Mrs. Kirwin frowned on the threshold. “Betsey asked me to let you know she’s gone to the milliner about your hat.”
“Very well.” Amelia dismissed her with a nod.
But the woman didn’t move. “Is there aught I can do for you or the doctor? Maybe tidy up in here a bit?”
“Nothing at all, thank you.”
“Well, if that changes, just ask.”The housekeeper narrowed her eyes. “I’ll be nearby the whole while.”
Of course she would.
“Thank you, Mrs. Kirwin.” Amelia smiled sweetly and waited until the housekeeper’s skirts swished away before facing the doctor. “Well, what is your diagnosis?”
“That your housekeeper is overprotective and that you will live.” A faint smile ghosted his lips. “But you do look a bit peaked. Fatigued, I would say. There are shadows beneath your eyes and your skin is pallid. I suspect another prescription is in order.”
Once again, he scribbled on his notepad, then tore off the sheet. “This is for you. See me when you are ready for it to be dispensed.”
Curious, she lifted the paper, and her cheeks grew warm as she read.
Balfour, Amelia
Recommend fresh air and exercise
by walking, prn, escorted by Graham Lambert
An evening breeze blew in the window, flickering the lamplight and casting crazed shadows around the tiny office. The coolness, while welcome, could—and no doubt would—wreak havoc with the papers on the desktop. Papers Graham had been desperately trying to tend since the last patient had left nigh on four hours ago.
Leaning sideways, he closed the sash, then sank back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. What a long day. So many patients. So much need. His head hung heavy, his bones as weary as Amelia Balfour had looked earlier that morning.
And then it hit him again, the very ignominy he’d been trying to banish all day. He slammed down his pen, rattling the inkwell. Whatever had possessed him to such boldness with the woman? Inviting her for a walk. What had he been thinking? He didn’t stand a chance with Miss Balfour, not a man like him, a doctor in need of his own practice. What had he to offer her but long hours away from home, tending to the sick and needy? It was a wonder she’d not tossed him out on his ear the second he’d handed her that prescription. Yet instead of balling up the paper and throwing it at his head, she’d graciously tucked the ridiculous remedy into her pocket and given him an enigmatic smile before promptly changing the subject.
Outside the door, footsteps clipped, and a moment later, Peckwood’s grey head peeked in, his hat clutched in his hands. “What’s this? You are still here?”
Graham straightened in his seat. The man had every right to be surprised, for he should’ve finished this paperwork long ago. And he would have, if not for a certain raven-haired lady plaguing his thoughts.
“Guilty as charged, sir. I have been working on formulating a new calming draught for Mr. Victor’s dyspepsia. Ginger tea and peppermint balm are not doing the trick.”
The old surgeon pursed his lips, lamplight casting odd shadows on his face from the movement. “I assume you’ve ruled out gluttony.”
“Naturally.”
Peckwood pulled out his spectacles and perched them on his nose, then peered at the formula Graham had been working on. “What have you got?”
With one finger, he pushed the paper closer to the doctor.
“Charcoal. Chalk. Fennel. Mmm, very good.” Peckwood leaned closer. “White oxide of bismuth?” The doctor straightened, as did his brows. A gleam of appreciation flashed in his dark eyes. “Very progressive of you, Lambert.”
Graham soaked in the man’s praise. These moments of appreciation didn’t quite make up for the times Peckwood railed at him for insubordination, but they did soothe those abrasions and were, he suspected, the very reason the doctor kept him on instead of dissolving their partnership.
He swiveled in his seat, facing the man. “Not too far out of the realm of plausibility, I hope.”
“On the contrary. I have recently read of an American doctor who not only wrote a thesis on the compound but has since had much success with it. Not to mention notoriety.”
“I read the same, which is where I got the idea. Apparently Mr. Samuel Moore is making quite a name for himself.”
“Which goes to show that journal publications can make or break a surgeon’s career. One wrong article, and you are anathema.” He pushed the paper back across the desktop. “But if you present something innovative, with the research to back it up, well…you’ll have the Academy knocking at your door, offering money and prestige. All it takes is the proper publicity.”
“Perhaps, yet too much money or prestige is a cancer.”
