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He’d just finished washing his hands in the chlorinated lime, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, so he shook his wet hands off and rushed to the front of the clinic.
The frantic calls apparently captured Harry and Oliver’s attention as well, for they also filed out of the adjacent examination rooms to investigate the commotion.
Timothy skidded to a stop as suddenly as if he’d come face to face with a brick wall. All heads had turned in one direction—toward Priscilla Pratt, who stood in the middle of the waiting area, supporting a rather grubby looking child. The boy—at least he thought it was a boy—balanced on one foot, his filthy hands holding on to Priscilla for dear life.
At that moment, he would have wagered nothing could have surprised him more. “Pri—Miss Pratt,” he choked out the words. “What has happened?”
“The child needs attention. He’s injured.”
Harry appeared to be as dumbfounded as Timothy felt. He gaped at Priscilla, and Timothy wasn’t certain if his expression was one of surprise or suspicion.
Oliver seemed to be the only one unaffected by the sight and was the first to jump into action, stooping before the child. “What hurts?”
Interestingly, the child looked at Priscilla. “Is ’e your friend? The kind one?”
Priscilla momentarily pinned Timothy with her gaze, then addressed the child. “No. This is Dr. Somersby. He’s not my friend, but he’s very kind and is an excellent physician.”
Warmth spread through Timothy’s chest at the implication of both the child’s and Priscilla’s words. She described him as a friend and kind.
“I want your friend. The one who don’t use leeches.”
Oliver chuckled and looked over his shoulder. “Dr. Marbry? Would you like to take this case?” He turned his attention back to the boy. “And we only use leeches on boys who don’t behave during examination.”
The child clung more tightly to Priscilla. Surely her gown would be covered with dirt from the encounter.
“He’s bamming you,” Timothy said, scooping the child in his arms and carrying him to an examination room.
Priscilla was on his heels.
“Perhaps you should wait outside,” Timothy called over his shoulder.
The child’s eyes widened. “No. She stays.”
Timothy shook his head. It seemed no matter what he tried, he could not escape Miss Priscilla Pratt.
* * *
Priscilla didher best to avoid the duke’s stare. Yet his icy glare made her awash in the stench of shame.
Or perhaps that was a product of the child’s unwashed body. Nevertheless, she skirted past him to follow Timothy into the examination room with the child.
“What’s your name?” Timothy asked, placing the child on the examination table. The sole on one of the child’s shoes flapped like a lazy tongue as his feet dangled over the edge.
“He said he doesn’t have a real one,” Priscilla volunteered.
“I ain’t mute.” The child sent her a glare that could rival the one she’d received from the duke, then returned his attention to Timothy. “You can call me Fingers.”
The name elicited a laugh from Timothy, the sound sending the sensation of fluttering wings in her stomach. “Well, Fingers, what hurts?”
“My ankle. Twisted it somefin’ fierce.”
Priscilla watched as Timothy gently pressed on the child’s ankle.
“Ow!”
“It’s already swelling.” Timothy removed the child’s worn shoe, revealing a dirty stockingless foot.
Priscilla’s eyes were riveted on Timothy’s forearms, exposed from his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. Fine auburn hair dusted them, muscle cording when he squeezed the cloth he’d dipped in a strange smelling liquid and began washing the boy’s foot. The room swayed as if she’d imbibed too much sherry.
