“I thought sea air might be good for him,” I said.
“Ye gods, woman, he’s had an infection of the lungs.” The doctor frowned at me. “A cold wind could do more harm than good. And he’s not strong enough to be sitting up yet. Take his other arm, Mrs. Sullivan, and we’ll get him back to bed where he belongs.”
The doctor’s face was somber and he made tut-tutting noises as he listened to Daniel’s chest with his stethoscope. He looked up at me. “There is still fluid on the lungs,” he said. “Lots of hot broth and hot tea to loosen that fluid and help him to cough it up. Good nourishing broth. Maybe an oxtail. And I’ll write you up a recipe for a tonic, and see if the pharmacist has a cough mixture containing licorice and slippery elm.”
“But he’s going to be all right, isn’t he?” I whispered as soon as I had led him out of the room. “He is on the mend?”
“To that I give a cautious affirmation,” he replied. “As I told you before, I’ve seen enough relapses to know that one can’t always predict the outcome. Plenty of rest, Mrs. Sullivan. Complete quiet. No excitement like letting him read a newspaper. He can be propped up in bed to help him breathe more easily, but no getting out of bed until I say that he’s ready.” He opened the front door. “I’ll be by again tomorrow.”
And then he was gone. I went back up to Daniel’s room. “That man took my newspaper,” he said grumpily. “And I was rather enjoying sitting in the window.”
“I suppose we ought to do what he says,” I said.
“At least give me my newspaper back.”
I handed it to him with a smile. “But if you read anything disturbing you are not to get excited.”
“Old fool,” he muttered. “And now my mother here too. I’ve got to make an instant recovery, Molly, so that we can go home to our own house. When did he say I’ll be well enough to travel?”
“You certainly aren’t up to taking a train yet,” I said. “An automobile would be even worse. No, I’m afraid you’ll just have to do what the doctor says and rest and eat good food to get your strength back.”
He sighed. “With my mother forcing food down my throat.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll tell her what the doctor says you are allowed. And as to that, he’s said oxtail soup and calf’s-foot jelly. So as soon as you’re comfortable, I’d better walk back into town to buy the ingredients and to have your prescription filled.”
He gave me a tired smile. “Nobody can say I don’t have an energetic wife,” he said. “I hate to put you through all this.”
“For better or worse, remember?” I said. “I’m glad to have something to occupy me.”
“An excuse to leave the house, you mean.”
“That too.” We smiled into each other’s eyes.
I went down to the kitchen. “Oh, Mrs. Sullivan, don’t go to too much trouble,” I said. “The doctor wants Daniel to have oxtail soup and calf’s-foot jelly. I’m off to town to buy a calf’s foot and an oxtail.”
“If you say so,” she said stiffly. “It’s a pity I didn’t think of it. I’ve a jar of calf’s-foot jelly at home. But that’s no problem. I won’t mind making another one.”
I found Sid and Gus sitting on the bench outside the front door. “I have to go into town again,” I said. “Do you want to join me?”
“Shouldn’t one of us stay with Daniel?” Gus asked.
“His mother is there, and Martha too. And we won’t be long.”
“Then a walk sounds delightful.” Gus got up and slipped her arm through mine. “Poor Daniel. I hope he can cope with a mother and pneumonia at the same time.”
“I left him reading the paper,” I said. “I’m sure we can walk to town and back before he finishes.”
We had a pleasant walk into town, carried out our commissions, and then I took Sid and Gus to the waterfront. The scene looked especially charming in the slanted fall light and Gus immediately wished she had brought her paint box.
“There’s a young man painting over in the dock,” Sid pointed out. “I wonder if he’s any good?” I saw where she was indicating. He was not unlike Daniel—broad, healthy looking with a mop of unruly dark hair. I plucked up courage and went over to him.
“You wouldn’t be Ned Turnbull, would you?” I asked.
“The one and same. What can I do for you ladies?” He gave us a charming smile. “I’ve a variety of paintings of the harbor to sell. Reasonable prices.”
“I wanted to ask you about another painting,” I said. “The little girl with the lamb that had been hanging in the gallery on Farewell street until a few days ago. The man at the gallery said the artist had taken it back so I wondered if you’d found your own buyer for it.”
“Were you wanting to buy it yourself?” he asked.
“It was very charming,” I said noncommittally. “Has someone just bought it?”