Her hands trembled beneath his. “But why me?”
Because I wish to God that someone had shown my own mother mercy during her final days.
He clamped his jaw shut. As much as he liked this feisty old woman, there was no way he’d expose that bitter sentiment.
“Let’s just say you are my wild cat, and leave it at that.” He winked and rose, swiping up his medical bag on the way. “I’ll call on you tomorrow.”
He wheeled about, heart heavy. He would visit her over the next several days and hopefully for weeks to come—but even with foxglove, her breaths were numbered, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Any more than he could have been at his mother’s bedside when she’d succumbed to an odious death.
SEVEN
“This was strange and unexpected intelligence; what could it mean?”
June was a fickle lover. Amiable one day. Sullen the next. Leaning heavily on the crutch Mr. Lambert had so kindly sent over on Saturday, Amelia hobbled into the backyard, as disagreeable as the pewter sky.
Even after propping up her foot for the past three days, the thing still throbbed and refused to bear weight. Between Betsey’s exhortations to simplygive it timeand Mrs. Kirwin’s endless expositions on wrappings, poultices, and something about hog-nettle tea boiled with doornails, Amelia was exhausted and not just a little vexed. Mostly with herself, though. Had she driven Colin to accept a surgery he didn’t wish? He’d signed the document, and the doctors would be arriving in an hour for the first treatment, but was Colin merely doing this for her and Father…or for himself?
She breathed deeply, the faint honey scent of the linden tree promising a tantalizing perfume in a week or two. Apparently she’d be here to experience the blossoms. The doctor had said Colin would require at least a fortnight—perhaps more—of daily ministrations before the surgery could take place. She’d immediately posted a letter to Mr. Moritz, asking for a month-long extension on her Cairo assignment. He’d likely agree, but his superior, Mr. Krebe, was notoriously cantankerous. It would take some negotiation on Mr. Moritz’s part to convince him—if Mr. Krebe didn’t dismiss him on the spot.
The hairs at the nape of her neck suddenly lifted. Crippled or not, she did her best to whirl about and glance up at the window of the neighbouring house. Just like the day she’d arrived, nothing but a lace curtain stared back at her, slightly riffling back and forth. She narrowed her eyes. The flimsy fabric could have easily been disturbed by the passing of a servant. Yes, that was it. Better that than to believe the ghost of Mrs. Ophidian watched her every move.
She turned her back on the house and limped over to the wroughtiron bench beneath the linden. Leaning the crutch against the arm, she sank onto the seat and pulled a small psalter from her pocket. Carefully, she smoothed open the book and leaned over the pages as she read. It wouldn’t do to have tree sap or other foreign objects defile the scriptures.
“I will behave myself wisely in a perfect way.”
She paused, Colin’s words of a few days ago pushing their way into her devotions. He’d equated the perfection she aspired to as a monster in her heart, yet did not these words contradict his admonition?
“O when wilt thou come unto me?”
The question unfurled like a whip, stinging her conscience. The psalmist may have longed for God to visit, but did she truly desire the same? How could she know if God would come as a compassionate friend, warm and loving, or as a stern lawgiver, pointing an accusing finger?
“I will walk within my house with a perfect heart.”
And there it was again. The very word for which Colin had indicted her. Was it wrong to strive for perfection? The psalmist did. And was not scripture given for instruction?
A frown weighted her brow. Obviously she’d do nothing but find more questions than solace in God’s Word this morning. She closed the book in time with the shutting of the neighbour’s door.
Tucking the psalter inside her pocket, she rose clumsily as wheels ground against gravel on the other side of the garden wall. A small cart, perhaps? A trolley for hauling wood? Whatever it was, it clipped along at a good pace.
“Miss Mims!”
Amelia froze, the name sailing right over the wall and piercing her heart. She’d all but forgotten her mother’s pet name for her. What spectre from the past could possibly know such an intimate detail? No one. Unless—
“I would confer with you at the gate, if you please.”
Hesitating, Amelia gripped her crutch with white knuckles. She recognized that voice, as distinct as the scrape of a bow producing an off-key note. But how could it be? Mrs. Ophidian had seemed breaths away from the grave twenty years ago.
Though common sense screamed for her to hobble into the safety of the house, Amelia obediently worked her way to the back gate. Even inside four walls, there’d be no escaping Mrs. O if the woman were bent on conversation.
One-handed, the latch took some jiggering, but eventually Amelia pulled the gate open, then planted her crutch firmly to keep from retreating. Before her sat an old frog of a woman, green-tinged, waxen skin stretched taut over a crooked-spine skeleton reclining on a blue-velvet Bath chair. Warty growths dotted her face, and colourless eyes with no lashes fixed her with a stare that sucked the marrow from Amelia’s bones. Behind Mrs. O, the dog-faced servant operating the invalid chair was no less intimidating, what with her mannish stance and broad shoulders. Pushing around such a contraption all day no doubt accounted for her muscular build.
Amelia dipped her head. “Good day, Mrs. Ophidian.”
“My, my! Despite the crutch, you are the very image of your mother…and I am the likeness of a humpbacked toad perched upon a rock, am I not?” She cackled.
For an awkward moment, Amelia wasn’t quite sure how to respond. Should she smile? Nod? Wiggle her finger in her ear and pretend she hadn’t heard?
