do,” Douglas informed the lupines just poking out for their first view of spring aboveground.
Even so, he took a coin from his pocket and tossed it in the air. “Heads I remain here only a week,” he said as he flipped George III over and over. Sure enough, buggy-eyed George stared up at him on the road. Douglas chuckled, pocketed the coin and headed down the road, wondering why he flipped the coin. His plans hadn’t changed, and a faulty coin toss wouldn’t have mattered. What, three or four days for Tommy to be well enough to leave behind?
Chapter 7
T ommy woke only long enough to ask for a urinal, mutter something, pluck at his arm, and swallow another sleeping draught. The pallet Miss Grant had provided was surprisingly comfortable. Douglas thought of other nights standing on a sand-covered deck in his surgery to keep from slipping on blood, and decided quickly that Miss Olive Grant’s tearoom was vastly superior.
I do not miss that , he thought, to no surprise. Once Tommy’s needs were met, he returned to sleep, only to wake hours later with a soft hand on his arm. His muscles tensed, but he did not move.
“Miss Grant?” he whispered finally, not sure if he should be chagrined or pleased that she was touching him. She seemed much too proper for what sprang immediately to mind.
“You were calling out and muttering in your sleep,” she whispered back. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“No, I …” He stopped, and indulged in the truth. “I have bad dreams.” He took a deep breath and said something he never thought he would say to anyone, let alone a lady he barely knew. “Would you mind awfully just keeping your hand on my shoulder until I return to sleep?”
What on earth was he asking? He closed his eyes in the deepest humiliation, ready to cry, except he was too old for that, too long at this war business.
She said nothing, but increased the pressure of her hand on his shoulder. He didn’t mean to, but his head seemed to naturally incline toward her hand. The last thing he felt was his shoulders relaxing. When he woke next, it was morning.
He took a deep breath and smelled wonderful fragrances from the kitchen below. Shame covered him as he remembered what had happened last night, and he knew he could never go downstairs again in this lifetime.
“Sir? Sir?”
Douglas sat up, instantly alert. He looked into brown eyes about on the level of his own brown eyes. He got to his knees and automatically put two fingers on Tommy’s neck and then smiled.
“I am going to live?” the boy asked in all seriousness.
“Your regular pulse would indicate precisely that,” Douglas replied. He felt the boy’s forehead, which was cool. “Are you hungry?”
“I could eat a seagull, feathers and all,” Tommy assured him, which made Douglas laugh.
“I don’t think it will come to that.”
Douglas got to his feet and stretched, fully confident that his days of sleeping on a pallet were numbered. A young surgeon could do it, but he wasn’t a young surgeon anymore. “I’ll get you something from downstairs after you do your duty with this.”
Tommy obliged him, muttering something about being perfectly capable of standing up.
“Not yet, you’re not,” Douglas replied. “Two more days with this extra-long splint, and then we’ll see. Steady as you go.”
Douglas took a long look at his surgical handiwork, relieved to see no redness. He sniffed the bandage. Other than the fact that Tommy Tavish was long overdue for a bath, there were no telltale signs of rot.
“Would you at least let me sit up?” the boy asked.
“That I will do and we’ll see how you like it.”
Gently he pulled Tommy into a semi-recumbent position, listening to the boy’s sharp intake of breath and barely stifled groan.
“Maybe not just yet. Agreed?”
Tommy nodded with no argument. He closed his eyes when Douglas lowered him down. “Me mam?”
“She said she was going to stay with a Mrs. Cameron.
Even so, he took a coin from his pocket and tossed it in the air. “Heads I remain here only a week,” he said as he flipped George III over and over. Sure enough, buggy-eyed George stared up at him on the road. Douglas chuckled, pocketed the coin and headed down the road, wondering why he flipped the coin. His plans hadn’t changed, and a faulty coin toss wouldn’t have mattered. What, three or four days for Tommy to be well enough to leave behind?
Chapter 7
T ommy woke only long enough to ask for a urinal, mutter something, pluck at his arm, and swallow another sleeping draught. The pallet Miss Grant had provided was surprisingly comfortable. Douglas thought of other nights standing on a sand-covered deck in his surgery to keep from slipping on blood, and decided quickly that Miss Olive Grant’s tearoom was vastly superior.
I do not miss that , he thought, to no surprise. Once Tommy’s needs were met, he returned to sleep, only to wake hours later with a soft hand on his arm. His muscles tensed, but he did not move.
“Miss Grant?” he whispered finally, not sure if he should be chagrined or pleased that she was touching him. She seemed much too proper for what sprang immediately to mind.
“You were calling out and muttering in your sleep,” she whispered back. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“No, I …” He stopped, and indulged in the truth. “I have bad dreams.” He took a deep breath and said something he never thought he would say to anyone, let alone a lady he barely knew. “Would you mind awfully just keeping your hand on my shoulder until I return to sleep?”
What on earth was he asking? He closed his eyes in the deepest humiliation, ready to cry, except he was too old for that, too long at this war business.
She said nothing, but increased the pressure of her hand on his shoulder. He didn’t mean to, but his head seemed to naturally incline toward her hand. The last thing he felt was his shoulders relaxing. When he woke next, it was morning.
He took a deep breath and smelled wonderful fragrances from the kitchen below. Shame covered him as he remembered what had happened last night, and he knew he could never go downstairs again in this lifetime.
“Sir? Sir?”
Douglas sat up, instantly alert. He looked into brown eyes about on the level of his own brown eyes. He got to his knees and automatically put two fingers on Tommy’s neck and then smiled.
“I am going to live?” the boy asked in all seriousness.
“Your regular pulse would indicate precisely that,” Douglas replied. He felt the boy’s forehead, which was cool. “Are you hungry?”
“I could eat a seagull, feathers and all,” Tommy assured him, which made Douglas laugh.
“I don’t think it will come to that.”
Douglas got to his feet and stretched, fully confident that his days of sleeping on a pallet were numbered. A young surgeon could do it, but he wasn’t a young surgeon anymore. “I’ll get you something from downstairs after you do your duty with this.”
Tommy obliged him, muttering something about being perfectly capable of standing up.
“Not yet, you’re not,” Douglas replied. “Two more days with this extra-long splint, and then we’ll see. Steady as you go.”
Douglas took a long look at his surgical handiwork, relieved to see no redness. He sniffed the bandage. Other than the fact that Tommy Tavish was long overdue for a bath, there were no telltale signs of rot.
“Would you at least let me sit up?” the boy asked.
“That I will do and we’ll see how you like it.”
Gently he pulled Tommy into a semi-recumbent position, listening to the boy’s sharp intake of breath and barely stifled groan.
“Maybe not just yet. Agreed?”
Tommy nodded with no argument. He closed his eyes when Douglas lowered him down. “Me mam?”
“She said she was going to stay with a Mrs. Cameron.
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