Enlightened (3 page)

On an impulse, David asked, “What does your father think about all this? The moneymaking, I mean.”

Murdo’s grin faded. He never spoke about his father and generally avoided any discussion of his family. What little David had managed to draw out of him suggested there were few good feelings, certainly on Murdo’s side.

“My father despises all trade,” he said. “But he needs it too. As a politician, he’s more interested in power than wealth, but he needs to keep his personal coffers healthy to maintain his reputation as man of a means. He likes that I excel at something, but he would prefer me to turn my energies to politics rather than wasting it on making money.” Murdo shrugged. “And he doesn’t relish the taint of trade. Investments are all very well, but to actually engage in business is rather too much for him.”

David couldn’t help it—he laughed. Murdo’s expression immediately lightened, his smile returning even as he frowned in puzzlement.

“What?” he said.

“It’s so
absurd
,” David replied. “This idea that work—business—is somehow shameful. As though the highest state to which a man may aspire is to be entirely idle.”

“True. Though I cannot accuse my father of idleness, at least,” Murdo said. “He has lived and breathed politics all his life. And he has spent the last twenty years trying to drag me along in his footsteps.”

“Do you think you’ll ever grant his wish?”

For a long moment, Murdo was silent.

“I don’t plan to,” he said at last. “But my father has a way of bending people to his will. He finds your weak spot, and he exploits it.”

“Do you have weak spots to exploit, then?”

It was an impertinent question—none of David’s business. But he wanted to know the answer.

“Everyone has weak spots,” Murdo replied, giving David a careless smile. “The trick is not letting on what they are.”

“That’s not really an answer,” David observed. He smiled, though he felt strangely disappointed in Murdo’s careful response.

“Even my father has a weak spot,” Murdo said.

“What is it?”

Murdo shrugged. “I don’t know yet, but I mean to find out, one of these days.”

An hour later, they were taking breakfast together when one of the maidservants popped her head round the door to say that Dr. Logan had just called by.

Murdo bade her show the physician in, and when the man entered, he looked weary and apologetic.

“I’m sorry to call so early, my lord,” he said, “but I was attending the birthing of your neighbour’s child till an hour ago and thought I’d take the chance of calling in on my way home in the hope that Mr. Lauriston may be willing to rearrange our appointment to save me coming back tomorrow.” He turned to David. “Would that inconvenience you, Mr. Lauriston?”

“Of course not,” David replied. “It suits me very well, in fact.” He’d had to suppress a grimace at the stabbing pain that shuddered down his leg when he and Murdo rose to greet the doctor, but now he managed a smile as he shook the man’s hand.

“Come and sit down, Doctor,” Murdo invited the physician. “Could you manage some breakfast before you examine Mr. Lauriston? We’ve plenty here.”

Logan readily agreed and was soon tucking into a plate of smoked haddock and eggs.

“I envy you your cook, my lord,” he confided between mouthfuls. “She’s a hundred times better than the fellow Sir Hamish had.”

“Mrs. Inglis has been with me for many years.”

The doctor showed his appreciation by scoffing a second helping of eggs, two bannocks and half a pot of coffee before he finally put down his napkin and sat back in his chair, a contented expression on his face.

“Well now, Mr. Lauriston,” he said, “if you’ve finished your own breakfast, shall we repair to your bedchamber and see how this leg of yours is doing?”

“It’s probably best if you examine Mr. Lauriston down here,” Murdo interrupted before David could so much as open his mouth to speak. David pressed his lips together, irritated at Murdo’s high-handedness but unwilling to argue in front of Dr. Logan with a man the good doctor believed was David’s employer.

Logan turned to Murdo with a questioning look on his face.

“Mr. Lauriston overexerted himself on Monday,” Murdo explained without so much as a glance in David’s direction. “He is still feeling the ill effects of his enthusiasm today—it may be better if you examine him in the sitting room next door to save him a painful walk upstairs.”

“There’s really no need—” David began.

“No, no. His Lordship is quite right, Mr. Lauriston,” Logan said, turning to fix David with a stern look. “There’s no use putting your leg under more stress for the sake of pride. His Lordship’s sitting room will do perfectly well as an examination room. Lead the way, my lord.”

Given leave to take charge, Murdo had no hesitation in taking the physician up on his invitation. David and Logan followed him out of the dining room and into the neighbouring sitting room, neither of them commenting when he made no move to leave them alone, but instead closed the door, then crossed the room to draw the drapes.

For an instant, David considered asking Murdo to leave. He hadn’t stayed for any of David’s other examinations, and David couldn’t help but think it was unorthodox. But Murdo had a mulish expression on his face that David didn’t like the look of, and Dr. Logan seemed to find the situation entirely unexceptionable.

“If you could strip down to your shirt and drawers, Mr. Lauriston,” he said as he removed his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

David did as he asked. He sent Murdo a warning look when the other man started to step forward to assist David with his right boot—always the most troublesome part of dressing and undressing for him—and then had to struggle with removing it for a good few painful seconds before he finally shook his foot free. Other than that, though, he got himself down to his underclothes with relative ease and lowered himself onto the chaise longue.

Logan drew up a footstool and perched on it. His forehead was lined in concentration, his attention all on David’s leg. He asked David to lift the leg, move it outwards, flex it, straighten it. He examined every inch of it, from David’s hip down to his foot. He checked the knee that had been giving David so much trouble despite the fact that neither one of his actual fractures had been anywhere near it. He ran his hands down the length of David’s limb, his head cocked to one side in a way that made it look as though he was listening or thinking maybe, perhaps imagining the layers of bone and muscle and tissue inside. He had David stand and walk, then attempt a squat, noting aloud the last was still beyond him. He questioned David about his activities over the last month, most particularly about Monday’s walk, over which he clucked and frowned in disapproval, making David feel like a naughty schoolboy.

When it was all over and David was pulling his trousers back on, Logan gave his verdict.

“Well, Mr. Lauriston,” he said, “despite your foolishness, your leg continues to heal well. You can bear your weight readily and the bones have knit as neatly as any I’ve ever seen—you must have had a good bonesetter see to it at the first. It’s hard enough to get one fracture to set that well, never mind two.”

“What about the limp? I still get it at times, when my leg gets tired.”

“I hope it will disappear, in time, but I won’t lie to you. There’s a chance it will be permanent. Particularly if you don’t take care of yourself properly. You must ensure that you don’t damage the healing your leg’s already done by engaging in any more nonsense like strenuous hillwalking before you’ve had more time to repair. At this point in time, you should be keeping your exercise to a gentle stroll of no more than a mile or so at a time over flat ground, gradually building up the distance and strenuousness over time. Avoid stressing the limb at all costs.” He smiled then, his expression part sympathetic, part amused. “I’ve been a physician for twenty-seven years, Mr. Lauriston, and I’ve seen bodies repair from all sorts of injuries, but only if their owners allow themselves the chance to heal.”

“That’s what I told him,” Murdo growled from the corner.

The physician chuckled, apparently not one bit surprised by Murdo’s continued presence or oddly personal interest. “You should listen to His Lordship,” he told David gravely, though still with a glint of humour in his eyes.

David swallowed. He didn’t want to ask the question that was burning on his tongue, but he had to, even though he already suspected the answer.

“Am I—am I well enough to return to Edinburgh, Doctor? To my legal practice?”

Murdo spoke before Dr. Logan could say anything. “Back to sitting at your desk till all hours and forgetting to eat, you mean?” he snapped. “Back to walking up and down two long flights of stairs to your rooms?”

David’s face blazed with colour at the betraying intimacy of Murdo’s comments.

“I don’t have those rooms anymore,” he said quietly.

It was an effort to remain to calm, to hide his fury at Murdo for those imprudent words. Especially when Murdo knew very well David had given up his lease.
He
was the one who had persuaded David to do it, after all. To hand back his keys and allow his belongings to be taken away to be stored at Murdo’s townhouse.

“I can easily take a new lease with fewer stairs,” David added into the awkward, heavy silence.

Dr. Logan cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, addressing his remarks to David, “I would certainly recommend you seek rooms with as few stairs as possible. And sitting in the same chair for hours on end is not to be recommended. A gradual return to your old activities, with periods of rest and gentle exercise in between, would be best. But subject to those precautions, I would say that, yes, you are well enough to return to your practice.”

Somehow David managed the mechanics of a smile in response to the doctor’s verdict, though he suspected it was a wan thing.

“Good,” he said. “That’s good to hear.”

Murdo said nothing, just glowered at them both.

“Well,” the doctor said. He slapped his hands on his knees and stood up. “I’ll leave you to get dressed, Mr. Lauriston, and be on my way.” He quickly shrugged his coat on and packed up his bag before offering his hand to David for a hearty handshake. “Go easy on that leg,” he added.

David nodded. “I will,” he promised.

“I’ll show you out while Mr. Lauriston dresses,” Murdo said without looking at David.

For a few moments after they left, David sat there, perched on the edge of the chaise longue
,
his cheeks hot and his stomach in knots as he wondered what the doctor had made of this interview and the unusual interest the master of the house took in his man of business.

At last he rose and slowly dressed, though he took his time getting ready, far from eager to resume his conversation with Murdo.

It seemed, however, that Murdo was no more eager to speak than David. He didn’t come back to the sitting room at all, and when David finally ventured out, it was to discover that Murdo had asked for his horse to be saddled and was already on his way to Perth.

Murdo stayed out all day, returning only shortly before dinner.

While they dined, Murdo talked pleasantly about the various errands he’d done that day, whom he’d met and whom he’d spoken with. It was an ordinary, everyday and entirely impersonal conversation, stiff with good manners. Murdo’s manners always became more pronounced when he was in a bad mood. It was one of those curiously contrary things about him.

It wasn’t until they’d retired to the sitting room, taking up their usual chairs on either side of the fire, that there was a silence long enough for David to finally give voice to the matter that had been weighing on his mind all day, ever since that mortifying scene in front of Dr. Logan.

“I need to think about going back home.”

He wasn’t prepared for how it would feel when he actually said it. The word
home
felt like grit in his mouth, wrong and unfamiliar.

Needing to clarify, if only for himself, he added, “To Edinburgh.”

Murdo said nothing, didn’t even look at David. His gaze was fixed on the rug on the floor, as though he was fascinated by the swirling pattern.

After a long silence, David added, “It’s been five months.”

“You’re not ready,” Murdo said without looking away from the rug.

“Yes I am,” David replied, although the truth was, he would never be ready when being ready meant packing up and leaving Laverock House, and Murdo, for good.

“You don’t take care of yourself,” Murdo added in a tone that brooked no denial.

That irritated David—perhaps more so because he knew that the accusation was not without justification.

“You’re worse than a bloody mother hen at times!” he snapped. “I am capable of taking care of myself, you know.”

Murdo looked up at that, and his eyes flashed black fire. “Oh yes, you demonstrated that amply on Monday. You could hardly walk up the three steps to the front door when you got back from McNally’s!”

“This is ridiculous,” David muttered. He rose abruptly from his chair and stalked to the sideboard, suppressing an urge to curse at the twinge in his knee that accompanied the sudden movement. Lifting the whisky decanter, he sloshed a large measure of amber spirit into a glass and raised it to his lips. But before the glass could touch his mouth, Murdo was at his side, seizing his wrist. The whisky spilled on the back of his hand, immediately evaporating in the air, leaving nothing behind but coolness on his skin and the smell of alcohol in the air.