“Mrs. Kirwin’s been down those servant stairs these past twenty-five years with nary a slip.”
He narrowed his eyes on the plaything sitting on his open palm and wondered aloud, “From whence did you come, you little troublemaker?”
SEVENTEEN
“…and do you not feel your blood congeal with horror like that which even now curdles mine?”
Time was a nebulous thing. Each day felt like a thousand, but when
Mr. Lambert’s steady presence graced Balfour House, the minutes ran like water through a sieve. In the week and a half since Mrs. Kirwin’s fall, Amelia had alternately prayed for the hours to speed or to slow.
The very same double-mindedness plagued her now as she perched on the sitting room sofa, wringing her handkerchief. Waiting. Watching. Wondering if this time Mr. Peckwood’s assessment would finally result in the scheduling of Colin’s surgery. She hoped so. He’d already delayed this examination by four whole days and the ship to Cairo would sail in little over a week. Yet as she sneaked a glance at Mr. Lambert, taking in the lean lines of his body and strong cut of his jaw, her fickle heart had the audacity to wish his daily visits might never end.
As if he sensed her perusal, Mr. Lambert’s eyes—more brown than green today—turned towards her, and her breath caught. Mercy! She could get lost in that gaze.
He strolled her way, pulling out a white cloth from his pocket, then offered it over.
She looked from the cloth to his face. “What’s that for?”
He nodded at the knotted handkerchief in her lap. “You have strangled the life from that one.”
“And so you offer me another?” She arched a brow. “Do you think a doctor should be encouraging such homicidal tendencies?”
Chuckling, he tucked the cloth away and sat beside her. “Mr. Peckwood is merely conducting an evaluation. How on earth will you manage during your brother’s actual surgery?”
“I shall be fine.” Little by little, she began unwinding the wad in her hand and smoothing the fabric out on her lap. “It is all the waiting that is so agitating.”
“Then your brother was right after all.” A knowing grin—the sort that hid secrets—spread languidly across his face.
Her hands stilled. “About what?”
“Of all your many virtues, he warned me that patience is not amongst their tally.”
She narrowed her eyes. What kind of conversations did her brother and Mr. Lambert partake of when she wasn’t around? Colin had been acting odd of late, singing the praises of the good doctor and speaking of the future, but she’d counted it as nothing more than him trying to cheer her spirits as she and Betsey took on many of Mrs. Kirwin’s usual tasks. Had there been some other reason for his frequent mentions of Mr. Lambert? Was her baby brother acting the matchmaker?
Though the creases had finally been worked out of her cloth, she scrunched it up yet again. “Why would my brother speak to you about my merits or lack thereof?”
Mr. Lambert’s lips parted, but Mr. Peckwood’s voice rang out.
“Very good, Mr. Balfour.”
Amelia snapped her gaze to Colin and the older doctor. Her brother sat stoic, his face an unreadable mask. Mr. Peckwood backed towards them with a large calipers in his clutch. Whatever the older doctor had deemed good was impossible to tell.
“Well?” Amelia rose, as did Mr. Lambert. “Is my brother now fit for your surgery, Mr. Peckwood?”
“He is more than fit.” The old fellow popped the instrument into his bag then buckled it shut and turned to her. “Your brother has exceeded my expectations.”
Though it was what she wanted to hear, a certain amount of trepidation for her brother’s life caused her fingers to clench her handkerchief all the tighter. “That’s wonderful news.”
“Maybe for you,” Colin drawled. “But it’s me going under that scalpel of his.”
Mr. Peckwood patted him on one of his big shoulders. “With the progress you’ve made thus far, I anticipate no problems whatsoever with your upcoming procedure.”
“And when will that be, sir?”
The doctor scratched behind his ear, saying nothing. The longer the silence stretched, the more Amelia gnawed the inside of her cheek. Was it really that hard to choose a date? Even Mr. Lambert cast a wondering glance over his shoulder while he packed away the rest of his instruments.
At length, Mr. Peckwood sniffed. “Monday morning, I should think.”
