Doing No Harm (38 page)

On the third day, disheveled and wearing no neckcloth, Douglas paid his post riders and bid farewell to the post chaise that had grown smaller with every mile as his concern grew larger.

He paid off his post riders in front of a mansion that a reliable source—an Irish street sweeper one of the post riders hailed—swore belonged to George Granville Leveson-Gower, second Marquess of Stafford, third Earl Gower and Viscount Trentham, and husband to Elizabeth Gordon, nineteenth Countess of Sutherland.

“Aye, boyo,” the man said as he pointed to the mansion. “She’s a fat one, and he’s got a beaky nose and stupid expression.” He shrugged and gave them all an impish grin. “They probably hate t’Irish, ’cause everyone does, but they hate their own people too. No accounting for the rich.”

To Douglas’s gratification, the post riders argued about just leaving him there. He argued back that he had held them up because an overturned carriage needed him. The riders compromised by insisting they would remain for another day in a posting house on High Street at Nicholson and to sing out if he needed them.

So there he stood at the door to a mansion, luggage in hand, like a long-lost relative coming for a visit. There was nothing to do but proceed and hope that Olive hadn’t finished her business and returned home, or been arrested and tossed into prison for being an angry Scot.

He remained a minute longer, wondering at the course of the last few months since he had separated from the Royal Navy. Nothing had worked out as planned, not a single thing. His quest for a quiet country practice had died aborning. All he wanted now was to clap his eyes on the kind lady and see if he had the slightest chance of regaining her regard, if he had any in the first place. And he was to do it in a den of thieves.

The footman seemed not surprised to see him, giving Douglas hope that some petitioners still remained. He received permission to leave his luggage in an alcove off the foyer, but he kept Joe Tavish’s yacht sketches with him. Perhaps Lady Stafford, Countess of Sutherland, would be pleased to know that someone was looking out for the Highlanders scattered by her own orders.

He followed the footman into a narrow hall where five petitioners were seated. He counted; there sat Olive Grant in the first chair of a row of ten, of which five were occupied. Relieved that he had not missed her after all, Douglas watched her, feeling amazingly like a thirsty man eyeing a well.

She wore her new bonnet, with the bow tied so charmingly under her right ear. His heart did a drumroll to see that she wore the butterfly-colored paisley shawl he had bought her on a whim. He was already familiar with the trusty green wool dress, plain as can be, that he had seen on several occasions. He even dared to hope that she might choose to expand her wardrobe if things fell out in his favor and he could convince her that part ownership in the shipyard hadn’t driven him into the poorhouse.

He took a closer look at her and saw a sweet face with not an ounce of hope anywhere in sight. She looked down at the parquet floor, so solemn. He wondered how long she had been sitting there.

“Hugh MacReady. Rise and make yourself known.”

To Douglas’s surprise, the man seated in the number two chair stood up and followed another footman into what must be the audience hall. Douglas stayed where he was, watching, curious why the number two petitioner was called before Olive.

The petitioner came out quickly enough, his expression sour, which suggested that Lord and Lady Stafford were hard to please. Douglas waited now for the footman to call Olive’s name, but he passed her over again.

“Why isn’t the lady called next?” Douglas whispered to the footman standing beside him.

“Word from the butler is that she is a troublemaker, petitioning on behalf of the Highland wretches,” the footman whispered back. “She has been there for two days and this is the final afternoon. They had hoped she would get discouraged and leave, but so far …” He shrugged. “I suppose we will escort her out at the end of the day.”

Douglas’s first impulse was to explode in anger at such poor treatment of the kind lady. He stopped the harsh words that rose in his throat like bile, knowing that if he reacted in any way, he would be ignored and never given permission to step beyond those closed doors, either.

“Sir? Your purpose?” the footman asked.

“I am Captain Douglas Bowden, Royal Navy, recently retired surgeon,” he said, his anger so fierce that he could barely speak, but using every title he could think of to keep from being thrown out before he started. “I am part owner in the Telford Boat Works in Edgar, located in the old kingdom of Galloway. I have a commercial proposition for his lordship.” There. That sounded businesslike enough for people that obviously didn’t give a rap about ladies waiting forever or sore subjects, like families tossed away to ruin and death. Douglas Bowden could play this game.

The footman had produced a small tablet and a miniature gold pen. He took down what Douglas said before ushering him to the vacant chair four seats down from Olive.

She looked up then, her mouth a perfect O. He shook his head, barely discernible (he hoped) to the footman who was even now turning away to examine his fingernails. It would never do for the footmen to know any connection between them.

Evidently understanding, Olive turned her gaze to the wall. Douglas settled down to wait, his eyes on the row of paintings that Olive must have stared at for two and a half days now. He wondered where she went at night and how she had managed in such a large city. Her posture, always impeccable, had begun to droop. She sat there, feet together, the folder of terrifying drawings on her lap.

The next petitioner came out with a smile on his face and a spring to his step. The footman called the next man, which meant the others all moved up a chair. Now Douglas was only two chairs from Olive. After the next man was called, he sat next to Olive.

“When they call my name, I’ll grab your hand and pull you in too,” he whispered. “What folly is this?”

“Mine, or the Countess of Sutherland?” she asked, barely moving her lips to avoid detection.

“Yours is no folly. Joe Tavish tells me you were in a rare state after looking at all the drawings, and you abandoned ship to spread around a little indignation.”

“Obviously I will not succeed. I … I thought you were leaving Edgar. Why are you here?”

“Because you are.”

She sighed. “I feel so alone right now.”

“Not any more.”

He moved a little closer until their shoulders touched. Olive pressed her lips into a tight line. Her eyebrows came together, and Douglas saw that his touch had rendered her close to tears. He moved away slightly, sad to think what would have happened if he had not arrived in time.

“I would have been here sooner, but we came across an accident on the road and …”

“You are an amazing man,” she said, interrupting. Her face reddened. “About that paper I slid under your door.”

“It can wait. Right now I … ”

“Captain Bowden, come this way, please.”

He stood up and grabbed Olive’s hand, tugging her up with him. The footman walking ahead didn’t even notice. To his relief, the footman at the ornate door at the end of the hall had left his post, perhaps because Douglas was the final petitioner, since the woman would never be allowed in.

He released Olive’s hand and put his arm around her waist, pulling her close. If the footman realized his mistake and tried to separate them, Douglas wasn’t going to give up easily.

They came to the end of the endless hall and the footman opened the door without looking back. “Captain Douglas Bowden, late of the Royal Navy and part owner in the Telford Boat Works,” he announced and ushered Douglas forward.

The footman blanched as he realized his mistake too late. To say anything now would expose his own error, or so thought Douglas as he nodded to the astounded man and hurried inside with Olive Grant. He held his breath, but the door closed behind them.
I hope they sack you when they find out
, Douglas thought. He smiled and bowed. Olive Grant performed a magnificent curtsy and they walked closer.

The Irish street sweeper had been right. Two ordinary-looking people sat near each other in gilt chairs on a raised dais. Douglas saw some beauty in the brown eyes and handsome carriage of the Countess of Sutherland, but years and childbearing had given her a double chin and a waist that was only a memory now. She looked bored and ready to be done with petitions and audiences. Douglas thought the reddish tinge to her face suggested elevated blood pressure.

The Marquis of Stafford was of slighter build, possessor of an unfortunate hooked nose and a vanishing chin. Douglas thought the marquess wouldn’t have lasted a day on board any ship he had sailed with in the past twenty-five years. His air of disinterest equaled his wife’s. From the way he sat, at a slight angle on his chair, Douglas gleefully diagnosed a case of hemorrhoids.

“What have you to do with us?” the marquess asked. “Is this your wife?”

Douglas took Olive’s hand. “Not yet. I am a surgeon retired from the Royal Navy. I am now part owner of the Telford Boat Works, and Edgar’s doctor.”

Her heard Olive’s little intake of breath, and he squeezed her hand.

“We are principally employing the Highlanders, your Highlanders and former tenants who were summarily dumped on Edgar and other villages on the southwest coast.”

Other than Lord Stafford’s uncomfortable shifting to his other haunch, Douglas saw no discomfort in the complacent people who sat before them. He wondered what might stir them to call for his removal and continued.

“They have no skills beyond those of their glens. They were dying of starvation because some were too proud to eat at Miss Grant’s tearoom, where she has been providing modest meals out of her own inheritance.”

The countess tossed a benevolent look Olive’s way. “No skills. Exactly!” she declared in a triumphant voice that bore no trace of a Scottish accent. He wondered where she had been raised. “We are creating these improvements for their own good.”

“Burning their cottages around their shoulders and leaving them to die in the rain?” Olive asked. “How is that for anyone’s good except your own, my lady?”

“Oh, now,” the marquess began. “We took many of them to the coast and told them to fish for a living.”

“Did anyone think to show them how?” Olive asked quietly. “Did anyone provide cottages to replace those torn down and burned? Did it occur to anyone that the residents already along the coast might resent this threat to their own livelihood? I thought not.” Her voice had increased in intensity, if not volume, with each condemning question.

The silence was less than congenial. As much as he loved Olive, Douglas wanted to tread on her foot. He turned his attention to the marquess, although he suspected that the countess was really in charge. He opened his folder and took out Joe Tavish’s lovely drawings of the yacht in the shipyard.

“I have hired an excellent shipwright from Plymouth, now out of work and not happy to be retired because the war is over,” Douglas began. “He agreed to come to Edgar and run the boat works. He brought journeymen, who are training as many Highlanders as want to learn a new trade.”

“See there! Initiative is wanting among my people,” the countess said. “We decided to stock those glens with sheep, which pay out much better than a few straggly cows and thin crops. Removing them should teach them something.”

I’m beginning to dislike you
, Douglas thought.
It isn’t hard
. He plowed ahead, holding out the drawings to the marquess. “We were wondering if you might be interested in purchasing this first yacht, my lord. It’s made by people from the land I assume you control because you married the countess. It would be a kind gesture and a welcome one.”

He probably could have withstood nearly any insult, if the marquess hadn’t started to laugh. He heard more laughter, and realized for the first time that there were other gentlemen in the audience hall. Maybe they laughed because the marquess laughed and they owed him something. Maybe they were as oblivious and mean-spirited as the hawk-beaked, simple-looking marquess and his stout wife.

“I get seasick in my bathtub,” the marquess declared and looked around, pleased with his wit, which made the others laugh harder. He waved away the drawings. “Peddle these somewhere else.” He gave Olive a look of supreme distaste. “Are you entirely through? It’s late and I have had enough petitioners.”

His face warm from embarrassment, Douglas knew he was done, disgusted and ready to shake the dust of Edinburgh off his shoes. He glanced at Olive to confirm her own willingness to leave, and he saw something that alarmed him: the great anger that Joe Tavish swore frightened him.

Olive’s eyes had taken on a hard look quite out of character. In alarm, he watched her nostrils flare and then her lips tighten. She took several deep breaths, and he knew she was trying to calm herself.

It was useless. The great injustice inflicted on her dear ones bubbled to the surface and ruffled the calm demeanor of the kindest lady he knew.
Should I stop her?
he asked himself and knew the answer. He moved closer to her instead, not to grab her and hustle her from this awful place where no one cared, but to stand with her. Whether Olive Grant knew it or not, he was her man and he wasn’t about to desert her. It had nothing to do with duty or oaths or vows made to higher powers. This feeling was elemental and long overdue in his life and in his heart.

He put his arm around her waist and felt her tremble. “I’m not leaving you alone. Not ever again,” he told her. “Say what you came here to say, my dearest.”