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Authors: Penelope Williamson
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at his valet. "That's enough, damn you. Go on, go on, I'm done with you for now."
The valet took the sheet and cone and left the room on quiet feet while grandfather and grandson glared at each other.
"Well?" the old man demanded. "What have you got to say for yourself?"
Delia saw the telltale muscle tick along Ty's jaw. "When I was here three days ago you told me to get out of your damn sight."
"Aye, I did, but I was hoping in the interim you'd gotten some sense pounded into that thick head of yours." He turned and went over to a walnut dressing table and, bending stiffly, studied his reflection in the looking glass. He adjusted the wig a fraction. "This stubbornness of yours must come from your da's family. It isn't a Graham trait." He whirled around and fixed his grandson with a fierce glare. "I'm waiting, boy. I'm waiting to hear you tell me that you've changed your stubborn Savitch mind. That you're staying in Boston and you're taking over Graham Shipping, just as I've always planned for you."
Ty's mouth did have a stubborn set to it. "Then you'll be waiting till snow falls in hell. I'm a physician—I want to heal human flesh, not trade in it."
The old man released an angry breath, and fine white powder drifted like snow onto the shoulders of his long, voluminous banyan. The sight of the tall, stern-faced man fuming in the middle of the room in his blazing silk dressing gown re- minded Delia of the fire-breathing creature on the signboard of the Red Dragon Inn.
"Well, don't stand there hovering in the doorway like a blamed fool," Sir Patrick scolded. "I've still got some things to say to you and, by God, for once you're going to listen."
The old man stomped the length of the room, the robe flapping around his thin legs. At the fireplace, he turned, his hands locked behind him, his shoulders thrown back, and then his eyes fell on Delia. "Good God. Who's the wench?"
"I'm taking her to Merrymeeting with me," Ty said, a mischievous smile on his face as he pulled a reluctant Delia into the room.
"Be damned you are!" the old man exclaimed, aghast.
Delia jerked her arm from Ty's grasp. She cast her eyes demurely downward and dropped into a wobbly curtsy. "How do ye do, yer lordship."
"Eh? Oh... it's a pleasure, mistress. A pleasure." Sir Patrick stared at her, and his eyebrows soared all the way up into his wig as he took in the sight of her ragged clothes and bare feet. But he said, "She's pretty, Ty. Right pretty."
Delia straightened and slid a triumphant glance in Ty's direction. He frowned at her.
Sir Patrick waved a thin, heavily-veined hand at a brocade chair. "Do sit down, mistress. Where's your manners, Ty? There's some hot mulled ale on the table over there. Bring some to the poor gel. Can't you see she's shivering from the morning chill?"
Ty cast Delia another scowl, but he went across the room to a tea table and poured a tankard of ale. As soon as Ty's back was turned the old man winked at Delia, and she had to bite her lip to keep from giggling. If Ty had planned to use her presence to bait his grandfather, it wasn't working.
"He does things to provoke me," he said to Delia as if he'd read her mind. "Don't think I don't know it. I sent him to Edinburgh University to read law and he came back with a degree in medicine instead. All done to irritate me."
Ty laughed. "Really, Sir Patrick, you flatter yourself if you think I arrange my life just to irritate you."
"What did you come around here this morning for, if it wasn't to irritate me?"
Ty turned from the table and bowed mockingly. "You commanded me, sir."
"Hunh! And why did you bother coming to Boston at all if you never meant to stay above a week—besides coming back to irritate me, aye, and turn up your nose at all the things I'm trying to do for you."
Ty shoved the tankard of ale into Delia's hands.
"Why, thank ye, Dr. Savitch," she said sweetly.
He lowered his voice and growled at her, "What happened to that blatting tongue of yours,
The valet took the sheet and cone and left the room on quiet feet while grandfather and grandson glared at each other.
"Well?" the old man demanded. "What have you got to say for yourself?"
Delia saw the telltale muscle tick along Ty's jaw. "When I was here three days ago you told me to get out of your damn sight."
"Aye, I did, but I was hoping in the interim you'd gotten some sense pounded into that thick head of yours." He turned and went over to a walnut dressing table and, bending stiffly, studied his reflection in the looking glass. He adjusted the wig a fraction. "This stubbornness of yours must come from your da's family. It isn't a Graham trait." He whirled around and fixed his grandson with a fierce glare. "I'm waiting, boy. I'm waiting to hear you tell me that you've changed your stubborn Savitch mind. That you're staying in Boston and you're taking over Graham Shipping, just as I've always planned for you."
Ty's mouth did have a stubborn set to it. "Then you'll be waiting till snow falls in hell. I'm a physician—I want to heal human flesh, not trade in it."
The old man released an angry breath, and fine white powder drifted like snow onto the shoulders of his long, voluminous banyan. The sight of the tall, stern-faced man fuming in the middle of the room in his blazing silk dressing gown re- minded Delia of the fire-breathing creature on the signboard of the Red Dragon Inn.
"Well, don't stand there hovering in the doorway like a blamed fool," Sir Patrick scolded. "I've still got some things to say to you and, by God, for once you're going to listen."
The old man stomped the length of the room, the robe flapping around his thin legs. At the fireplace, he turned, his hands locked behind him, his shoulders thrown back, and then his eyes fell on Delia. "Good God. Who's the wench?"
"I'm taking her to Merrymeeting with me," Ty said, a mischievous smile on his face as he pulled a reluctant Delia into the room.
"Be damned you are!" the old man exclaimed, aghast.
Delia jerked her arm from Ty's grasp. She cast her eyes demurely downward and dropped into a wobbly curtsy. "How do ye do, yer lordship."
"Eh? Oh... it's a pleasure, mistress. A pleasure." Sir Patrick stared at her, and his eyebrows soared all the way up into his wig as he took in the sight of her ragged clothes and bare feet. But he said, "She's pretty, Ty. Right pretty."
Delia straightened and slid a triumphant glance in Ty's direction. He frowned at her.
Sir Patrick waved a thin, heavily-veined hand at a brocade chair. "Do sit down, mistress. Where's your manners, Ty? There's some hot mulled ale on the table over there. Bring some to the poor gel. Can't you see she's shivering from the morning chill?"
Ty cast Delia another scowl, but he went across the room to a tea table and poured a tankard of ale. As soon as Ty's back was turned the old man winked at Delia, and she had to bite her lip to keep from giggling. If Ty had planned to use her presence to bait his grandfather, it wasn't working.
"He does things to provoke me," he said to Delia as if he'd read her mind. "Don't think I don't know it. I sent him to Edinburgh University to read law and he came back with a degree in medicine instead. All done to irritate me."
Ty laughed. "Really, Sir Patrick, you flatter yourself if you think I arrange my life just to irritate you."
"What did you come around here this morning for, if it wasn't to irritate me?"
Ty turned from the table and bowed mockingly. "You commanded me, sir."
"Hunh! And why did you bother coming to Boston at all if you never meant to stay above a week—besides coming back to irritate me, aye, and turn up your nose at all the things I'm trying to do for you."
Ty shoved the tankard of ale into Delia's hands.
"Why, thank ye, Dr. Savitch," she said sweetly.
He lowered his voice and growled at her, "What happened to that blatting tongue of yours,
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