The Book of Hours (3 page)

Cecilia disliked tweedy suits primarily because she detested the kind of woman who tended to wear them. “That's right.”

“I am Lavinia Winniskill, chairwoman of the Keep Knightsbridge Peaceful Committee.”

“This must be about the bells,” Cecilia guessed.

“Exactly.” She waved an impatient hand toward Maureen, the clinic's receptionist and secretary. “I have tried to explain to this person here just how vital it is I speak with the head of your clinic. This matter is not only urgent, it is imperative.”

Cecilia took aim at the woman's third button and struggled to hold her voice level. Because she was small and fine-boned, certain people tended to think Cecilia could be pushed around. “This is a medical clinic,” she replied. “Our sole purpose is to serve the ill of Knightsbridge.”

“Which is precisely why I must speak to your director! You of all people must know how vital it is to have peace and quiet here in the heart of our village. Not to have the bells of seven different churches ring every hour of the night and day!”

Cecilia's glance was enough for Maureen to offer, “Dr. Riles has minor surgery this morning.”

“Well!” Lavinia huffed. “Whatever else the matter of our bells might be, it is not minor.”

“Minor surgery means anything that can be taken care of in the clinic,” Cecilia explained.
Like sewing a certain pair of lips shut
, she thought.

The explanation was waved impatiently aside. Lavinia Winniskill took a step closer, so as to tower over Cecilia. “Now, you look here. I realize from your accent that you are an American interloper. But if you are to make yourself an acceptable member of our society, you must understand that certain issues and certain people require special consideration. Which means—”

“Please leave the clinic.”

“—that I have every intention of being shown into . . .” The mouth continued working, although the mind had finally been snagged by Cecilia's quiet words. “I beg your pardon?”

“We don't have time for the bells around here; we're too busy trying to help the ill and suffering.” Cecilia kept her voice calm, her gaze unflinching. “So the next time you come in here, I will expect your moaning to be medically related.”

“Now, see here!” But something in Cecilia's gaze caused Lavinia Winniskill to turn and move for the door. From a safer distance she turned and declared, “You have most certainly not heard the last of this!”

As soon as the door closed behind her tweedy back, one of the elderly patients declared to his neighbor, “Now, that was better than a poultice on a boil.”

Cecilia turned from the door and the patients, only to see Maureen raise her hands and applaud silently. All Cecilia said was, “Give me a minute.”

But scarcely had she entered her office when Maureen appeared in the doorway. “I'm sorry, dear, but Angeline Townsend is on the phone,” Maureen said.

“Not today,” Cecilia groaned. “Not now.”

Maureen handed over an envelope from the lab they commonly used for clinical testing. “This just came in. Should I have her call back?”

“No. No. I need to take it.” Cecilia shrugged off her jacket and let it slip to the floor. When the phone rang, she picked up the receiver and said, “Don't tell me. There's still no change.”

“Tommy's no better, I'm afraid. The medicine hasn't helped a bit.”

Tommy Townsend was a four-year-old patient whose symptoms had baffled Cecilia for almost two months. And despite her best efforts and twice-weekly consultations, the child was not getting any better. Cecilia gave her head a vigorous scratch and felt her finger come away sticky. “You'd better bring him in again, then.”

“I've already asked. All your appointments are taken today.”

“I'll make time. And I want Dr. Riles to have a look at him. Come in just before lunch. He's doing minor ops until then.”

“All right.” Angeline's voice held all the quiet desperation of a worried mother. “Did you get the lab results back?”

“Just this morning.” Cecilia slit open the envelope, read the results, and sighed, “Inconclusive again, I'm afraid.” She hesitated, then added, “It might be a good idea to move Tommy into Reading.”

Reading was the closest major city. And the nearest major hospital. Clearly the mother had been thinking the same thing, for all she said was, “I'll see you in a couple of hours.”

Cecilia dropped into her seat, wishing she could dash back home for another shower and a nap. There was a knock on her door, and Maureen poked her head in. Cecilia told her, “It's not even nine o'clock, and I'm already exhausted.”

But the clinic's chief assistant was beaming. “I've got just the remedy for what ails you.”

“What are you talking about?”

The smile grew grander still. “You won't believe who just sauntered in.”

Cecilia started to snap that she was in no mood for guessing games, when it hit her. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Suffering from a tummy ache, he is. And wanting to see a doctor.”

Cecilia leaned back in her seat, just as the day's first ray of sunshine rose above the neighboring roofline and lanced through her window. “Well, for goodness' sake, don't keep the fellow waiting.”

Maureen's eyes glittered with the effort of holding in her laughter. “Somehow I thought you'd be saying that.”

The village clinic was housed two streets off the central market, in a stone cottage as old as the rest of Knightsbridge. Thankfully, the renovators had thought to lower the original floor, which meant Brian was able to stand upright and not strike his head on the ceiling beams. He stood by the central counter, filling out a sheaf of forms.

At the point where he was asked to give his last address, he hesitated, then wrote out, “Central Hospital, Colombo, Sri Lanka.” A five-week stay seemed enough to qualify it as an abode. From the sound of things, it was several weeks longer than he would have here.

The receptionist took the completed forms and gave him another queer look before directing him to take a seat. Brian crossed the broad plank flooring and sighed gratefully, seating himself on the wall bench. He took in the scene about him. The morning's early gloom was gradually burning off. Sunlight fell through the lead-paned windows to cast people and chamber alike in tones of ruddy gold. Everyone seemed to know one another and their complaints. The talk was easy and low, the comforting sound of folks who had lived in one another's pockets for so long they knew what would be said long before mouths opened. Glances were tossed his way, which only seemed to echo the refrain running through his brain. He did not belong here, and never would. That was scarcely tragic, seeing as how the matter had already been taken from his hands.

Six hundred and thirty thousand pounds, the realtor had said. One million, one hundred thousand dollars. Brian leaned back in his seat. The bench was high-backed, extremely uncomfortable, but he had sat on far worse. Nothing could compare to the third-class wagon of a Malaysian train for discomfort. His backside still bore lumps from a two-day run to Kuala Lumpur. Brian made himself as comfortable as possible and gave in to the sense of defeat. Six hundred thousand pounds. He would be hard-pressed to come up with even six hundred dollars. No matter what promise he might have made to his wife, Castle Keep was lost almost before it was found.

“Mr. Blackstone?” The receptionist stood in the middle of the chamber and beamed at him. “Dr. Lyons will see you now.”

Every eye in the room seemed to track his progress. In the sudden silence his voice seemed to echo. “Most of these people were here before me. I don't mind waiting my turn.”

“You just go right on down the hall there.” The woman seemed hard put not to laugh out loud. “Dr. Lyons's office is the second door on your left.”

Brian had the distinct impression that several others in the waiting room shared the receptionist's humor. As he started down the hallway, he heard an old man wheeze, “I'd give me good arm to be a fly on that wall.”

The doctor's office was surprisingly large, the doctor herself surprisingly small. It was hard to tell her height, as she did not rise from her seat. But the oversized desk and antique swivel chair left her looking like a dark-haired child playing in an adult's seat. “Yes?”

“Dr. Lyons?”

“That's right. Come sit down.”

Brian did as he was told. “Are you American?”

“Father. Mother's British.” The accent was as clipped as the words, the tone utterly flat. The dark eyes were bright, the features slightly off-kilter. The nose tilted upward, the lips much too full for such a fine-boned face. Her head was cocked at a funny angle, and the short raven hair was pushed impatiently back behind her ears. “What seems to be the matter?”

Her abrupt attitude brought back memories of all the bad doctors he had suffered through to get here. Which was why he fished in his pocket and said merely, “I need to get a refill for a prescription.”

She accepted the vial, read the label, and demanded, “Where did you get this?”

“Sri Lanka.”

“I'm afraid, Mr.—”

“Blackstone.”

“We do not automatically accept diagnoses and prescriptions from other countries.” She set down the vial and cocked her head once more in his direction. “This is for a very strong antibiotic.”

“That's because I was very ill. I had either food poisoning or dysentery, I'm not sure which, and neither were the doctors.”

“I see.” She seemed neither impressed nor all that concerned. “What are your symptoms now?”

“About what you'd expect.” He had met a couple of American doctors who had lost their license to practice in the United States and fled to places that were only too glad to have medical care, no matter how questionable their abilities. He had just never expected to find one in Britain. “Weak, shaky, still a little fever.”

“Any nausea or abdominal pain?”

“Not for the past couple of days.”

She was out of her chair almost before he had spoken. “Remove your . . . Why are you dressed in layers?”

“It's all I have with me.”

She might have sniffed. “Take them off, please. I need to examine your abdomen. Come sit over here.”

Reluctantly he followed her to the corner bench. She examined his eyes, pricked his finger for blood, and inserted a thermometer before returning to her desk and filling out several forms. She returned to check his temperature and might have sniffed at the result, he wasn't sure. She inspected his tongue, listened to his chest, prodded his abdomen, and finally announced, “Other than signs of dehydration and weight loss, I'd say you were in fairly good shape.”

“Would you.” Another wave of fatigue swept over him. Brian fumbled with the buttons to his shirt and willed himself to remain upright. “Well, given your fantastic three-minute examination, I can't tell you how reassured that leaves me.”

She crossed her arms. “We do not like to overprescribe medication in this country, Mr. Blackstone. Particularly antibiotics. And especially not antibiotics as strong as the one you've been on.”

He started to explain how he had bribed the hospital pharmacy clerk in Colombo twenty dollars to give him a prescription for the antibiotic most recently arrived from overseas. How this was an old trick for seasoned travelers, since many third world pharmacies did not bother to store antibiotics in cool, dry places, meaning they rapidly lost their potency. But he decided it was not worth the bother. He had met doctors like this before, people who assumed they had nothing to learn from anyone, especially not the patient. “I need another round of treatment.”

“I'm sure you think you do.”

“Look, is there another doctor I can see around here?”

She bridled. “You're welcome to check up front. I'm sure Dr. Riles can fit you in. Perhaps sometime next month will be convenient.”

“Great. Just great.” He rammed his shirttail into his trousers and hoped she did not notice his swaying. “Thanks for nothing.”

But she did not move back to her desk; she merely stood in the center of the room with her arms crossed. “I happen to be renting Rose Cottage.”

Bitterness rose like gall in his throat. “I guess that means you've heard about the sale of the property.”

The change came as fast as a lightning strike. Eyes flashed wide, arms cocked on hips, face flushed crimson, voice rose to high-pitched clamor. “So that's it! You let this place fall into utter ruin, and then show up only to sell it!”

“I don't—”

“I should have known it the instant you walked in here! You . . . you moneygrubbing weasel!” She cocked back an arm, and for an instant Brian thought she was going to strike him. But she merely flung it toward the door. “Get out of my office!”

Brian stalked down the hall, feeling wind batter his back as the doctor slammed her door at his departure. The receptionist greeted him with a cheery smile, one shared by several of the others in the waiting room, and asked, “Feeling all better now, are we?”

Three

T
HE MORNING CONTINUED PRETTY MUCH AS IT HAD BEGUN
. A steady stream of patients' sniffles and aches kept Cecilia's thoughts partly at bay, but the sense of dread rose steadily. When Maureen finally called back to say Grant Riles was ready to see her, she found it hard to rise from her chair.

There had been quiet but fierce opposition to the idea of an American doctor being given a place in Knightsbridge. At first Cecilia had thought it was because she was viewed as too foreign, and at every opportunity she had repeated the fact that she had been born here and her mother was English. It was only several weeks into her position as locum, or temporary General Practitioner, that she learned the truth. The people did not doubt her ability as a doctor and had no objection to her American heritage. They simply did not think she was going to stay.