Page 65 of Doing No Harm
“I think our doctor overpaid me for a handful of sketches,” he whispered to her.
“He knows the value of your drawings, Mr. Tavish,” Olive assured him. “They will very likely tip the balance in favor of finding a shipwright.”
He nodded at that, shy now, but with a certain quiet pride that seemed to radiate from him. Olive felt certain such a feeling had not come his way in several years, if ever. She served father and son and calmed her heart.
Blissful afternoon. A quick visit to Mrs. Aintree found the widow sitting up and looking cheerful. Rhona Tavish had put the widow’s arm in a sling and sat by her bed, darning stockings.
“Joe and Tommy ate beef roast in my tearoom for luncheon,” she said.
“Our surgeon paid him well for those sketches,” Rhona said. She looked so kindly at Olive and taught her worlds about marriage. “I like to see them together, father and son. Nothing changes here right now, except that we’re breathing a bit easier, Miss Grant.”
Anyone would, Olive thought,who is not teetering continually on ruin. She wished with all her heart that Douglas Bowden, Edgar’s “our surgeon,” knew what it was like to breathe easier.
All was equally well at the Hare and the Hound, with Brighid Dougall selling a fancy to a tall woman, all planes and angles. Brighid gestured her closer.
“Mrs. Fillion, this is the lady you have been inquiring about, Miss Olive Grant,” she said.
Olive curtsied, wondering where she had heard the name before. The unknown traveler took Olive’s hand in hers, to Olive’s surprise, but not her chagrin.
“Miss Grant, I was supposed to mail a box of sea shells from the Drake in Plymouth to a certain surgeonwe know. My son reminded me that that I have not had a holiday since forever, and I am decidedly curious about what Douglas Bowden is doing. And so I am here.”
Ships pass in the night, Olive reminded herself. “He has mentioned you. We would let him tell you in person, but our surgeon has scarpered off back to Plymouth.”
Mrs. Fillion’s startled look was certain proof she was not a Scot. This was not a lady to hide her light under a bushel. “Well, take out me eyes, scrub them, and put them back in,” she exclaimed. She took a close look at Olive. “He wrote me that he looks more at the brown one than the blue one. Miss Grant, what is this man up to?”
“How is it that you know about my eyes?” Olive asked, her guard down as she listened to words spoken in the soft burr of the West Country, so pleasing.
“Miss Grant, he has written me all about you, and this village, and a sweet child named Flora, and … and …” She held up the little trinket she had just purchased and gave it a little shake. “… and Seven Seas Fancies. I have known that man for years, but not this man.”
Olive leaned closer. “Did he tell you about the man he struck with a stick and who thrashed him and gave him a black eye?”
“He didn’t!” Mrs. Fillion put her hand to her mouth.
Mrs. Dougall leaned over the counter and gestured Olive closer. “You should take her to your tearoom and give her an earful.”
“P’raps I should,” Olive said, curious to know what else Douglas Bowden had told this woman about her. And why should she seem so surprised about the man of action that everyone in Edgar knew? “Mrs. Fillion, may I offer you tea? My tearoom has turned into a factory for Seven Seas Fancy production, so you can meet Flora MacLeod and her confederates.”
She carried the box of seashells for Mrs. Fillion, who walked beside her with a traveling satchel to Olive’stearoom, where Maeve was ready with green tea and biscuits.
“You’ll stay here too,” Olive said. “I don’t rent my rooms above, but I know it is quieter than the Hare and Hound. You will be my guest.”
Mrs. Fillion’s eyes were on the three little girls who had created workstations as soon as the luncheon eaters finished. They had looked up when Olive and Mrs. Fillion entered the tearoom. A quick glance satisfied them and they returned to aligning and threading the shells.
“Nonetheless, I will pay you,” Mrs. Fillion said, in a voice that brooked no disagreement. “You can call it my contribution to the drink and victual fund. Aye, miss, Douglas wrote me about that, too.”
Mrs. Fillion touched Olive’s hand. “I was wondering what he would find in Scotland.”
“He hasn’t found it yet,” Olive told her with a shake of her head.
“I rather think he has,” the woman replied. “Up these stairs?”
Midafternoon was Olive’s favorite time of the day. The luncheon rush was over, and whatever more modest items she had prepared for dinner—lately, these had been less modest—were either cooking in the oven or simmering on the hob. She had sent Maeve to the greengrocer with a list and a basket over her arm. After a shy introduction, Flora and the MacGregor girls had taken their own basket to hunt for driftwood. The tearoom was blissfully empty and the green tea the right temperature.
Mrs. Fillion understood the unspoken need to explain herself. She told Olive about the Drake, a three-story hotel and dining room located in Plymouth’s old Barbican, home to a generation and more of Royal Navy officersback from the sea, if only briefly. They both chuckled over the perpetual whist game that never seemed to lack for players.
“Was Mr. Bowden among them?” Olive asked.
“Never. He would watch and sit with fellow officers, but he did not play and he never gambled,” Mrs. Fillion said. “Douglas is a careful man.” She took a sip of tea and regarded Olive over the rim of the cup. “I cannot imagine him actually striking a man and engaging in any kind of rough and tumble.”
