Doing No Harm (17 page)

He finished the lengthy note, hoping at first that Olive could read his chicken scratch, and then confident she would know what to do, even if she couldn’t read the note. He wrapped the paper around the coins.

Eyes full of determination now, Flora took the money and hurried out the door, closing it quietly behind her, as her gran had probably taught her. He turned back to his other patient. “All right now. Better we do this while your mistress is across the street.”

He picked out his smallest capital knife and threaded a needle with catgut.
Excuse that
, he thought and chuckled. He put on his surgeon’s apron and stuck the threaded needle into a handy spot easily within reach. The kitten objected to the alcohol swab, but was too weak and hungry to struggle.

Douglas lit his lamp and pulled it close, then moved aside the box Flora had stood on. “I have got to stow away some boxes,” he told the cat. “Mrs. Fillion—you’d like her—sent me my trunk and other things I forgot I had.” He looked down at the box labeled “Shells” and wondered why he had collected so many from foreign beaches. He toed the box under the table.

Some pledgets of cotton completed his preparations. He poised the bistoury over the wounded paw, then moved it higher, seeking the joint. “All right now. If you scratch me, I’ll …” He chuckled again. “I’ll be scratched. Better than the time that powder monkey bit me. Here I am talking to cats. Take a deep breath and think of something pleasant like mice.”

Chapter 16

F
lora, what a welcome surprise
!” Olive Grant said as she opened the door. All she knew about the MacLeods came from Maeve, who was cutting up onions right now.

“You’ll never see them in here,” Maeve had told her. “They’re MacLeods from Skye and even prouder by half than the Sutherlanders.”

And yet here stood the smallest MacLeod, orphaned because her da had been one of the Highland soldiers who fought at New Orleans in America. Her mam had died of abuse that none of the others would talk about, as they were cleared out of their homes in the Highlands.

She had a sweet face and those round eyes that usually don’t linger long after infancy, except in the lucky few who keep them forever. Olive could not overlook the worry and the tight-lipped mouth that suggested Flora MacLeod was only just keeping a lid on her feelings.

Flora held out the folded note. “Two pence from the good doctor across the street and down a bit,” Olive said. “Let me take your shawl, my dear. Sit here, and I will see if Maeve has a biscuit.”

Flora should her head. “Gran said I was not to ask for anything.”

“You didn’t, did you? Here you are.”

The biscuit went down in a hurry, which told Olive worlds about the child before her and helped explain the portions of Douglas’s note that she couldn’t quite decipher. She read it again and understood just what kind of a sly man had taken up temporary residence in Edgar. She pocketed the note and gestured to the kitchen.

“Mr. Bowden attached the utmost importance to what we do, and it must be done right.” Olive poured a combined cup of water and milk into a saucepan and set it on the Rumford, luckily still fired up from breakfast. “We’ll let that boil.” She held out the note to Flora. “It says here that the oats must be of the right size and consistency or your kitten will not eat.”

“Her name is Pudding.” She sighed, forgetting herself. “Mostly because I wish had some.”

I wish you did too
, Olive thought, and she turned away because there must have been a little soot from the Rumford lodged in her eye.

“There now. I will add some oats and stir.” Olive stirred, then requested that Flora pull over a stool and be ready to help.

Her eyes serious, Flora was soon stirring the oats round and round, and dabbing at the saliva at the corner of her mouth. Olive looked away again.

“There now. I believe we have it.” Olive took the pan from the cook top and uttered an exclamation. “Oh, dash it all! I wasn’t paying attention, Flora. Mr. Bowden most distinctly asked for fine-ground oats, and look what I have done.”

Flora looked and drew in a deep breath of the fragrant oats, her eyes closed in pleasure.

God forgive me when I complain that my lot in life is not easy
, Olive thought as she watched the little girl.
I am not an orphan from the Highlands
.

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 one out. “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. He tossed 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 professional propriety. 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.”

There was nothing in his voice even hinting she could protest or act missish, which told Olive everything she ever needed to know about his handling of people in his sickbay aboard ship. “Aye, then,” she said.

He looked less sure of himself then. “I have a dilemma, Olive,” he said. He yawned and ran his hand across his face, which turned red. “My apologies! Babies are about as unpredictable as the Spanish fleet used to be. The least the grocer can do is name his son after me. I lost half a night’s beauty rest.”

Olive studied his face in mock-serious fashion. True, the bags under his eyes were more pronounced, but his hair didn’t look any grayer around the edges than it had the day before. He had such nicely chiseled lips, something a Scottish lady seldom saw north of Hadrian’s Wall. For some reason, Scotsmen had thin lips. Not Douglas Bowden, born and raised in Norfolk. He had a way of stretching out and unlimbering himself, probably the exact opposite of how he sat in cramped quarters in the Royal Navy.

As far as she could tell, Douglas Bowden had not suffered from his pre-dawn visit to the flat over the greengrocers, and so she told him. “Apply some damp tea leaves to the bags under your eyes, and you should sparkle again,” she teased. “Mama told me once to apply buttermilk to my freckles.”

“They’re fading nicely,” he said, which gratified her. Who knew he would even have noticed them? “Do you credit the buttermilk?”

“I daren’t. I drank more of it than I applied, and Mama was none the wiser.”

“Seriously, they are a pleasant color,” he said, then stood up, his hands back in his pockets. He stood in front of the window that faced the river. “I’m stalling. Flora insists that she pay me. I told her I would think of something, but I have not yet.”

He half-leaned, half-sat against the front of his desk now, closer to her.