted to argue. She wanted to demand answers, to unravel the mystery of this physician's appearance, to understand why someone would go to such lengths to help her family while remaining anonymous.
But her father was watching her from the bed, his eyes tired but alert, and she knew that this was not the moment for confrontation.
"Very well," she said. "I will be downstairs if you need me."
She left the room and descended the stairs on legs that felt oddly unsteady.
In the parlor, she found her mother sitting in her customary chair, a cup of tea growing cold in her hands.
"Who is he?" Mrs. Whitcombe asked. "That physician. Where did he come from?"
"I do not know."
"He simply appeared. Out of nowhere. Offering to help."
"Yes."
"That does not happen, Lillian. People do not simply appear."
"No." Lillian sank into the chair across from her mother, her mind spinning. "They do not."
Silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken questions.
"The Duke of Wyntham," Mrs. Whitcombe said finally. "He was here, the day of the accident. He sat in this very parlour for two hours, waiting."
"Yes."
"And now a physician appears from London, refusing payment, claiming to be 'in the area.'" Mrs. Whitcombe set down her teacup with a decisive click. "It is him, is it not? The duke. He sent this physician."
"I do not know."
"But you suspect."
Lillian did not answer. She did not need to.
"Why would he do such a thing?" Mrs. Whitcombe asked. "We are nothing to him. A country family of no particular importance. Why would a duke concern himself with our troubles?"
"I do not know," Lillian said again.
