Davina sat on a bench outside the cottage. She did not have to remain here, of course. Mr. Drummond might need her, however. One never knew with these things.
She noted the clouds gathering in the northern sky. The sun still showed at times. She judged she had been gone over three hours. It would be raining on her walk back if she stayed much longer. She would have to start out soon.
She pictured her father sitting next to her, as he had the first time she held this vigil. She had not understood at the time why they stayed. He had much more experience, and knew the human heart better than she ever would. Only later had she realized the importance of that day, and what had happened, and how he had permitted it. There had been a few other times when they sat together outside a house, or in a sitting room.
Mr. Drummond knew she was out here. He had not come to ask why. She hoped he did not think she dallied as a criticism, or out of suspicion. She had said she would wait so he could let her know if the tincture had helped at all.
A muffled sound disturbed her thoughts. It became louder each moment. She turned her head to see a horse galloping down the closest swell in the land.
She stood and waited for the rider to reach her. He stopped and swung off the horse and strode toward her. “Perhaps I should have been clearer, Davina. I do not want you doing this. You put yourself in danger and I won’t have it.”
“I am in no danger here today.”
“Roberts said this woman was deathly ill.”
“She is. She has no disease of contagion, at least as far as is known. She has a cancer in her stomach.”
He exhaled in relief, then realized how ignoble that was. “Forgive me. I was picturing you with someone who might make you sick too, and—”
“I did not know what it was when I came. The next time, it may be someone who has the kind of illness you fear.”
“There will be no next time.”
She heard the door of the farmhouse open behind her. “We can talk about this later, can’t we? Mr. Drummond deserves that much from me. I can do little else.”
Mr. Drummond took a few steps, then rubbed his eyes with one hand. “She is gone.”
“Were you able to get her to swallow some of the tincture?”
He nodded, head down so low his chin beat his chest.
“Then at least she was not in pain at the end.”
“Not in pain. That stopped for a spell. She even smiled. But then—”
“Be glad she is in a better place, and do not allow yourself to feel guilty if you feel some relief.”
“The tincture. I may have—I’m not sure I didn’t—”
“I am sure you did fine. Could I have the bottle back, please? I don’t have much of it.”
“Won’t be needing it now.” He returned to the house, then came out and handed her the bottle. “I should do what I can to lay her out, then walk to John’s and let them know.”
“Why don’t you just go to them? I am sure his wife will come here and do what is needed.”
He nodded dully, and started off.
Davina bent down and put the bottle in her bag.
“What is that?” Brentworth asked.
“Tincture of opium. She was in great pain for a very long time. Months, probably.”
“Was it wise to give it to him? It can be dangerous.”
“It can be bought in any apothecary. If there were one nearby he would have had it on a shelf in his home, and his wife might not have suffered so much. I was very clear on the small dose to give to keep it safe.” She noticed that Mr. Drummond had left the farm door open. She walked over and shut it securely.
When she walked back, Brentworth was looking at the figure of the farmer, now tiny in the distance. He turned his attention on her. “What have you done here, Davina?”
