“Ha ha!” Approval lilted in her voice. “You got me there.”
Pressing his advantage, he lifted his black bag and waved it about. “I assure you I am fully prepared to do the will of God.”
She laughed, a discordant yet somehow delightful chortle. “I like you. I do!” But she didn’t set the broom handle down and, in fact, clutched it to her chest. “Even so, I’ll not let go o’ this.”
“I would have it no other way. Any woman—or man—should always be on guard in this wicked world of ours.” Carefully, lest he spook the old woman, he set down his makeshift shield and his bag, then pulled a wooden chair away from the hearth and set it in front of the only window. “Would you mind taking a seat?”
She narrowed her eyes for a moment, studying him, then circled about and sank onto the chair, never once letting go of her stick.
“Thank you, madam.” He bent closer to her in one smooth, careful movement. My, my. Her granddaughter had not been exaggerating. Two murderous red welts swelled large, one on her cheek, another near her chin. The woman’s washed-out blue eyes glazed feverous, and even without touching her, he could feel the heat radiating off her thin bones. Quite an impressive infection.
He frowned. “I hope the cat paid for these transgressions.”
“See for yourself.” She jiggled the broom handle upwards.
He hesitated. Did he really want to see some rangy furball hanging from a rafter? Slowly, he peered up at the ceiling, only to meet the luminous green gaze of a fat feline who perched upon a joist, tail swishing.
“Ha ha!” The old woman slapped her knee. “The look on yer face! How oft’, I wonder, do God see that same bewilderment from me?”
Half a smile rose to his lips. Her granddaughter had been right—the old woman was sharp as a lancet. Retrieving his medical bag, he pulled out a jar of ointment and worked off the lid. “I was told the cat was feral.”
“He were, till I filled his belly a time or two. But that first meal were a real fight, I don’t mind tellin’ ye.”
“Yet you kept him?”
She patted him on the sleeve, knobby fingers rife with rheumatism. “That’s what mercy is all about, young man.”
His jaw dropped. He’d not heard a more powerful sermon in years. Gathering his wits, he dipped his finger in the salve and tenderly applied it, first to her cheek, then her chin, and—hold on. With his other hand, he tipped her head just so and eased down her fichu, exposing a neck nearly twice the size it should be. Such a swelling in this area had nothing to do with a cat scratch.
He set down the ointment and dug out his surgeon’svade-mecum, paging through symptoms, causes, and diagnoses until he landed on the one that most concerned him. The more he read and compared the words to Mrs. Bap’s condition, the more his stomach hardened into a knot.
“What’s this?” She leaned closer and eyed his small book. “Am I to get a scripture reading as well? Ha ha! I truly do like ye.”
He sighed. Would that this were a volume of encouragement instead of life-threatening illnesses. Forcing a half smile, he tucked the thing away. “I am afraid not, madam. Tell me, how long have you had trouble breathing?”
The whites of her eyes rounded large. “Be ye a prophet, sir?”
“Hardly.” He snorted. “Do you mind if I listen to your heart? If I am to be certain of your condition, then I must put an ear to your chest, but I swear nothing more.” He slapped his hand to his heart. “You may swat me with your broom if I do not keep my word.”
She edged back in her chair. “I dunno ’bout that.”
“Please, Mrs. Bap.” He softened his tone. “I think we both know your scratch isn’t your only ailment.”
Her lips rippled shut and, clutching her broom handle with two hands, slowly she nodded.
He pressed his ear to her breastbone, then held his breath, mostly to hear but also to avoid inhaling her odd smell of fish and lye. Instead of the regular lub-dub, an irregular lub-lub-lub-dub repeated sporadically, as off-kilter as a pebble shaken in a dented can. He straightened. Knowing what was wrong was often a boon but—as in this case—sometimes a curse.
Mrs. Bap cocked her head. “Well?”
He inhaled deeply. “I suspect you suffer from dropsy, ma’am, but not to worry.” He forced a smile as he swiped up the ointment jar and screwed on the lid. “I shall return tomorrow with a mixture of foxglove granules, to be administered over the next several days.”
“Sticks and stones!” She wheezed and shook her broom handle at him. “I won’t be needin’ that. All I be needin’ is in God’s hands, and I’ll thank you for what’s in yours. Namely, that salve. I won’t be payin’ for anything more.”
He handed over the jar, but as she grabbed it, he wrapped his other fingers around hers, boldly grasping not only her hands but her attention. “This ointment is yours, Mrs. Bap, as are my services, free of charge.”
“Why…I never heard o’ no doctor fixin’ up some old Redcliffe woman without no cost to it.”
“You said it yourself, that’s what mercy is all about.”
