“No, I take great care in keeping records.” He did. A lesson learned the hard way. As a young assistant on his first assignment, he’d blundered by not documenting what he’d set out on the tray for the ship’s surgeon. A silver forceps was not accounted for by the end of the night—and he had the scars on his back from an unjust flogging after being accused of the theft.
He pulled a black leather journal from a shelf. After a quick pagethrough, he stopped at the current date and held it out for Peckwood’s perusal. “See here? There were ten cotton wads on that tray when I readied it this morning. If we do not reopen that man and remove the wad, infection is sure to set in.”
Peckwood scowled as he hung up his apron. “I assure you, Lambert,Iwould not make such a novice mistake. Clearly the error is in your accounting. You may have written down ten, but you must have pulled only nine from the jar. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some friends to meet.” Straightening his waistcoat, the doctor strode out the door.
Graham’s jaw hardened, tight as a woodscrew about to splinter a board. Was Peckwood right? Had he miscounted? Everyone made mistakes.
His gaze drifted to Hobbs, lying unconscious on the slab. The man breathed easily, chest rising and falling in a normal rhythm. The incision stitched by Mr. Peckwood looked like a great-granny’s masterpiece of needlework, finely crafted and without one spot of blood leaking out. Was he justified in destroying that handiwork and reopening the man’s side? And if he did, would Hobbs sustain more blood loss simply to satisfy his own curiosity?
But what if a piece of wadding were still in his gut? Leaving it there meant certain death. There was nothing for it, then. He readied another tray and grabbed a scalpel. Minutes later, the forceps snagged then pulled out a walnut-sized gob of fouled wadding.
Curse Peckwood and his arrogance!
He threw the forceps, bloody pad and all, onto the tray. This was the final straw. As soon as Colin Balfour’s surgery was over, he’d leave—even if that meant becoming naught but a country surgeon operating on miners in Cornwall. But not before he’d reported all of Peckwood’s shortcomings to the local magistrate.
Huffing, he once again threaded a needle, this time taking several tries to make the catgut go through. Saying goodbye to Peckwood would be a delight. But as for Amelia Balfour? He tied off a knot with jerky movements. Wishing a farewell to the woman who so thoroughly captivated would maim him in ways from which he might never recover.
Too bad he didn’t have a choice.
SIXTEEN
“Sometimes I have endeavored to discover what quality it is which he possesses that elevates him so immeasurably above any other person I ever knew. I believe it to be an intuitive discernment; a quick but never-failing power of judgment; a penetration into the causes of things, unequaled for clearness and precision; add to this a facility of expression, and a voice whose varied intonations are soul-subduing music.”
“For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: not of works, lest any man should boast.”
Amelia shifted on the merciless pew, vainly seeking respite from the hard wood, harder truth, and a sharp sideways glance from Betsey. Though the vicar’s words were meant for everyone gracing the benches of St. Andrew’s Church, she felt oddly singled out. Exposed in a way that crawled under her skin and made her wish to scrub with a bar of lye soap. Was that what she’d been doing? Certainly not the boasting part of it, but—perhaps—the works? Was all her good behaviour merely an attempt to win God’s favour?
She frowned. Perish the thought! Of course, it wasn’t works that had driven her to church this morning. It was the uncomfortable barb in her heart that Graham had planted during their walk at St. Brandon’s…
“Trust must ultimately rest on God.”
She fiddled with her lacy gloves instead of stroking the Ibis feather she’d purposely left at home—an outward sign of her attempt to depend solely upon God. It wasn’t a new truth Graham had given her, but one she’d perhaps been ignoring. Had she been relying too heavily on the skill of Mr. Peckwood to make her brother whole and forgotten to include the Almighty in the process? Was that the root of why she’d not attended services these past five weeks? She ought to know she couldn’t expect God to hear her prayers if she didn’t make an effort to come hear Him. And she desperately needed her pleas to be received for the success of Colin’s upcoming surgery. This had nothing whatsoever to do with her works but everything to do with her brother, which was a self-sacrificial offering. One God would surely smile upon.
That settled, she breathed easier for the rest of the sermon, until they stepped outside and Betsey once again eyed her.
Her maid tightened her bonnet ribbons into a severe knot. “He were a bit heavy-handed today, eh miss?”
Amelia tugged down her sleeves, straightening her cuffs. Apparently, her maid had felt the sting of the sermon as well. “I suppose the vicar must make the most of a captive audience whenever he has the chance.”
“I were speaking of God, miss, not the vicar.”
“Yes, well…” What was she to say to that? For she suspected her maid was very much in the right. Leaving the church—and Betsey—behind, she turned towards home, but barely two steps later, she stopped.
Ahead, a young girl stood at the curb. Five years old. Possibly six. Hard to tell with street children. They all aged unnaturally. The girl clutched a handful of white poppies, begging the worshippers leaving St. Andrew’s to buy her wilted flowers. Nothing extraordinary, really. The poor earned money in whatever way they could.
But this particular girl captured Amelia’s heart unlike any other. There was something about her chocolate-brown eyes and the black curls that flopped onto her brow. Beneath smudges of coal dust, the girl was the mirror image of herself at that age. Father had been a harsh taskmaster, but at least he’d richly provided for her and Colin, and she’d never had to face such a cruel existence as this little one.
She called over her shoulder to Betsey. “Wait here, please. I won’t be a minute.”
Dodging a passing elderly couple, she hurried onward, fumbling with the strings of her reticule. If she emptied the contents into the girl’s palm, at least the child would have something substantial to eat today. A good plan—one that stopped short when she bumped into a solid back.
“Oh!” She retreated a step, an apology springing to her tongue, yet it quickly stalled as the man she’d collided with turned. Familiar hazel eyes stared into her own.
“G–good day, Mr. Lambert.” Her voice squeaked.
“It is now.” He grinned, the warmth of which sent quivers through her belly. “Meeting you on the street is turning into a regular habit, Miss Balfour. A good habit, I might add.”
Heat rose, warming her face. “I, erm…”
