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Before they returned to town, Sheila did indeed take the opportunity of quizzing Muirne on the subject of Ed Turner. At first Muirne only let on how desperate she’d been to find someone who could help, and how relieved she was to find two men right outside the medical college. Sheila could well imagine the state Muirne must’ve been in when she arrived in Sherbrooke. She probed further.
“But what was your very first thought when you saw Mr. Turner?”
Muirne’s eyes strayed to the side. Sheila waited. “He looked like a man to rescue us,” Muirne said softly. Sheila noted the ‘us’ instead of ‘you.’
“Aye, and right well he behaved,” said Sheila, omitting his abrupt departure. “What was his first reaction to ye then?”
“He was talking with another man about the mare, as he said. They were standing in the street near the school. Mr. Turner was facing me, and I’m sure saw me before I noticed him, since I was so out of breath and in such a panic. I was trying to look around but the world felt all a bit crazy by then. I felt like I’d never stop running.”
She paused. “Anyway, I fairly collapsed at their feet. I had no breath to shout, so I whispered the words that came to me. Mother—wasps—fallen ill—hurry—old Campbell steading. They held me up and listened, I think. Then I saw Mr. Turner rush for the school, and I thought he was leaving me. But the next moment he came right back out, spoke to the other man who was holding me up, and then leapt onto the mare. He told the man to look after me, and was off.”
Sheila approved of the narrative, both the behavior of the gentlemen and the conduct of her daughter. “And how long did you stay?”
“Oh, I couldn’t, Mother. I had to get back here to you!” She turned tortured eyes on Sheila. “I only rested until I’d caught my wind, drank some water the man got from a pump, and then started walking again.”
“Well, when we go back to Mrs. Conaghey’s tomorrow, we shall send a note of thanks to Mr. Turner and friend, by way of the school. I’m sure we can find the name of it from someone in town—Mrs. Conaghey.” She attempted to snicker, and Muirne’s seriousness fell away. She smiled at the mention of the old gossip, now a true friend.
“Very well. We shall send a note. But don’t let’s tell Mrs. Conaghey all the details I’ve just told you, Mam.”
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They learned of the school: Frederick Taylor School of Medicine Practice. They sent off the note. Muirne told Neil a slightly modified version of the same tale, leaving out her remark about Mr. Turner looking like the rescuing type of man. She didn’t want to bother Neil with such sentimental twaddle. They stayed in town several days to be sure Sheila’s swelling would go down and not lead to complications.
There was no news from Gillan. The family thought about writing him of their near escape, but as they had no address, they let it bide.
A week went by, and the areas where Sheila had been stung—head, neck, and arms—looked to be almost normal. Sunday came, and kirk. The children attended, leaving Sheila at home with their Bible. She sat studying it, pondering their position. So precarious it had been, but they had been pulled back to safety. “Thanks be to the Lord,” she whispered.
As she was sitting on the bed, she heard someone enter downstairs, and the muted sounds of two people conversing through the floor. Who would be visiting now, during kirk? Sheila thought. She found out soon enough. Mrs. Conaghey was off to the service as well, so it was a housemaid who knocked on her door and introduced a Mr. Turner to see her.
Sheila’s heart went all a-flutter at the mention of the name—a chance for her Muirne! He entered and bowed; the maid withdrew. He held his hat in front of him, twirling the brim. Sheila asked him to sit, and indicated one of the chairs not piled with maps, dull tools, and piece-work.
“Thank you, madam,” he said. She was pleased by the low timbre of his voice. Mellifluous.
“It is I who should be thanking you, of course, sir.” She smiled. “Both for coming to my aid and for paying me this call, although you perhaps thought to find more people about than just me? You’re rather early—”
“Yes, it’s Sunday, isn’t it?” This took Sheila aback. Of course it was Sunday; who did not take notice of the bells and follow them to kirk? “Would you have any objection to my waiting until your family returns? You are right; I intended a visit with all of you, but neglected to mark the time. Foolish of me.”
A little on her guard now, Sheila inclined her head. She took up her Bible again from where she had set it on the bed and looked at him. He did not raise his gaze to meet hers, but allowed her an easy inspection of his person. The dark, curly locks remained the same. The shirt, jacket, and cravat were all spick and span, sharply pressed. Sheila wondered who did his laundry for him. His breeches, hose, and shoes were of good quality, and nothing about him looked ragged. Indeed, he had carried himself well into the room, but still she felt he was hiding something, ashamed of something. His downcast gaze seemed to be proof.
“Would you like to hear me read? I was going to reflect on the Book of Nehemiah today, and the Psalms, to thank God for my near escape.”
Mr. Turner looked as if someone had poked him awake. “Ah, surely, madam, if you wish to do so, I will listen.” A queer response, from someone who was otherwise the picture of manners and decorum.
She commenced to read a passage, pausing at intervals to reflect on the words herself. She heard not a peep from Mr. Turner’s direction. She gave up waiting for a response and merely continued as if he were not there. After a good twenty minutes though, there was another stirring downstairs. More muted voices. Another man’s. Oh for goodness’ sake, thought Sheila. Now what?
The same young maid, now looking reproachfully at Sheila for having taken her away from her household duties twice, knocked and announced a Mr. MacLachlan. Sheila felt about to lose her equanimity.
“How delightful, Mr. MacLachlan. You’ll excuse me if I don’t get up; I’ve had a frightful run-in with a wasp colony out on the ridge, and I’m still recovering. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Sheila was still propped up in the low bed, but Mr. Turner rose when the second guest was introduced. They glanced at each other, coolly reading each other’s stations, gauging each other’s intentions.
Sheila had a moment to compare them, to size them both up as suitors for Muirne. Both men were older than her daughter, although how much older she wasn’t sure. Turner looked older, more experienced, and he had a bit of an accent, which she couldn’t identify other to say it sounded educated. Both men looked physically healthy, strong, and confident. MacLachlan was Mrs. Conaghey’s nephew, and so she knew one of his ties to the stable community of Pictou, but Turner could be anybody, really. And he did give off such an aloof air.
Mr. Turner had been sitting on the only chair in the room, but Sheila indicated the chest to Mr. MacLachlan and he accepted with grace. “Mrs. MacLean, I had indeed heard of your accident, and was coming to pay you a visit to see if there was anything I could do. I realize that you’ll want work to continue on the property, and maybe I could help with the possession paperwork. But first things first, are you feeling well enough for a visit?”
“Well enough, Mr. MacLachlan. But let me introduce one of my rescuers. Mr. MacLachlan, Mr. Turner, from Sherbrooke. Mr. Turner, this is Mr. MacLachlan, our landlady’s nephew.”
They nodded politely to each other. So they haven’t met before, Sheila thought. But there is definitely tension there. “I was just reading from the Bible since I can’t yet make it to kirk, Mr. MacLachlan. Do you go to a different one from your aunt?”
“Er, yes, missus. My mother, Auntie Ann’s sister, married a Seceder—an anti-Burgher—and so converted. Theirs is an earlier service, and I have already attended.”
Sheila’s mind drew back a bit, although she tried not to let it show on her face. “I see. Are you a Seceder as well, Mr. Turner, to pay such an early call a-Sunday?”
“Ah, no, madam. It’s just that I am not very religious in any particular sect. I attend no church since—for a long time.” Sheila noticed the sudden flush of red creep up from his collar, and wondered again at his very odd behavior.
“I see.” She paused. She was not feeling up to this complicated double interview all of a sudden. “Well, gentlemen, I thank you for your pains in coming here this morning, but I must say I am feeling rather tired and the need for a rest—”
“Of course, missus,” MacLachlan said, springing up.
“Of course, madam,” Turner said, raising himself up more slowly.
MacLachlan looked like he was going to speak, but hesitated. “Yes, sir?” Sheila prodded.
“Might I return this afternoon, after you’re more rested and the family is here? I had hoped to talk with you all.”
“Yes, I think that’d be all right.” She inclined her head to each of them as they exited, and her mind was whirling. She pulled up the thick bedclothes and fell fast asleep.
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When the family returned, they found her still asleep. They crept quietly ’round so as not to wake her. Muirne made up the dough for bread and Sheena heated the congealed chicken fat over the brazier to start a broth. Neil and Alisdair came home with meat scraps from the butcher and a bag of charcoal from a neighbor.
“It’s a miracle, the people in that kirk,” Neil whispered to Muirne. “Who helped them when they arrived, I wonder?”
Soon enough, the smells of cooking permeated the whole room and down the hall. Sheila stirred in the bed. She woke and rolled over, a smile on her face. “That smells like meat, if I didn’t know better,” she said.
“It is meat, Mam!” said Alisdair, skipping over to her side. “We got scraps from the butcher, and he said to wish ye well.”
“That’s Mr. Robinson, is it?” Her eyes sought Neil’s. “Well, then, we will have to send a hearty thank you tomorrow when his shop is open. He didn’t bring that there meat into the kirk session, did he now?”
“Noooo,” giggled Alisdair. “We walked with him back the way, and he stopped to get the bag from his shop.”
“I see. Much easier that way, I s’pose.” The gentle ribbing continued as chores were done and the meal was cooked. Over their tea, Sheila brought up the subject of her visits that morning.
“And Mr. MacLahlan is likely to return,” she finished. She eyed her daughter for her reaction to this news. Muirne shrugged.
“Very well, Mother. And they were both good company, then?”
“Well, I’d not say they were bad, but there is something queer about that man Turner.” She looked at Muirne again. “You said ye found him in front of the medical school talking about that horse o’ his?”
Muirne nodded.
“And ye did think to send him a note of thanks at the school for his help?”
Muirne nodded again. “Hmph,” was all Sheila’s reply. Then he must indeed go to the school as he says, or the headmaster would’ve written back saying there’s no such man there under his instruction.
Neil observed all this back and forth with some interest. He did not know either of the men, but if they were both there to try to sway his mother and dance attendance on his sister, then he would damned well find out more about them. Mrs. Conaghey was not an objective source, after all.
He was juggling the times for when he would need to be in town and when he would need to be back on the ridge, figuring whom he could question on the subject, when his mother asked him a question.
“I was just trying to figure that out myself, Mam. As soon as you’re up and about, I’ll go on back to the ridge to finish up sorting those piles, and see what can be done about the foundation still there. Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll keep a long stick and a careful watch.”
“Very funny, boy. You just be careful, a’right? We’ll soon catch ye up.”