“Of course not!”
“Good. It shouldn’t take you long. In the meantime, I am thoroughly capable of preparing Mr. Balfour myself.” He clouted Graham on the shoulder then strode away. “Godspeed.”
Graham clenched his hands into fists. Nothing here was going as planned. He tugged at the knot he’d made of his apron strings, tempted to bark at one of the journalists to go get the blasted regulator instead of making the trek himself.
For if Peckwood had neglected to tally his equipment ahead of time, what other essentials might he miss in preparing Colin for surgery?
It was a peculiar sort of in-between, this recovery room, with only a thin wall separating her from the life and possible death of her brother. Amelia paced, from the white-sheeted bed in one corner, over to the stuffed chair in the other, panic welling with each step. What if something went wrong? What if she never saw Colin again? Granted, her communication with him had been scarce these past seven years, but now that they’d been reunited—now that she knew and thoroughly loved the man he’d become—was she possibly to lose him forever? Was this risk Father had set into motion worth such an outcome?
She drew her feather out of her pocket and ran her fingers along the smoothness of it, feeling slightly guilty about bringing the charm as she tried to pray. But what to say? How to put into words the anguish in her soul? There was just no way to explain the fear embedded so deep inside; it was as much a part of her as bone and marrow.
God, please.
Those two pathetic words were all she could manage. Too much emotion lay heavy on her chest. Surely such a flimsy prayer would waft away like smoke before reaching the heavens. The failure of it spasmed in her belly. For a woman of words, she was a dismal disappointment even to herself. How much more so to God?
A door slammed. She flinched. Out in the corridor, footsteps pounded. Had something gone wrong already?
She yanked the door open, only to see Graham’s coattails vanish out into the rain. Unease prickled along her shoulders. Where could he possibly be going when her brother needed his skilled hands? Whensheneeded him?
She dashed down the passage and flung open the door. Too late. Nothing but sheets of rain hit the pavement, bouncing up like tiny glass beads at impact. The doctor was nowhere to be seen.
Closing out the wet world, she secured the latch then whirled, determined to find an answer—any answer—but preferably one assuring her Colin was all right. Maybe she could even wait with him until Graham returned.
She stopped short of the surgery door, her sudden flare of courage sputtering like a spent candle. What if the procedure had begun and the sharp rap of a knock caused Mr. Peckwood’s scalpel to slip?
Hesitant yet undeterred, she pressed her cheek against the wood and called out, “Mr. Peckwood?”
Then a bit louder, in case he couldn’t hear. “Mr. Peckwood!”
The door opened to the white-haired surgeon, draped in an apron stained by years of life and blood. “Miss Balfour? Is there a problem?”
“I saw Mr. Lambert hurry off and am wondering how my brother fares.” Leaning sideways, she tried to peer past Mr. Peckwood’s shoulders. The room smelled of alcohol and something bitter, acrid, leaving a foreign zing on her tongue.
The doctor sidestepped, blocking her entrance. “Nothing to fret over, my dear. Your brother rests comfortably. Mr. Lambert has merely gone on an errand at my bidding. Now, I must insist you return to the recovery room, where your brother will join you shortly, and all your worry will be behind you.”
She cocked her head. Surely he didn’t mean to begin without Graham to attend him? “But of course you will wait for Mr. Lambert’s return, will you not? Until then, I should like to sit by Colin’s side.”
“My dear.” The old doctor patted her shoulder, and it took everything in her not to bat his hand away. Did he think her some child to be so easily pacified? “I fear your choler is rising, which is understandable under these circumstances. Wait here a moment, would you?”
The door shut in her face, the rising choler he’d mentioned now spreading like a hot cancer through her veins. Why would he not let her see Colin? Had something bad already happened?
She raised her fist, determined to pound until her knuckles bled or she was granted entrance. “Mr. Peckwood, let me in!”
Once again, the door opened, but this time the doctor advanced with a glass in his hand, forcing her to retreat several steps.
“Here, now. No need for such a frenzy. As I told you, your brother rests quite comfortably. The surgical theatre is no place for a woman. Tut-tut!” He lifted a finger. “I see you are about to object, but the fact of the matter is I only wish to spare you sights that would increase your agitation. I am sure your brother would desire the same.”
Being defined by nothing else than wearing a skirt chafed raw and irritating. Even so, she swallowed the knot of protest wedged in her throat. He was right, of course. Her ever-protective brother would not want her going against the doctor, and Colin’s concern would have nothing whatsoever to do with her gender.
She lifted her chin. “Very well. I concede, sir.”
“Good. Here.” He handed her a glass, half filled with an amber liquid.
“What is this?”
“Just a little something to calm your nerves.”
She pushed the drink back to him. “Thank you, but I am fine.”
