Page 52 of Doing No Harm
“You are a lunatic,” she declared and turned away again.
He knew this was no time to laugh, but he couldn’t help a little smile. Maybe he was relieved to know that the kind lady had her moments too.
He sat Olive down on the stool he had occupied, holding her hair back as she heaved again.
Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You expected better.”
“You did what I needed.” He fingered her lovely hair, wondering how she kept it so soft. He turned his attention to his patient, whose eyes were wide open and watching him with something close to amusement, despite the pain he knew she was suffering.
“Mrs. Aintree, welcome back,” he told her.
With her good hand, she gestured him closer. “Thank you for my fingers. In just a few weeks, and you can be on your way,” she whispered.
“On my—”
“Aye, lad,” Mrs. Aintree said. She closed her eyes against the pain, but her voice grew stronger. “You found a job and home for Tommy and his mam; little Flora has her South Seas Fancies, and I have fingers.”
“I wouldn’t be so hasty,” he said. “Your hand will bear watching, yet a little while.”
“She is right, Mr. Bowden,” Olive said, as she stuffed pins back in her hair. “We’ve tried you sore enough and you have been so kind.”
“Don’t hurry me!” he protested.
“I would never,” said the kind lady. “Would we, Mrs. Aintree?”
“Heaven forbid! A man ought to know what he needs, and so you have told us a time or two.”
“I have, haven’t I?”
Chapter 22
After placing Mrs. Aintree’sarm in a sling, Douglas carried the little lady across the street as a host of villagers watched and offered advice, something he was beginning to recognize as the Scottish way. The kitchen was full of food, reminding him how hungry he was.
Brighid Dougall presided over the already weighted down table in the kitchen, with able assistance from Flora MacLeod and the MacGregor sisters. He stood still a moment with Mrs. Aintree in his arms, watching Flora. He bore too cumbersome an armful to drop to his knees in appreciation for what he saw: Flora was not focused on the food.You’re not hungry, he thought as gratitude filled his heart, even in those dusty corners that never showed up in medical textbook illustrations.
“You have a houseful of friends, Mrs. Aintree,” he told the widow in his arms.
She turned her face into his chest and sighed. “Get rid of them,” she whispered. “Turn Mrs. Tavish loose on them.”
A few quiet words to Rhona Tavish, and a few quietwords of her own was all it took. By the time he laid Mrs. Aintree down on her bed, silence prevailed. He sat on the bed, satisfied that the little splint firmly bandaged on top and underneath her now-separated fingers would stop any movement. He checked the barely visible, V-shaped bit of wood at the base of the two fingers, there to ensure they would remain separate.
He had done all he could. What remained was to dose her with just enough laudanum to put her asleep and keep her that way, then find a comfortable chair and begin his night’s watch.
He began his vigil and ended it five minutes later, when Rhona Tavish informed him that she and Tommy could watch as well as he could. He objected and she ignored him, reminding him forcefully that Rhona Tavish was the first person he met in Edgar as she ran into the road holding out her bleeding son.
“You have done quite enough for one day,” she informed him. “Up tha’ gets, ridire.”
There she stood, a veritable Boudicca—capable and determined. He knew he could argue, but what would be the point?
“Mrs. Tavish, if I argued with you, would you just reply in Gaelic and pretend not to know any English?”
She grinned at that. A word to Tommy, and the two of them tugged him upright and ushered him out the door.
“If anything—and I mean anything—concerns you, send Tommy,” Douglas said. He indicated the laudanum on the table and the small silver cup beside the bottle. “If she starts to moan and toss her head about, pour laudanum to that lowest marked level and give it to her.”
“Aye, Mr. Bowden,” she said, and sat down in the chair from which he had been evicted. “Tommy, show him our little home over the kitchen. Good night, Mr. Bowden.”
And that was that. Douglas followed Tommy to the kitchen, snatching up a slice of shortbread from amongthe many neighborly offerings still on the table. Treat in hand, he followed the boy up steep steps, marveling how well he managed his crutches.
