The old woman’s heart might be failing, but her mind was quick. There’d be no hiding the truth from her…though he could downplay it a bit. He gave a careless shrug. “Life, I suppose. The general unfairness of it all.”
“Pish-posh. A man of your years. Why, I should think ye would know by now that life here on earth ain’t fair.” She chuckled, her breaths wheezing on the output, then sobered. “But God is just. Always.”
He cocked a brow. “You sound like my mother.”
“Then she is a wise woman.”
“Shewasa true saint.” He clamped his mouth shut. Funny how after five long years, sorrow still lingered on his tongue whenever he spoke of her.
Her wrinkled face smoothed peacefully. “Perhaps I’ll meet her soon.”
He shook his head. “I am doing everything in my power to keep that from happening, Mrs. Bap.”
Leaning back in her seat, the old woman eyed him with a soul-searching gaze. “You are a goodly doctor, Mr. Lambert, but you try too hard. Dying is not the end. I neither fear nor despise it. And I daresay your saintly mother didn’t either.”
A bitter laugh choked him. “We will have to agree to disagree on that point, for I have no idea of the fear and desperation she may have felt. My mother died alone, and it was my fault. I willfully left her to fend for herself. There. What do you think of your good doctor now?”
She didn’t so much as flinch. “I think ye are human. Weary with compassion. One who clutches on to regrets too tightly.”
The anger he’d tried so valiantly to tamp down flared once again. “And for good reason, madam! I should have been at her side, caring for my mother as I care for you, doing what I could to heal her. And though I pleaded in prayer, God made no provision for me to attend her, to her detriment and my eternal shame. She suffered formyrebellion. So yes, I find it hard to willingly let go of such an offense.”
His booming voice echoed in the small room, but Mrs. Bap didn’t shrink from it. On the contrary, she clucked her tongue as if he were naught but a wayward child. “It’s a twisted view ye hold, Doctor. One that’s been eating at ye a long time, if I don’t miss my mark.”
He sucked in a breath. The woman was far too insightful.
And he’d said far too much.
“Forgive me.” Picking up the pieces of his smile, he once again pinned the thing back in place. “I have waxed far too philosophical for one visit.”
Finished with the discussion, he turned and gathered the salve jar and began packing away the rest of his tools.
Yet Mrs. Bap was clearly not done. If anything, her volume increased the more she spoke. “I’ll allow ye that perhaps your mother’s death could have been a result of yer actions, leaving her on her own, as ye did. But God did not punish her for yer fault. We are each accountable for our own deeds, deeds that will eventually be weighed and measured. For good or for bad, God will have His justice in His time, not ours!”
Footsteps crept up behind him, and a gnarled hand rested on his shoulder. “Besides, dearie, your mother didn’t really die alone. God was with her till the last breath left her chest. Even had you been there, you couldn’t have healed her, not with all your medicine or equipment. God alone numbers our days. God alone heals, and He did—the very moment your mother stepped into heaven. Of that, ye can rest assured.”
His throat closed. Completely. No air in or out, for such was the power of her words. He’d never thought of it that way. He glanced up at the rafters where the green-eyed cat stared down at him, and for the briefest of moments, he closed his eyes.
She’s right, God. Though I did not hold my mother’s hand, You did. You were there. I ought not have been angry with You, and I beg Your pardon, here and now.
A weight lifted off his shoulders, and for the first time in years, he breathed freely. Almost lightly. All because of a faithful old woman who didn’t fear to speak truth. Without turning to her, he laid his hand atop hers. “Thank you.”
“Ha ha! It’s I what should be thanking ye. Stopping by like ye do without a penny to show for it. Why, no doubt I’ll be kickin’ up these old feet o’ mine in no time, and all because o’ yer faithful ministrations.”
He stiffened. Her faith in him was misplaced. She would not be leaving her confinement anytime soon, not with the way her heartbeat continued to limp along. Though he desperately wished her words were true, a full recovery wasn’t likely.
And buried in his soul, beneath a rock he’d rather not lift, that same suspicion wriggled for Colin Balfour.
TWELVE
“Thus ended a day memorable to me: it decided my future destiny.”
If yawns were coins, Amelia would have enough to bless every last child in Bristol with a shiny new penny. She stared aimlessly out the sitting room window, stifling yet another jaw-stretcher with the back of her hand. Thank goodness Mr. Lambert hadn’t arrived yet to witness such unladylike behaviour.
With one finger, she slid back the lace curtains. Morning light bathed her face in golden warmth, adding weariness to weariness. She could blame her sluggishness on the sun, for even cats napped in such balmy patches on the carpet. But that would be a lie. Fatigue dogged her from staying up until the smallest hours of the night, writing down all she knew of the city’s history. Not her best idea, which Betsey had remarked upon when she’d opened the draperies and seen the smudges beneath her eyes. But it was better than acknowledging—even to herself—that she wouldn’t have slept anyway due to fretting about her younger brother. Twelve more days. Just twelve. Then the surgery could happen. Colin would be transformed. Life would go on as if—
Thwump!
For one horrible eternity, a black, beady eye stared into hers. Dark as night. Empty as death. Feathers mashed against the glass, barely an inch from her face. She jerked backwards as a bird plummeted to the ground.
