More so, in fact, for Isaac was never as thoughtful.
“I fear today is not a good day, Dr. Vaughn,” she said without taking the flowers. “I haven’t a spare minute.”
“That is no bother,” he said, still holding the bouquet out to her. “What assistance do you require?”
Violet straightened at that. “Pardon?”
“What may I do to help you?” he repeated whilst glancing around the workspace with an assessing eye.
“Nothing, I assure you,” said Violet with a shake of her head, inching the door closed. “I am busy. That is all. I will manage.”
“I know you will,” he replied, still pushing the flowers toward her and effectively blocking her retreat (unless she wished to slam the door on his arm). “Your ability to ‘manage’ is not in question. If I left, you would get right back to work and have everything settled precisely as it ought to be, but that doesn’t negate my desire to be of service to you.”
Violet stared at the fellow. She knew what to do with the awkward gentleman incapable of stringing two words together, but this unshakeable and determined man was a puzzle. Those sorts of men were keen to treat her like a sister, and no matter how much she adored them, brothers were not reliable creatures. They certainly did not insist on helping when Violet was capable of managing without them.
“That is very kind of you, sir, but I assure you—”
“Are we back to ‘sir’ again?” he asked with a frown. “I thought we’d moved beyond such pretenses.”
Violet sighed. “Perhaps if my wits hadn’t failed me entirely, I would know what you want from me, Dr. Vaughn, but at present, I simply wish to return to my work.”
“I only want to be of assistance, Miss Templeton,” he said with a frown, his hand with the bouquet finally lowering as he studied her with a puzzled brow. “I know your brother is not in town, I heard that your mother has fallen ill, and I know how many prescriptions need fulfilling at present. You have more to do than there are hours in the day. Though I am eager to get the recipe for your salve, that was an excuse more than a motivation for my being here.”
This was dangerous ground. Violet had already caused enough trouble for herself by being cordial to the gentleman; to accept such an offer would cross a crucial delineation between them. Acquaintances may dance together or go on a stroll, but to accept assistance—no matter how much she wished to—would fundamentally alter their relationship. Violet couldn’t enjoy Dr. Vaughn.
Yet was there any reason to debate the issue? Her heart softened every time they spoke. Could she continue to deny the fact that he was a friend, despite the disaster rife in such a distinction?
Violet’s head nodded of its own volition before freeing the words her heart yearned to speak. “I could use some help. Please.”
“Now, was that so very difficult?” he asked with a hint of a laugh, lifting the bouquet to her once more.
“More than you realize,” she whispered as she took the flowers. They didn’t have any fragrance, but that mattered little, for they lightened her spirits greatly.
Glancing about, Dr. Vaughn’s gaze fell to the molds. Carefully, he picked up one of the finished cachets. “I fear I never mastered these, though you certainly have a knack for them. I am forever breaking the rice paper or splitting the seals.”
“I have these in hand, as well as the distillation,” she said, waving to the alembic. Turning to the stairs, Violet gave him anapologetic smile. “In truth, what I would desperately love most is if you would sit with Mama. Besides requiring nursing, she is too weak to read on her own, and I would feel better if someone were with her, though I know that is a waste of your skills—”
Dr. Vaughn shook his head. “Not at all. I asked to help, and if that is what you require of me, I am glad to do it. As it happens, I have a copy ofThe Misadventures of Mr. Fitzwilliamin my coat pocket this very minute. I think she might enjoy it.”
“She adores Francis Thomas’s work, and I do not believe she has read it yet.”
Glancing at the alembic, Violet turned down the lamp’s flame, leaving only the barest flicker to wait for her return. Setting the bouquet on the table to see to afterward, she led Dr. Vaughn through the office and deeper into the cottage, taking the stairs up to Mama’s bedchamber. Though the lady was far from death’s door, it pained Violet to see her so worn; Mama’s eyes were open, but exhaustion dimmed their depths.
“You have a visitor,” said Violet as she moved to the window and pulled back the curtains. The light did little to dispel the mustiness, but the brightness helped to lift the spirits.
Shifting slightly, Mama glanced at the door with a furrowed brow, but Dr. Vaughn dragged the chair in the corner to her bedside.
“I fear I am a poor substitute for your children, but I understand you are feeling poorly and might need a bit of company,” he said as he took off his hat and settled in beside Mama, a welcoming smile on his lips.
“I am well enough,” said Mama with a weak wave of her hand. “Nothing to trouble yourself with.”
“Nonsense. The Finches’ concert is coming up next week, and I want to ensure you are in perfect health by that time. Will you be gracing us with a performance?” he asked with a lift of his brows. “I understand you have a lovely singing voice.”
For all that the lady was in her sixth decade of life, Mama blushed like a maiden making her first steps into society. “Where did you hear such nonsense?”
“Are you saying it is untrue?” he asked.
“Performing at concerts is for the young ladies—” Her words broke as a cough wracked her. Mama held a handkerchief to her mouth, but it grew in strength, and before Violet could make a move, Dr. Vaughn reached for the teapot at the bedside and lifted the lid to sniff the contents.
