“Do you know how it happened?” he asked while he worked. At this point in his career, he could suture up half of Her Majesty’s Navy while carrying on a dialogue and never once miss his aim.
“I have no idea, Doctor. All I got from the scullery maid was hysterics, and Cook’s nose was so far into a pot of fricassee that she didn’t see a thing. I don’t understand it. Mrs. Kirwin’s been down those servant stairs these past twenty-five years with nary a slip. Perhaps she suffered some sort of fit?”
“Possible.” Plunge. Pull. Repeat. Graham drew the thread in and out with steady strokes, placing his knots with careful, if automatic, precision, and considering aloud Balfour’s theory. “She is upwards in age, so it’s not out of the realm of possibility. Still, from what I’ve seen on my daily visits, this woman is as spry as a stable cat.”
“And twice as twitchy.” Balfour heaved a sigh. “A most inopportune time for her to be laid up, what with my own surgery so near. My sister will have her hands full.”
Hmm. That wouldn’t do. Amelia Balfour had only just started venturing out amongst the living and regaining a healthy colour to her cheeks. Now to be shut away once again? Graham glanced up. “Can you not hire extra help?”
“With this visage?” Balfour circled his free hand in front of his face. “It is hard enough keeping our current staff.”
“I am sorry to hear it. Your sister already has enough to manage.”
One of Balfour’s thick eyebrows rose. “You speak as if you care for her.”
Graham swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. Dipping his head, he leaned in close to Mrs. Kirwin’s gash for the final stitches. “Of course I care for your sister. I wouldn’t be a very good doctor if I didn’t.”
“Is that all it is? Professional courtesy?”
“Should there be anything more?”
“You tell me.” The light wavered as Balfour met his eye across the bed. “What are your intentions towards my sister, Lambert?”
Moisture did pop out then, fine and clammy where his hair met his forehead. Thank God he was nearly finished—for he was certainly done with this conversation. Reaching behind him, he felt for the scissors on the nightstand. “What makes you think I have any?”
“You’d better have intentions, and good ones, for my sister already has feelings for you.”
A punch to the lungs couldn’t have stolen any more of his breath, so stunning was the revelation. Had Amelia Balfour confessed such a thing to her brother? When? And why? Though he’d snipped thousands of knots in the course of his career, this time his fingers shook. He didn’t dare make eye contact with her brother. A cowardly move, but absolutely necessary if he were to steady his hands.
“I had no idea,” he said at length. “Would you like me to ask Mr. Peckwood to come in my stead for your daily treatments so as to avoid her?”
“What I would like is a straight answer.” Balfour’s voice sliced as sharply as the scissor blades. “Do you intend to pursue Amelia?”
Blowing out a long breath, Graham set down his tools, then took the time to wring out a rag from the basin and dab away the excess blood on Mrs. Kirwin’s brow before reaching for a fresh bandage. The busier he appeared, the more likely Balfour would drop the subject.
“Well, Doctor?”
Blast the man’s tenacity! The trait would serve him well during his convalescence, but here? Now? Deuced inconvenient.
With one hand, he propped up the housekeeper’s head, and with the other, began wrapping the cloth around her skull, all the while avoiding Balfour’s burning stare. “Your sister deserves a better man than I,” he said simply.
“Humility is virtuous, sir, yet you take it too far. You are an upstanding surgeon, a partner in a thriving practice. What’s more, you are a man of integrity. I believe I could ask for no better match.”
“It is I who could ask for no better match,” he murmured—apparently loud enough for Balfour to hear.
“If you truly feel that way, then you should speak to her at once and tell her of your feelings.”
“No!” He flinched. What was wrong with him? Any more of these theatrics and he’d endanger breaking open Mrs. Kirwin’s freshly tied sutures. Gently, he eased her head to the pillow.
Balfour’s next question followed him to the washstand. “What is your hesitation?”
He plunged his hands into tepid water, scrubbing off the blood more vigorously than necessary. “The truth is Mr. Peckwood’s medical practice may appear to be prosperous, yet I suspect the man is in debt. For what reason, I do not know, and my life savings are now entangled with his. So you see, Mr. Balfour, I have nothing to offer your sister other than poverty, a life I would not subject her to. My mother died a pauper. I will not willingly see that happen again to anyone I love.”
“And I would see my sister happy. I know from firsthand experience that living in the finest manor house without any morsel of affection is not living at all. I would rather her reside in a hovel by the dockyards as long as she is well loved. And I believe that you do…love her, that is.”
The nail brush dropped from his hands, smacking against the porcelain bowl and plummeting to the floor. For all of Balfour’s unconventional looks, his perception was far too shrewd. Graham stooped to retrieve the brush, thankful the man couldn’t see the flush that burned over his face. “Love does not put food on the table, Mr. Balfour.”
“No, but God does. Have you no faith?”
