“Halls, Halls.” Her father frowned. “Do I know these Halls?”
“It’s unlikely. She takes in laundry,” Grantham said. “Her husband died, leaving her with sole responsibility for eight children. When we spoke at the Workers’ Hygiene Commission, Lydia agreed to bring the Halls a basket for the coming holidays.”
Her father glanced over at Lydia with a small smile on his face.
“It will be a perfectly unremarkable visit,” Grantham said. “Public streets the whole way there, and Mrs. Hall there to chaperone your daughter once we enter the building.”
“Is that what you were working on this morning?” her father asked. “Putting together a basket for this Mrs. Hall?”
Lydia nodded.
Her father fixed Doctor Grantham with another look. “Well, Doctor, despite my daughter’s protestations, you do appear to be a man. A word with you, if you please.”
Doctor Grantham stepped into the office; with a jerk of his head, her father motioned for Lydia to leave. She sniffed and swept out, shutting the door behind her. It didn’t stop her from standing on the threshold though, and setting her ear to the door.
“So,” her father aid without preamble. “You’re walking out with my Lydia.” His tone left little doubt as to what he meant by those words.
She waited to hear Grantham deny the implication—that he had some sort of romantic interest in Lydia. But if he made an audible response, she could not hear it.
Whatever he said—whatever gesture he made—her father grunted. “Yes, yes,” he said, “I understand. But I want to make something clear. If you hurt my daughter by word or by deed…”
“Mr. Charingford,” Doctor Grantham said, “first, do no harm. Those are not just words I mumbled so that I could get a few fancy letters before and after my name. They are a belief. I don’t hurt people. I intend harm to your daughter least of all.”
Lydia pulled back, a little puzzled, and stared at the door. She’d expected Grantham to make some sort of caustic comment about how the damage to Lydia had already been done. But she’d not even heard a note of sarcasm in his voice.
“She’s far more delicate than she looks,” her father was saying. “Don’t think you can talk to her in your usual way. She’s sensitive and—”
“Your daughter,” Grantham replied, “is stronger than you think. I wouldn’t be taking her to see Mrs. Hall if she was the sort to crumple at a few harsh words. Trust me, Mr. Charingford; I am quite able to judge what each can bear.”
This was met with silence. Lydia felt herself frowning. Since when had Grantham thought her strong? Since when had he thought of her at all, except to label her a fribble?
Since he made a wager with a kiss for the stakes. Her hands tingled; Lydia shook her head, trying to drive that feeling away.
“You see that, do you?” her father finally said. “I don’t think many men would. Still, be good to my daughter, Grantham, or you’ll answer to me.”
“Whatever you do could not be so harsh as what I would feel myself,” he responded.
That was an even more puzzling answer, and she was pointedly not thinking of what it could mean when the door opened. Grantham stood a foot from her, his fingers wrapped around the handle of the door. His eyebrows rose at the sight of her.
“Miss Charingford,” he said. “You’re standing very close. Were you coming to get me?”
At his desk, her father shook his head. “She was listening at the door, Grantham,” he said.
The doctor’s eyebrows rose higher. “Miss Charingford,” he said. “I didn’t know that my conversation would be of interest to you.”
“She always listens,” her father said. He didn’t smile as he spoke, but there was a touch of humor to his voice, a hint that he knew something of Lydia—and that he forgave her all her worst flaws.
“I always listen,” Lydia said firmly. “You’re no exception, so don’t think you are. Doctor Grantham, if you’re ready to go, I’m ready to get this finished.”
“SO,” THE DOCTOR SAID, GESTURING AT THE BASKET that Lydia carried. “What did you bring? Christmas puddings? Sweets for the children?”
There was a little smile on his face as he spoke, one that Lydia had no difficulty decoding. He imagined that she had no idea what it was like to live in poverty, that she had brought along the sort of insubstantial nothings that she might give to her young nephew.
“A few lengths of heavy, serviceable fabric,” she replied. “A ham. Three pounds of flour, a pound of rice, some fruit, and several jellies.” Her arm ached from the effort of holding it all.
He looked at her a little while longer before turning away. “That’s not a poor choice.”
“And yes,” she said, staring at the side of his head, “I did bring a sack of horehound.”