Strange how little changes oft seemed the most monumental. A hole in the heel of one’s stocking. A corn hull caught between gum and molar. The absence of a raven-haired woman who never failed to brighten a room with her thoughtful observations.
Graham glanced at the sitting room door, keenly aware of Miss Balfour’s absence this morning. In the past two and a half weeks, she’d never missed one of her brother’s treatments. Why today?
And why the odd hollow in his chest that strangely yearned for her presence?
“You are distracted, Doctor.”
Colin Balfour’s bass voice pulled Graham’s gaze from the door. “So I am. My apologies.”
Even sitting, the big man was nearly eye-to-eye with him, and far too much shrewdness glimmered in that knowing regard. “Is there a certain woman on your mind, perhaps?”
He smirked. He’d not admit aloud it was Miss Balfour who occupied his thoughts of late—which was an entirely new phenomenon. Other than a passing glance at a well-curved skirt, he didn’t usually dwell on females. His first love was—and always had been—medicine.
He rummaged about in his bag on the tea table, bypassing the hated fleam that Peckwood insisted he use. Graham never did, nor ever would. Though many sang the praises of bloodletting, he had yet to see results that confirmed such a necessity.
Retrieving the ointment jar, he turned back to Mr. Balfour. “You are correct. There is a woman on my mind. After your treatment today, I am off to care for a high-spirited snip of a white-haired lady who I daresay could run circles around us both were her heart not failing.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Balfour arched a brow at him. “And here I suspected it might be my sister for whom you pined.”
Oh, no. He’d not touch that barb even if he wore a padded leather glove. He dipped his index finger into the salve and scooped out a generous amount just as a rustle of skirts swished into the room.
Since the accident, Amelia Balfour had graduated from a crutch to a cane, but even with the walking aid, she moved with grace. Each step poised. Assured. Which, after a solid fortnight in her presence, Graham suspected was a front. There was a curious vulnerability hiding behind those enormous, childlike eyes. Something, he suspected, she would not admit even to herself.
Mr. Balfour turned his head her way. “The doctor and I were just speaking of you, Sister.”
A pretty shade of pink spread over her cheeks. “Is that what comes of leaving the two of you alone?”
“It was either that or devise ways to get out of Mrs. Ophidian’s dinner party tomorrow night.”
Miss Balfour frowned, and Graham didn’t blame her. Experience had taught him to avoid such gatherings like a fresh outbreak of typhus. Rubbing the ointment between his hands, he warmed the gel until it softened, then began applying it to Mr. Balfour’s puckered skin.
Miss Balfour stopped near the sofa, head tilted. “What dinner party?”
“An assemblage of meddlesome horn-blowers, no doubt.” Disdain rumbled in Mr. Balfour’s tone. Apparently he scorned socializing as well—and with good reason.
Mr. Balfour’s great jaws moved beneath Graham’s touch as he spoke. “The invitation is there, on the tea table.”
She first reached for Graham’s medical bag and set it on the floor. He stifled a wince. By now he knew she expected a certain order in her home, which his carelessness had just violated. She didn’t comment on his lapse, though, and quietly retrieved the card. Graham covertly studied her. While her eyes tracked down the page, her brow dipped into a frown.
“This is a problem,” she murmured, then placed the paper back on the table and lifted a brilliant smile towards him and her brother. “But not even that will spoil my mood. Not today.”
“You are excessively buoyant, Miss Balfour,” he observed.
“The doctor is right,” her brother chimed in. “What sort of sunshine did you imbibe with your breakfast, I wonder.”
She crossed over to the sofa and sat, her green skirt billowing atop the cushions. “I just received word from my editor, Mr. Moritz. My proposal for a short piece regaling my recent travel on the mail coach from London to Bristol has been accepted.”
Graham grinned at the note of pleasure in her voice. “Congratulations. And I have further good news. Before I left the office, Mr. Peckwood informed me that he shall attend your brother on Monday for an assessment. If all looks well, the surgery may take place next Tuesday.”
“Those are glad tidings for such an auspicious day as this.” Rising, Miss Balfour crossed the rug and squeezed her brother’s hand. “Happy twenty-first birthday, Brother.”
“Thank you, Sister.”
Allowing the two a moment of familial intimacy, Graham turned away and picked up a cloth, then wiped off the remaining salve sticking to his hands. “I had no idea today was your birthday. You have my well wishes, Mr. Balfour.”
“Oh, but he shall have more than that.” Mischief skipped along the edges of Miss Balfour’s voice, a lilting quality he’d not heard before. One he’d like to hear again. “I insist you join us for dinner tonight, Mr. Lambert.”
He instantly recanted of his wish. Using supreme effort, he schooled his face to a pleasant mask and tossed down the cloth. “Thank you, but no. I am afraid that is not possible.”
