No!
Amelia limp-ran out of the house, fingering the lucky Ibis feather as she rounded the front stairs.Please, little bird. Please be all right.
She stopped in front of a sparrow lying on the pavement. Ever so slowly, she withdrew her hand from her pocket and let her arm hang limply at her side. So much for luck.
The bird was dead.
And that’s when it hit. Standing right there on the street for all to see. A grief so wretched and real that it clawed up her throat and demanded release. She bit her knuckle to keep the awful thing inside. It’d been a month—afullmonth—since she’d first heard of her father’s demise. She’d shed some tears in those early nights. Felt a bit of sadness. But nothing like this.
She pulled in a shaky breath. How could the fall of a defenseless sparrow remind her so acutely of a powerful man who never loved her as a father should? Hot tears leaked out of her eyes. One after the other.
Oh, Papa. Would that things had been different between us.
She bit down harder on her knuckle. Though she’d thanked him often via letter for the monetary support he’d provided over the years, she should have visited him. Thanked him in person. Expended more effort to make him see her as a daughter worth loving rather than one to simply support with monthly banknotes for food and lodging. But it was too late now. He was as dead to her as the tiny bird at her feet.
“It is good to see you out amongst the living rather than shut behind the walls of Balfour House.”
Mr. Lambert’s deep voice curled over her shoulder, and she stiffened. Of all the inopportune times for the doctor to arrive!
Tugging out a handkerchief she’d tucked into her sleeve, she hastily dabbed her eyes, then turned to face him with a brave smile. Leastwise, she hoped it looked brave and not like a crazed grimace. “Good morning, Mr. Lambert.”
“Good morning, Miss—you’re crying.” Concern creased his brow, and with his free hand, he reached up and wiped away a straggling tear near her chin with the pad of his thumb. “For what cause?”
Huskiness laced his voice—a tone she’d never before heard him employ. All manly and protective. One that wrapped around her and bid her to shelter against his chest. Sweet heavens. What was she thinking?
She straightened her shoulders. Her thoughts may be muddled, but her posture didn’t have to suffer for it. “You’ll think it silly of me, Doctor, but the cause is nothing more than a fallen sparrow.” Stepping aside, she indicated the bird. “It flew into the window as I stood looking out.”
His gaze drifted from her to the bird, his face completely unreadable, which unaccountably set her on edge. Did he think her an empty-headed female who was overly passionate for such an under-whelming occurrence?
She clenched her hands. Since when did so much of her confidence depend upon a man’s opinion?
“Well…” He rubbed one hand along the bristles of his trimmed beard as he studied the sparrow, then set down his bag and pulled off his hat. “Let us see what can be done.”
He knelt and gently guided the bird’s body into the crown of his hat, his hand impossibly large next to the tiny sparrow.
Amelia gaped. “It is dead, Doctor. There is nothing to be done about that.”
“Have a little faith, Miss Balfour.” He rose with a gleam in his eye. “Perhaps all is not lost.”
With a wink, he snatched up his leather bag then tipped his head towards the house. “After you.”
Puzzled, she led the way, his sure steps following from pavement to sitting room, where he bypassed her and made space on the table with all the medical instruments. Was he seriously thinking he could resurrect the bird?
She joined his side, close enough to breathe in his now-familiar sagey scent. “Are you a miracle worker, sir?”
A pleasant chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Hardly.”
Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed away the tiny bit of blood near its beak. “Nor do I make any grand promises. But who knows? The little fellow appears to still be breathing.”
“It’s alive?” Unbidden, her fingers strayed to her pocket, her fingertip brushing against the silky smoothness of the Ibis feather. “Perhaps good luck did prevail after all,” she murmured.
“Luck has nothing to do with it.” He straightened. “As my mother would have said, God alone appoints the number of our days—even a sparrow’s. And with some care, God might not yet number this little one amongst the fallen. I suspect it may be stunned, that is all, as long as that small amount of blood doesn’t indicate further internal bleeding. With that in mind, I shall think on a course of treatment.”
She pressed her lips tight to keep from gaping once again. What an absolute anomaly of a man. Modifying her brother’s regimen so that each day would not be agony for him. Defending her against Mr. Peckwood’s cutting remarks by standing up for her intelligence. And now, tenderly caring for a bird that most men would kick aside and be done with.
She peered up at him. “You are a very kind soul, Mr. Lambert.”
“Others would beg to differ.” He smirked.
