your daughter?”
How was it possible for even tears to look exhausted? Touched almost to his heart’s core, he who had seen so much, Douglas dabbed at her eyes.
“No money for cladh ,” she whispered. “No potter’s field either, please no.”
Where did all his nerve come from? “Miss Grant has a pretty little garden behind her house. Do you … do you have a name for your daughter?”
“Call her Deoiridh—pilgrim—for she was a pilgrim passing.” Mrs. Tavish sighed and slept.
Miss Grant, I am going to keep trying your good will, it appears , he thought. He turned to Mrs. Cameron. “This nice towel, please. I’ll get you another.”
Mrs. Cameron nodded and went to work shrouding the tiny body. She bound it neatly with cloth strips, offering no protest when Douglas lifted the bedcovers and examined the sleeping Mrs. Tavish.
“You took good care of her,” he said finally. He reached in his pocket and pulled out three coins that made Mrs. Cameron’s eyes widen. “Buy food for both of you and there will be more.”
She put the feather-light infant in his arms and he turned to go. He stopped and handed the child back. “One moment.”
In a fury, he crossed the noisome yard into the Tavish’s ruin of a house, where Mr. Tavish, sober now and eyes burning like two coals, sat at the table.
“A man takes care of his family!” Douglas shouted, wondering whose voice was so menacing, before he realized it was his own. “I have no power to do anything to you, but take this!”
He picked up a stick by the door, probably the stick that Tavish used to beat his wife and son, and cracked it against the side of the man’s head. Tavish grunted, shrugged it off, and slammed Douglas to the ground. The last thing the surgeon remembered was a foot crashing into his ribs, and his own fervent relief that Tavish must have pawned his very boots for one more drink. Shoes would have cracked his skull.
Chapter 8
O live Grant learned of Mr. Bowden’s slow and painful walk from one end of the High Street to the other from one of her pensioners who often dropped by early to pay for his luncheon with fuel for the kitchen stove. The man didn’t mention the small bundle the surgeon carried, but he was old, and his eyesight cloudy.
Olive wiped her hands on her apron and went to the door. She took the four steps in two steps and ran to the surgeon, who just stared at her with tears in his eyes and held out the bundle, beseeching her.
She gulped and took the baby, tucking it in her arm as though the child lived. She touched Mr. Bowden’s face, wincing when he winced. “I can send Mr. McCullough here for the constable,” she said.
“No need. Tavish will just say I struck him first, and I did.” He gave his side a gentle pat. “Don’t think my ribs broke, but I need to lie down.”
“Mr. Bowden, I have no patience with brawlers,” she told him, which made the surgeon smile.
“I haven’t heard such a tone since my own mother caught me smoking.”
“That’s a bad habit,” she said, matching him for calm. “I trust you gave it up.”
“From that day on.”
A gesture summoned two diners, who put a hand on either side of Mr. Bowden and helped him into the tearoom. Olive considered the matter for a small moment and pointed to the stairs. “Across the hall from Tommy Tavish,” she said.
“I don’t mean to turn your home into a hospital ward,” Mr. Bowden said.
To Olive’s ears, at least he sounded apologetic. He also sounded deep in pain. She sat him down and unbuckled his shoes, then carefully swung his legs onto the mattress. The others left the Spartan little room, but Olive wanted an explanation. She didn’t have to wait long.
“I’m no brawler,” he began. “I’m not good at it.”
“That is patently obvious.”
He sighed, which made him wince. “I doubt Mrs. Tavish’s baby even drew a breath,” he said. “Tiny little malnourished thing. I made some remark to Mrs. Cameron that she should
How was it possible for even tears to look exhausted? Touched almost to his heart’s core, he who had seen so much, Douglas dabbed at her eyes.
“No money for cladh ,” she whispered. “No potter’s field either, please no.”
Where did all his nerve come from? “Miss Grant has a pretty little garden behind her house. Do you … do you have a name for your daughter?”
“Call her Deoiridh—pilgrim—for she was a pilgrim passing.” Mrs. Tavish sighed and slept.
Miss Grant, I am going to keep trying your good will, it appears , he thought. He turned to Mrs. Cameron. “This nice towel, please. I’ll get you another.”
Mrs. Cameron nodded and went to work shrouding the tiny body. She bound it neatly with cloth strips, offering no protest when Douglas lifted the bedcovers and examined the sleeping Mrs. Tavish.
“You took good care of her,” he said finally. He reached in his pocket and pulled out three coins that made Mrs. Cameron’s eyes widen. “Buy food for both of you and there will be more.”
She put the feather-light infant in his arms and he turned to go. He stopped and handed the child back. “One moment.”
In a fury, he crossed the noisome yard into the Tavish’s ruin of a house, where Mr. Tavish, sober now and eyes burning like two coals, sat at the table.
“A man takes care of his family!” Douglas shouted, wondering whose voice was so menacing, before he realized it was his own. “I have no power to do anything to you, but take this!”
He picked up a stick by the door, probably the stick that Tavish used to beat his wife and son, and cracked it against the side of the man’s head. Tavish grunted, shrugged it off, and slammed Douglas to the ground. The last thing the surgeon remembered was a foot crashing into his ribs, and his own fervent relief that Tavish must have pawned his very boots for one more drink. Shoes would have cracked his skull.
Chapter 8
O live Grant learned of Mr. Bowden’s slow and painful walk from one end of the High Street to the other from one of her pensioners who often dropped by early to pay for his luncheon with fuel for the kitchen stove. The man didn’t mention the small bundle the surgeon carried, but he was old, and his eyesight cloudy.
Olive wiped her hands on her apron and went to the door. She took the four steps in two steps and ran to the surgeon, who just stared at her with tears in his eyes and held out the bundle, beseeching her.
She gulped and took the baby, tucking it in her arm as though the child lived. She touched Mr. Bowden’s face, wincing when he winced. “I can send Mr. McCullough here for the constable,” she said.
“No need. Tavish will just say I struck him first, and I did.” He gave his side a gentle pat. “Don’t think my ribs broke, but I need to lie down.”
“Mr. Bowden, I have no patience with brawlers,” she told him, which made the surgeon smile.
“I haven’t heard such a tone since my own mother caught me smoking.”
“That’s a bad habit,” she said, matching him for calm. “I trust you gave it up.”
“From that day on.”
A gesture summoned two diners, who put a hand on either side of Mr. Bowden and helped him into the tearoom. Olive considered the matter for a small moment and pointed to the stairs. “Across the hall from Tommy Tavish,” she said.
“I don’t mean to turn your home into a hospital ward,” Mr. Bowden said.
To Olive’s ears, at least he sounded apologetic. He also sounded deep in pain. She sat him down and unbuckled his shoes, then carefully swung his legs onto the mattress. The others left the Spartan little room, but Olive wanted an explanation. She didn’t have to wait long.
“I’m no brawler,” he began. “I’m not good at it.”
“That is patently obvious.”
He sighed, which made him wince. “I doubt Mrs. Tavish’s baby even drew a breath,” he said. “Tiny little malnourished thing. I made some remark to Mrs. Cameron that she should
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