Doing No Harm (31 page)

“Are you so certain?”

“That he will succeed?”

“No, Miss Grant—that he will leave you. My dear, he wrote about you to me.”

It was past time to be cautious. Olive tightened her grip on the woman who had come so far with shells because her life was entwined with her hotel patrons.

“I love Douglas Bowden,” Olive confessed. “I don’t know what he is thinking, though, beyond the need to be gone from here and to find a quiet medical practice that probably does not exist.”

“It may be that he will have to keep looking before he realizes what was right under his nose in Edgar,” Mrs. Fillion suggested.

Olive considered her words, wondering if she could bear the pain of waving good-bye to Douglas Bowden, “our surgeon,” as the people of Edgar already called him. And once he was gone, would he think twice and return? As much as she would wish it, she knew that people seldom returned.

“Life was easier when I had no expectations,” she admitted to Mrs. Fillion. “If this is love, it is not a pleasure.”

Chapter 28

M
rs. Fillion remained another
day in Edgar, walking with Olive to visit Flora’s Gran and Mrs. Aintree. The hotel keeper spent an afternoon in the widow’s comfortable bedroom and then in Elizabeth MacLeod’s one-room hovel, sipping tea and eating biscuits with one, and drinking cold water and oatcakes with the other.

Mrs. Fillion admired Flora and gave her advice on managing a business. Olive wished Douglas could have been there to watch Flora on Mrs. Fillion’s lap, paying close attention to advice from how to keep the money safe to what to charge when a customer wants more than one fancy—“If you discount her a penny each for a dozen, she will buy more.” He also could have seen how Flora’s eyes drooped and how she then slept with Mrs. Fillion’s arms enveloping her.

Olive took Mrs. Fillion along with her on a summons to Lady Telford’s manor, precipitated by a note on heavy embossed paper. The note contained a veiled threat or two of the variety that sent Mrs. Fillion into whoops.

“Really, Olive”—they had progressed quickly to the Olive and Nancy stage—“Lady Telford seems to regard the drawing up of corporate papers as something close to Magna Carta.”

“It might be causing her severe palpitations to have to deal with me in Doug’s absence,” Olive told her as she stared at the note. (They had also abandoned Mr. Bowden and gone beyond Douglas.) “We’re common as weeds, you see, but at least he can find her pulse.” She pointed to the last line. “‘Attire yourself appropriately.’ I suppose this means I must remove my apron and wear matching shoes.”

“Without a doubt,” Nancy Fillion agreed. “I recommend a new bonnet too.”

There was no place in Edgar that carried bonnets, which meant a trip to Dumfries, and a glorious day spent in the heady dissipation of looking in actual store windows until she found the right hat.

Olive couldn’t remember a jaunt like this. Maeve had assured her that she could manage the day’s meals. Annys Campbell had been hired to assist in the kitchen, under Douglas Bowden’s same financial umbrella that was seeing the shipyard cleaned. Olive had her own growing pile of coins, which meant choosing a bonnet because she liked it, not because the thing was cheap.

By the time the day in Dumfries wound down, Olive had no objection to resting her feet—matching shoes—in a solicitor’s office.

“I have a bit of business which cannot wait,” Mrs. Fillion told her and Olive had no objection. She reminded herself that this was just a simple day in nearby Dumfries and not her first outing in well beyond a year of work and worry.

As she waited, Olive took the three white ribbons from their brown paper twist and admired them, thinking how lovely the Seven Seas Fancies Corporation would look on Sunday. There were drawing pencils for Joe Tavish, a thimble for Rhona, and a small carved elephant for Tommy that the shopkeeper vowed came all the way from the “distant mists of the great Ganges.” As to that, Olive had her doubts, but the carved creature, reared on hind legs with ears back and trunk upraised, might remind the boy that he was still a child.

She lifted her reticule, pleased to feel the weight of coins left over from their modest bolt to a bigger town. Only a week ago, she had sat in her cramped office next to the kitchen and cried because she had so little left of her inheritance. Now she sat in the waiting room of a solicitor’s office and asked God to bless Douglas Bowden for his generosity. The surgeon might not be one to bother the Almighty, but Olive was.

Sleep came easily that night, easier than some nights when she worried about Douglas Bowden and the lights on across the street, long after everyone else was abed. Her bedroom faced the street, the same as his did. Because it was summer, she had opened her window. A light sleeper, she heard even the quiet knocks on his door, signaling someone in town in need of a man who had already given everything he could to king and country. Before she slept, she smiled to think of his leaning out the window in his nightshirt, elbows on the sill.

She slept peacefully that night because she had seen to Mrs. Aintree, well and truly tended by Rhona Tavish, and exclaimed over the ten new fancies that Flora took to the Hare and Hound. She already knew that Brighid Dougall would have a pasty for the child, or warm milk, which they would sip together. Even Mrs. Fillion had exclaimed over the absence of debris in the shipyard. As she lay in bed, Olive thought she heard faint bagpipes and singing somewhere in town.

The morning brought sunshine, a rare enough occurrence, but pleasing to Olive, because she need have no fears for her new bonnet. She chose her dark green wool, mainly because there wasn’t much decision involved, not with only two good dresses. She mourned briefly over her lack of fashion sense, personally aware that cotton work dresses and sensible aprons suited her better. There was no one to impress.

Maeve and Mrs. Campbell were perfectly in control in the kitchen, which warmed Olive in a way that a fire in the hearth never could. She felt a slight portion of her responsibilities slough away, leaving her optimistic, even though Douglas Bowden would return soon, install a shipwright, check Mrs. Aintree’s healing hand, and probably take the next coach from Edgar.
You are building castles in the sky
, she scolded herself, and the burden returned.

Mrs. Fillion had followed her downstairs and joined her in the dining room for porridge and tea.

“You’ve been too polite to ask why I have shouldered my way into this visit with Lady Telford,” Mrs. Fillion said.

“Probably because I welcome your company,” Olive admitted. “Lady Telford is a testy old rip.”

They laughed together. Olive assured Maeve that whatever Lady Telford wanted surely wouldn’t take long, considering how little the baroness had to do with Edgar’s citizens, each as ordinary was Elsie Glump was, even though Lady T remained in ignorance of their knowledge.

Putting on her new bonnet required kitchen assistance, with Maeve shaking her head and retying the bonnet’s bow until it was located under her ear.

“I will look like a coquette,” Olive protested.

“And what is the matter with that?” Maeve asked, not about to be cowed.

“You know there is no one in Edgar to … to coquet for,” Olive insisted, even though she did like the effect in the mirror, when Maeve dragged her in front of it.

“Then call it practice,” her servant said, unperturbed.

The fishing fleet had already left for the day, but Olive stood a moment and looked toward the docks, and then beyond to the clean but quiet shipyard. She remembered the shipyard sounds and the fun of standing by the graving dock as the shipwright—long since gone to work in Glasgow—knocked away the wooden supports and the new fishing boat slid sideways into the water.

She thought of the extreme expense and wondered if Douglas Bowden was waving farewell to all of his retirement funds, whatever they were. “We just can’t do this,” she said out loud. “It’s one thing for me to go destitute in Edgar, but why should the surgeon who hadn’t even meant to spend any time here lose his shirt? I own that I have very cold feet right now.”

Mrs. Fillion turned her purposefully from the docks toward the bridge spanning the Dee. “I had a moment exactly like this, my dear,” she said, and started Olive in motion. “It was during the Peace of Amiens, when few ships sailed, and the officers were cast ashore on half pay. I needed to make some essential repairs to the Drake, which would drain my account.” She sighed with the memory. “And I had few lodgers.”

“Did you pray for a renewal of war?” Olive teased, happy to think of someone else’s misfortune for a moment.

“Very nearly!” Mrs. Fillion teased back. “I stood in front of my mirror and took a good look at a woman who had started out in the Drake’s kitchen as a scullery maid.”

“Surely not,” Olive murmured.

“Oh, yes. It’s a lengthy story, but the place became mine.” Her voice softened. “I stared just long enough to trust myself. I began the repairs and war was declared again a month later.”

“I suppose if Douglas Bowden wants to spend his money this way …” She let the words trail away. “He is helping us beyond any reason.”

“Have you ever considered that you and the people of Edgar might be helping him more?”

They were across the bridge now and walking toward Lady Telford’s manor. “Does he even know that?” Olive asked.

“You will have to ask him someday.”

There was no backing out now. Mrs. Fillion gave the doorknocker a sharp rap. Olive nodded to Maidie when she opened it. “We’re here.”

Maidie dropped a clumsy curtsy and led them down the hall. She opened the door on what was a bookroom. Seated behind the desk was Lady Telford, who scowled to see someone besides Olive.

“And who, pray, are you?” she asked, not rising.

“Nancy Fillion,” Nancy said. She gave a little curtsy. “I am a friend of both Miss Grant and Mr. Bowden, from Plymouth.”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” said a stout fellow dressed in unrelieved black. “I am Frederick Hornby, Lady Telford’s solicitor.” He indicated that they sit, when Lady Telford seemed disinclined to observe the courtesies.

He handed Olive a sheaf of papers. “Take a look through these if you wish, but I will draw your attention to the part of it that affects you and your tearoom.” He pointed to the page marked by a scrap of paper.

She began to read, touched at the generous provisions for the tearoom, where everyone and their family who labored in the boat works would eat for a mere penny each a day. Her hands nearly started to tremble, just looking at the monthly sum that would be hers to buy food. She had to dab at her eyes to see Douglas Bowden’s last stipulation. “Miss Grant, owner of the tearoom, will be paid an annual salary of fifty pounds a year, until such point as her depleted inheritance has recovered.”

“I think that is exorbitant,” Lady Telford said. “I tried to remind the surgeon that you had undertaken to spend your inheritance of your own free will and choice, but he wouldn’t have any of it.”

“Bravo, Douglas,” Nancy Fillion said under her breath, then turned innocent eyes on Lady Telford.

“Aye or nay?” the solicitor asked, his eyes merry, but only since his head was turned and he knew Lady Telford could not see his expression.

“I should really argue with Dou … Mr. Bowden,” Olive hedged.

“He would only ignore you,” Mrs. Fillion said.

“Aye, then,” Olive said. She sat there amazed at one man’s generosity. Until Douglas Bowden had come to town, she had faced certain ruin. Now she need fear for nothing. Still, this was only a portion of a much greater outlay, and she cringed inside that he would impoverish himself to help her. She thought of his kiss in the garden and felt the tiniest grain of hope.

“Very well,” the solicitor said. “Initial here and here, and I will incorporate this into the document.”

She did as he asked, dazed at her good fortune, where none had been expected. She turned to Mrs. Fillion, who seemed to be enjoying this cut and dried legal wrangle. “I suppose we can leave now.”

“Not yet.” The owner of Plymouth’s most prosperous hotel took a sheet of paper from her reticule. She handed it to the solicitor, who read it, his eyes even livelier now. “ ’Pon my word, Mrs. Fillion, you intend to become an investor in the Telford Boat Works!” He looked at the paper, which Olive could tell had been crimped by a notary. “And for a … my, my … a tidy sum.”