Page 97 of Duke of Bronze
Pale, drawn, and motionless beneath her thin blanket, her breathing shallow. The sight of her, so small and fragile, cut straight through him.
Dr. Gibson, ever composed, moved into the room with quiet purpose. He bowed his head slightly toward Mrs. Millard. "May I?"
She gave a tight nod and stepped aside, arms folded across her chest as if bracing for bad news.
"What diagnosis was she first given?" the doctor asked gently, kneeling beside the bed.
"The physician said it was a chest inflammation—perhaps pleurisy. But then another suggested a wasting illness," Mrs. Millard replied.
"And her current regimen?"
She retrieved a small wooden box from the bedside table and opened it, revealing two worn bottles and a sachet of herbs.
Dr. Gibson examined each carefully before setting them aside. Then he began his own assessment, his movements meticulous and gentle as he touched Lydia's brow, checked her pulse, and listened to her breathing with quiet intensity.
Colin remained silent, unmoving, near the door, but every muscle in his body was taut.
At last, the doctor straightened.
"We must have hope," he said softly. "And we must believe."
Mrs. Millard looked at him then—not with suspicion, but something like cautious hope.
Dr. Gibson reached into his medical bag and removed three small bottles, each labelled in his neat, slanted script. "These are to begin immediately. Twice daily, and no more. She must be kept warm, her air clean, and her nourishment gentle but steady."
He handed them over, then added, "There is a fourth tincture I should like her to begin, but I do not have it with me. I was unaware of the severity of her condition. I shall have it sent over without delay."
Mrs. Millard took the bottles with both hands. "Thank you, Doctor. And your fees? My husband is not in, but when he returns?—"
“Oh, no, no," Dr. Gibson interjected, glancing briefly at Colin.
"That is between the doctor and myself," Colin said, stepping forward at last. "You need not concern yourself with it."
Mrs. Millard looked up at him slowly. Her eyes, always sharp, narrowed slightly. Her lips parted as if to protest—pride and principle fighting against the impulse to relent. But then, perhaps seeing something in his face, she simply nodded.
"Very well," she allowed. She was quiet. Not warm, not yet—but her voice lacked the earlier bite.
She led them from the room with a short word of thanks to the doctor. When they reached the hall, she finally turned to Colin.
"You're doing too much."
The words were blunt, but not unkind. There was still caution in her eyes, still a faint wall held up between them—but thefrost was thawing. And gratitude, unmistakable and honest, had taken its place.
Before he could answer, the other door—the one he'd noticed earlier—creaked open.
A small figure stepped out.
A little girl, no more than six or seven, stood in the doorway. Her dress was faded, her hair in loose brown curls, and her face—wary but curious—tilted as she took them in.
Perfect.
Colin reached for the satchel he'd been carrying since they arrived and stepped forward, crouching slightly.
"May I know your name, little princess?"
She stared at him with the same measured caution her mother bore, her small hands gripping the edge of the doorway as though it might shield her. Her wide eyes flicked between Colin and the unfamiliar satchel in his hands.
"Well," Colin said gently, crouching further so he was nearer her height, "perhaps I might earn that honor after this."
