Chapter 14
Two days later, Vera and Stephen loaded into the cart.
Hortense wasn’t feeling well, but Vera insisted upon accompanying him to Mr. Douglas’s anyway.
Since his mother was out of the house on one of her infernal rambles through the undergrowth with the marquess’s secretary, Stephen thought she perhaps had lost the ability to balk when it came to matters of decorum.
Still, Stephen rounded up one of the downstairs maids to go along—a silent, trembling little thing that reminded him of a field mouse.
He frowned, staring off across a wild field and the stand of trees beyond.
What was going on between his mother and that Hamish fellow?
Stephen was so perplexed by the notion, he didn’t have the courage to demand answers from his mother.
Besides, he knew if he did demand answers, she’d deny him any on principle.
Lady Jacqueline Winthrop was not the type to be bullied, especially by her own son.
“How was fishing yesterday?” Vera asked stiffly, breaking him free of his unwelcome thoughts.
“Well enough. We caught enough for dinner, but you were there for that.”
In fact, she’d already sat through dinner, in which Benjamin regaled them with a detailed description of every hooked fish—including much conjecture on the three that slipped the line and escaped.
Vera must want to know something different altogether, something that hadn’t been answered yesterday evening.
Vera bit her lip. It was terribly distracting, those teeth sunk into that plump lip.
Stephen frowned and averted his eyes, too.
The horse plodded his way down the country lane, head bobbing to the musical tempo of his own steps.
Birds twittered from the trees or flitted through the sky.
It was a lovely fall day, the perfect weather—cool but sunny.
Stephen still needed a jacket, though it wasn’t all that cold. He hadn’t yet reacclimated to England’s weather. This first winter would be brutal.
He turned and broke the awkward silence. “What do you know about this Hamish?”
Vera’s eyebrows rose. “Your mother seems to approve of him. He’s certainly a witty fellow.”
Stephen’s mouth twisted. He didn’t need a reminder of the man’s cleverness—not when he himself was the unwilling recipient of many of the man’s rejoinders. In fact, that was probably why Vera had brought it up.
There was no easy way to ask what Stephen truly wanted to know: was the man courting his mother? The question was damned embarrassing, and the idea itself made the little boy within him want to howl, made the rebellious youth within want to smack the man in the nose.
That is, if he could land a punch on the fellow.
Hamish looked like the type who was able to defend himself quite well.
He was a solid man—not fat, but he had a presence about him.
Plus, those eyes—they reminded Stephen of the one time he’d gone to see a boxing bout in London.
One of the fighters was a short, swarthy fellow who wore down the favorite by simply absorbing blows and tiring the other man out.
Then he’d landed one haymaker, and the thing had been finished.
Stephen had never returned, despite his friends’ invitations.
He found he couldn’t enjoy a sport when he spent the entire time evaluating what had just been broken and what would be required to set the men to rights.
There was something idiotic about the entire thing—two great lummoxes swinging their thick fists at each others’ heads, for money, of all things, and not really all that much of it.
At one point, one of the fighters had broken a knuckle—Stephen was sure of it. He’d held out his own hands and tried to calculate how much his fingers were worth. Certainly far more than either of these men would win, and not just because he was a doctor.
He pushed the thoughts away and said, “I just wonder what his purpose is, in always being about.”
Vera shook her head. “Are you really going to repeat the same behavior toward poor Hamish as you did with me?”
Poor Hamish?
He frowned. “I’m allowed to be protective of my family members—you’ve said so yourself.”
“Are you even aware of how suspicious you are, or does it come so naturally that it doesn’t even register?”
“I have the right to ask, don’t I?”
“Yes, but once the answer is given, you’re obliged to believe it unless you have evidence to the contrary. Or did you learn nothing from the…the debacle,” she finished lamely, sliding a glance toward the silent maid behind them.
Stephen cleared his throat. Neither of them wanted the staff to know that he’d invaded Vera’s bedroom and rummaged through her personal effects.
“Of course I have.” He pulled the cart to a stop in Mr. Douglas’s drive.
“Really? The situation with Hamish is an excellent chance to prove it,” she said, her eyebrows raised in censure.
When they entered, Mr. Douglas was resting in the sitting room on one of the ancient upholstered chairs that faced the fireplace.
“I would get up,” he said, by way of apology, once he’d successfully hollered at them to come in, “but I’m too lazy to be bothered.”
Vera grinned at him and took his hand. “How are you feeling, Mr. Douglas?”
Stephen frowned. That was historically his opening line. Now he’d have to devise another.
“Better than I deserve, my dear. Better than I deserve.” His voice was raspy and weak, as if he’d used all his strength to welcome them in.
“Miss Ashbury, please make Mr. Douglas some tea. There’s a satchel in the basket.”
Vera nodded stiffly and took up the basket. She offered a final warm smile to Mr. Douglas and departed.
“Oof,” the man said. “That was a cold front, make no mistake.”
Stephen was suddenly grateful that the man’s voice was weak, and therefore quiet.
“Never thought a ray of sunshine like her could have a bad side, but you seem to have found it, haven’t you?”
Stephen didn’t have an answer for that—the truth was laid bare in Vera’s treatment of him. Under the circumstances, Stephen decided his opening line was sufficient, after all.
“How are you feeling?”
“Not too well. Getting downstairs just about did me in, it felt like.”
“When did you do that?” He picked up the man’s wrist and flicked open his pocketwatch.
“Only this morning. Before breakfast. Anne needs her meals on time. I had to boil enough water, make porridge to last the day. It’s about all I can manage.”
The man’s pulse was slow but strong. Stephen kept his fingers on Mr. Douglas’s wrist and secretly inspected his breathing. It was shallower than he would have liked.
Mr. Douglas continued, “She’s a right angel, Vera is. If I’d met her forty years ago, I would have snapped her up. Wouldn’t have ended up alone. You know, if you had half a brain, you’d be trying to marry that girl instead of angering her.”
Stephen shook his head. Mr. Douglas wasn’t the first patient to suggest he lacked in mental acuity, and he wouldn’t be the last. He released his grip and rummaged in his bag, then unscrewed and assembled his brass and wooden stethoscope.
“Ah, brought the torture device back out, have you?”
“We both know it causes no pain.”
“It’s damned cold, is what it is.”
Stephen resisted the urge to roll his eyes and chafed the edge against his hand until it warmed. Still, the old man gave a grumble of displeasure when Stephen set one end upon his bare chest and lowered his head to listen.
“Take a deep breath.”
“They’re as deep as I can manage,” he argued, before taking a substantially deeper one than the last.
A distinct wet crackling sound met Stephen’s ears. He didn’t react, though the man’s lungs still sounded too full for his liking.
“I’ll prepare a steam bath,” he said, rising to his feet. “Stay put.”
When he went through to the kitchen, he brought his stethoscope. The maid was in the backyard, taking laundry from the line. Mr. Douglas was too ill to keep up with his housework.
Vera had put the kettle on, though it was not yet whistling. She held Anne on her lap, smiling down at her. The little girl had freshly washed face and hands, and Vera was brushing her hair with the set she’d purchased in town only days ago.
“How is he?” Vera asked.
“I want to prepare a steam bath for his lungs. Is there more water?”
She shook her head. “I used the last for the tea.”
He nodded and went through to the well. By the time he’d retrieved a bucket, the teapot was singing its shrill aria. Vera pulled it, poured two cups, and set one far back from the counter’s edge to cool.
“Will you mind her while I bring Mr. Douglas his tea?” Vera asked in a tone that insinuated he might not be equal to the task.
Stephen smirked—if only this lady knew he’d once overseen a ward of thirty sick children in the height of fever season, with only a single, elderly nurse to help him!
He wanted to tell her the story, or to point out that there was no possible way Mr. Douglas was minding Anne in his current state, but all he said was, “Of course.”
He arranged the steam treatment—setting water in the pot over the fire, checking his stock of camphor and dried eucalyptus in his bag. Then he dug in the basket for the paper parcel he knew Mrs. Portence had packed before they left the house.
“Miss Anne, would you like a biscuit?”
Her eyes grew wide and bright. She outstretched her hand.
“Ah,” he said, withdrawing the treat. “I am going to listen to your lungs first, and then you may have one.”
Her chin jutted. “Hurts?”
“Not at all. Would you like to try it? Watch.” He knelt beside her, put the large end to his own chest, and pointed. “You put your ear up to there.”
She eyed him suspiciously, then bent her head, bringing her ear no closer than half a foot from the stethoscope. Then she raised her head and grinned.
“Did you hear it?” he asked.
She nodded, still smiling.
“All right, now your turn.”