Page 37 of Doing No Harm
She knew that Flora would not argue about what came next. Olive poured the gruel into a small bowl, sugared it well, and added cream. She stirred it as Flora watched her every motion and then set it on the table. She took Flora by the hand and sat her down in front of it.
“I’d be a pretty poor Scot if I just threw out these oats, Flora,” she said, her voice as firm as she could make it, when she wanted to throw her apron over her face and sob at all the injustice and cruelty in life. “You had better eat this. I’ll try again.”
She turned away as Flora picked up her spoon and dug in. Olive poured in more watery milk and slightly finer oats in the pot and returned to the Rumford. Flora ate quickly and with little sounds of pleasure that made Olive lean her head toward the warmth of the cooking stove and draw one deep breath after another.
Olive glanced at Maeve, who had finishing chopping onions and withdrawn to the sanctuary of the pantry, her shoulders shaking, as she murmured something about “tears from onions.”
Her back straight, her admiration of Douglas Bowden growing by the second, Olive stirred another pot, declared it not fine enough for little Pudding, probably undergoing surgery right now, and placed the second rejected offering before a little girl only getting started.
Twice more Olive failed on purpose, and then turned out fine oats that any kitten could manage. How fortunate that her success coincided with Flora pushing back her last empty bowl and declaring, “I hope you get this one right, Miss Grant, because I am full.”
“I believe I did, Flora. Let’s put it in a small container. You carry that. I will bring this wee pitcher of cream.”What else, what else, she thought. “Oh, and this. I know that Mr. Bowden likes my plain biscuits.” She held oneout. “They have been in the cupboard for two days at least, though, and I am skeptical. You try it, Flora. Tell me if it’s something I should take across the street.”
Flora ate with no hesitation, rolling her eyes. “He’ll like it, Miss Grant.”
“Good. I will carry this plate and the pitcher, so you must open the door.”
They crossed the street and walked toward the house by the bridge, Olive’s heart so full that she knew she would have to have a good cry later in the day, if she could find the time.
Douglas opened the door and wiped his hands on his apron. Flora held out the container.
“It took a while, because Miss Grant wanted it to be just right, Mr. Bowden.”
“Perfect. Your little kitty isn’t up to eating it right now, but I’ll keep it here in a good place and let you feed her later.”
Flora peeked in the door of the surgery and her face grew solemn. “Where is Pudding?” she asked, a quaver in her voice.
“Pudding, is it? She’s in a box that I lined with another towel. Go through that door and you’ll see. I built a little fire to keep her warm. The kitchen will be quieter, and she needs the solitude. Go on; it’s fine.”
Olive followed Flora to the door of the kitchen. She watched Flora kneel by the box and hold her hand just over what remained of Pudding’s bandaged front leg. Her hand hovered there a moment, and then Flora gently rubbed her first two fingers on that spot on top of a kitten’s head, between her ears. Olive winked back tears to hear a purr enormously out of proportion to the size of the patient as Flora crooned to her Pudding in Gaelic and became a child again.
Olive went into the surgery, where Douglas was returning his knife to a wicked-looking case of knives. Hetossed the bloody lint into the fireplace, and then held out his arms as she walked into them, sobbing.
“I ruined the oats four times before she was full,” she managed to tell his shirt.
“You’re not a very good cook,” he teased, but she heard the unsteadiness in his voice, much like hers. “God have mercy on us, Olive. What in the world can we do here?”
We. She swallowed and thanked the Almighty for answering one of the many prayers that surely came his way every day from Edgar.
He seemed to have no inclination to release her, which relieved her, because she had no inclination to move away. She had borne this burden so long, fighting a battle she could not win. Did he just seem to know what she needed, the same as he knew what Flora needed? The Royal Navy was minus an excellent surgeon now and maybe even a greater healer. Olive wondered if he had any idea of his own gifts.
But she couldn’t stay that way forever, even though his hand rested on her back now, gently rubbing that spot between her shoulders that was always a tight knot. She raised her head from his shoulder.
“And now your shirt is wet,” she said.
“Won’t be the first time,” he told her, backing away now. He untied his surgeon’s apron and hung it back on the hook by the fireplace. He sat down at his desk donated by the vicar and indicated the chair next to it. “I’m going to keep Pudding with me for a few days, and insist that Flora visit you every day for more gruel.”
Olive shook her head, amused, now that the edge was gone from her sorrow.I have an ally, she wanted to shout, but she knew he was serious. “You can count on me to have more trouble getting the proportions right on that dratted porridge,” she assured him.
He grinned at her, a wonderfully boyish grin that seemed to scour away a layer or two of professionalpropriety. He turned serious soon enough. “See if you can burn a little fish or beef, while you’re at it. There are properties in fish, swine, and beef that strengthen.”
“Beef is too dear, but I can get fish,” she said. “We’ll see about pork.”
“I like beef too, and I’ve decided to become your steady customer, as long as I am here,” he said. “I’ll buy a haunch of venison at the butcher’s, if he has any. Venison has more iron in it than beef, from the smell of it.”
“You’ll get a more varied bill of fare at the Hart and Hound, where the coach stops,” she reminded him.
“True. Maybe I’ll go there a time or two. I like the convenience of eating in Miss Grant’s Tearoom, if she’ll have me. I pay in advance too.”
