Doing No Harm (20 page)

In less than a half hour, Flora proved to be adept at stringing shells. Her eyes full of accomplishment, she held up the chimes and gave them a gentle shake. “ ’Tis magic,” she whispered.

“I believe it is,” Douglas agreed. “I am going to hang it outside my front door. Flora, this is magnificent.” He bowed, and she curtseyed and then giggled.

“I would like one as well,” Olive said. “I will pay you for mine.”

Flora stared at her.

Olive looked beyond Flora to Douglas, who held up three fingers. “Three pence,” she said.

Flora nodded, so solemn. After a moment of quiet consideration—who knew what a six-year-old thought about money?—she pointed to the three boxes of shells. “Which ones would you like, Miss Grant?”

Olive made her choice while Douglas hung his shells on a nail outside the front door. Flora let her help, and soon Olive had her own chimes. She handed three coins to Flora, who stared at them in her palm.

Olive closed her fingers over the little girl’s hand. “Put them in your apron pocket, and keep them safe.” She glanced at the surgeon, who nodded his approval. “Mr. Bowden, I have a good idea. Flora, would you make three more of these?”

“One for me and Gran, but who are the others for?” Flora asked. “Do you know, Mr. Bowden?”

Olive appreciated his fine instincts, where children were concerned. He squatted on his haunches so he was eye to eye with the girl. “It’s this way, Flora: surgeons haven’t much business sense. I believe Miss Grant has a lot of good ideas. She and I both think you can make these little baubles and sell them to traveling visitors.”

Flora was silent again. Olive could nearly hear the gears turning in her brain, but what she saw humbled her. Nothing in Flora’s face even hinted at discouragement; instead, there was barely suppressed excitement, an energy that seemed like a candle catching fire and growing taller. The child patted the coins in her pocket and gave the surgeon such a look of admiration.

“People will really buy them?” she asked him.

“They really will, Flora,” he assured her. He got up, sat in a chair, and motioned for her to sit in the chair next to him. “I have traveled to so many places.”

“Farther than Dumfries?” Flora asked. Her face grew solemn, all the light and energy gone. It was as though some cosmic hand had snuffed glowing hope. “I traveled too, only it was not fun.”

“My travel wasn’t fun either,” he said, and Olive saw his struggle to remain in control of his own emotions. She could tell he saw the sudden difference in Flora’s demeanor. “But some of those places were beautiful and I wanted to remember them. People do that when they travel. They want to take something home from their adventure. Your shells will be just the right touch.”

Flora nodded, still so serious. “They will pay me? They won’t just steal the chimes or break Mam’s mirror or drive off the cattle or … or kill my dog or shout at us?” She put her hands over her ears and scrunched down small, her breath coming faster and faster.

Olive grabbed Flora and sat the child on her lap, holding her close. She took in Douglas’s shocked expression as he understood what was happening to this little one who was suddenly more his patient than Pudding ever could be. His arms went around them both as they sat close together on the two chairs. The only sound was Flora weeping.

“My poor, poor wee one,” Olive whispered, wondering if Flora had ever allowed herself the luxury of tears for her own cruel uprooting.

“Gran and I, we couldn’t keep Mam warm, not with the rain and the wind. And then that soldier! No one helped us! We needed a little help!”

Olive didn’t try to stop her own tears as she wished with all her heart that someone, anyone, had at least held a blanket over Flora’s dying mother.
I would have
, she thought, frustrated because it was such a small, puny thing.

“What have we done?” she said to Douglas.

“Us? Nothing,” he replied, speaking into her ear as Flora cried between them. “The better question is what are we going to do now?”

In a few minutes, Flora’s tears subsided into sniffs. Douglas disentangled himself and went into the next room, returning with squares of cotton. “Blow,” he commanded them, and they did.

With a sigh, Flora leaned against Olive, whose arms tightened around the child. “Gran says crying never solves anything.”

“Actually, it can, Flora,” Douglas said. He dabbed at Flora’s face and then Olive’s. “Whenever you feel sad, come here or visit Miss Grant if I am not here.”

“You don’t have a pill for this, do you?” Flora asked.

“I don’t, but you may weep all you wish. And when you’re done, we’ll sit here and make shell chimes.”

Flora nodded. She got off Olive’s lap and went to the table where she had laid out Olive’s shells. In another minute, she was humming to herself and stringing shells.

“Give me your hand,” Douglas said.

Olive held out her hand, and he took it in his firm grip. She moved closer on her chair. “What just happened?” she whispered.

“Life just happened,” he said. “I’ve seen it over and over—men mourning the loss of a limb, men just exhausted from a victory when they should be overjoyed.” He looked beyond her shoulder. Something told her that if she turned around and looked too, she would see an unknown universe, a place inhabited by men at war. “These are the hardest wounds of all to heal,” he told her, when she didn’t think he was going to say anything. “I have my fair share, but Flora has too many. Her mind can’t handle what happened because she has no basis of fact to comprehend why anyone would treat her cruelly.”

“I can’t handle what happened,” Olive retorted.

“I disagree; you can, and you’re doing splendidly,” Douglas declared. The pressure of his hand increased.

He hesitated then, and she knew what he was going to say. Why was it that she already knew him this well? “Go ahead and say it,” she told him, “or I will. What will I do when my legacy runs out and I cannot feed anyone else?”

“That’s close,” he admitted. “Edgar needs to become a paying concern again, which will lift your burden.”

He was right; she knew it. “Do you have any … any …”

“Solution yet? Alas, no. I’m thinking, though.”

She sat with the surgeon, supremely unconcerned that they were holding hands like giddy people.
Human touch
, she thought.
How I’ve needed it. I’m tired of being the adult
.

“I took on some burdens and I can’t get out of them,” she told him, hesitating herself, because the words sounded weak to her ears. “I mean, not that I want to …” He didn’t need to know how many nights she stared at columns and figures, wondering how to squeeze out more income. She was already wondering where she would go when the money ran out.

She looked into his eyes, which made him smile, because she already knew his opinion of her colorful eyes. He saw one thing, she saw another, looking into his brown eyes. She saw a depth and breadth that took her breath away. This man, this retired surgeon, was far from retired. Whether he liked it or not, and she wasn’t certain how the matter stood, he was always going to be a surgeon. He was always going to care more than the average man. She took a deep breath.

“Sometimes at night I stare at columns and figures, and it frightens me,” she said softly, testing the words, hoping they were firm enough to prove that she wasn’t a coward.

“I’ve wondered how you manage,” he said and shuddered elaborately. “It would give me the willies.”

She couldn’t help a little laugh. “What can I do?” she asked, squeezing his hand in turn.

“We can find a way to involve others,” he replied. “How many Highland families were dumped on you or wandered here?”

“Twenty, but the number has shrunk. I swear some of the women simply died of homesickness,” she said, as her eyes filled with tears again. “They wouldn’t eat. They just turned their faces away and died.”

He dabbed at her eyes with his cotton square. “How many people then?”

She blew her nose. “Maybe forty. Of that number, fifteen or eighteen men. Some have cast aside their pride and come to me for food at least once a day. Some, like Gran, are simply too proud. I fear for them most of all.”

“And well we should.”

There it was again. Every time Olive said
I
, he said
we
. In that case, “What should we do?”

“Done!”

Startled, Olive released Douglas’s hand to see Flora standing triumphant by the table, holding out her shell chimes. “This is yours, Miss Grant,” she said, tears forgotten, eyes bright.

Olive held it up, admiring the play of colors and the gentle swishing sound when she shook it. “Flora, you are a wonder.”

“I like doing this,” Flora replied, obviously not a child requiring much praise. “Mr.
Bowden
, if I can sell these, Gran and I will have enough money to eat in Miss Grant’s Tearoom, won’t we?”

“You will,” he agreed, his voice not quite firm, but firm enough to satisfy a child. “Do you know another little girl or boy who might like to be a partner? You could make twice as many that way.”

“Aye, we could. Sally MacGregor,” Flora said decisively. “She and her sister have to share a dress. They could buy material and Gran could sew it.”

Share a dress?
Olive thought, appalled. She put her hand to her mouth.

“That is a wonderful idea, Flora,” Douglas said. He moved in front of Olive to stand closer to the child, but Olive knew he was shielding Flora from the horror he saw on her face. She took a deep breath and another.

“That’s right, isn’t it, Miss Grant,” Douglas was saying smoothly. “You two can make a few of these this morning. I would help, but I have to visit the greengrocer’s new son, and stop by the docks and check on Captain Fergusson’s sprained ankle. Nasty affairs, sprains. When I get back, and after luncheon, we’ll visit the innkeeper at the Hare and Hound.”

“I may come?” Flora asked.

“Most certainly. You are the merchant, Flora,” he said promptly.

He fetched his medical satchel from inside his office and hurried away. Olive pulled her chair closer to the table, where Flora had already arranged the shells for the next souvenir that traveling folk might buy this summer as they journeyed through their little corner of Scotland.

Oh, please let them come and buy
, Olive thought. She threaded a shell and tied the first small knot.
Please, for Flora’s sake
.

Chapter 19

D
ouglas chose the name for
the chimes that weren’t strictly chimes, the shells strung on catgut by a Highlands child who wanted to eat and not feel like a charity case.

After taking a good look at wee Davey McDaniel’s umbilical stump and a quick listen at his lungs, then a rewrapping of Captain Fergusson’s sprained ankle and a further admonition, probably fruitless, to stay off it, Douglas found Olive and Flora in the tearoom.

Tommy sat with them, discreetly scratching at his sutures.
At least he does not lick them
, Douglas thought. He nodded when Olive put a bowl of fish stew in front of him, thick stew with onions and leeks and speckled with butter. A thump on the floor meant that Duke was not so patient.

“I had a visit from Johnny McDaniel, the greengrocer,” Olive said. “He said the onions and leeks were for my kitchen.”

“He already paid me, and he asked what else he could do,” Douglas said and laughed. “His eyes nearly glittered when I told him that Miss Grant’s Tearoom could use whatever seconds he doesn’t need. Or maybe he was just tired from staying up late with little Davey. I mean, wee Davey.”

Flora cleared her throat and looked at him in so pointed a fashion that Douglas had to wipe his mouth just then so he would not laugh.
This is a businesswoman
, he thought, with considerable admiration.
I think I am wasting her time
.

“Tommy says we need a name for this,” Flora said and looked from one person to the next, reminding Douglas of an old sailing master getting the attention of midshipmen for a hated lesson on navigation. She had amazing poise for a six-year-old. “They aren’t really chimes.”

“No,” Tommy agreed. “Just something pretty to look at.”

Olive put in her two pence worth. “I like the swishing sound.”