"Another assistant has left?" She came around to join him and set down her baskets. "Again?"
"Unfortunately, yes. Another one found herself with child." He shook his head. "It's an epidemic."
"I suppose you gave her fifty pounds?"
"Yes. She was much relieved, but now I need to find someone new. What did you bring me?" he asked, lifting the doily that covered one of the baskets.
"Fabric." Laughing at the look on his face, she pulled out a handful of white material and waved it under his nose. "Would you care for some? Appetizing, isn't it?"
He gave her a wry smile. "I thought maybe you'd made some sweets."
"I don't have time to bake. I barely have time to breathe." She sighed and delved into the second basket. "But I baked anyway. Have a lemon slice." After he took one, she shooed him toward the back. "Go vaccinate some of these people before even more show up, or else they'll have to stand out in the rain. I'll take over here, and I'll let you know if anyone promising comes in to apply for the position."
James went, finding the lemon slice delicious but grumbling all the way nonetheless. He'd never resented having too many patients before—the more people who agreed to be immunized, after all, the sooner smallpox would become a thing of the past. But he hadn't been picturing sniffling children in his treatment rooms all week, damn it…Juliana was supposed to have been there.
Without a stupid scarf hiding her charms.
Between sewing baby clothes, Juliana proved a model of efficiency, but he and the other physician could vaccinate only so fast. Nearly three hours passed before the number of patients dwindled to the point where everyone waiting had a seat. When Dr. Payton left and two more doctors arrived for the second shift, James heaved a sigh of relief and joined Juliana behind the counter.
A frown creased the area between her brows, and though her gaze flicked to meet his for a moment, it was soon back on the task in her hands. Her shoulders looked stiff and hunched. He stepped behind her to rub them, finding her muscles tense and knotted.
"Come into the back with me," he murmured. "I'll make you feel better."
"I cannot. The carriage will be here any minute, and until then I must keep sewing." Though her needle stabs seemed frantic and rather random, she was getting the job done. "Besides, we really shouldn't be alone, James. You know what will happen."
Of course he knew what would happen. He would tempt her, and it would work, which would eventually lead to better things. Though he knew it was only a matter of time before she realized that she, not Lady Amanda, belonged with him, he was beginning to get impatient.
He kept massaging her, firmly but tenderly, wondering why her taut muscles weren't relaxing with his ministrations. "Just for a minute," he coaxed. "Nothing will happen in just a minute."
In two or three minutes, however…
"Your afternoon assistant has yet to arrive," she said toward her handiwork. "We cannot leave all these people out here unsupervised."
She was right about that. He kissed the top of her head and sighed. "No luck finding a new assistant?"
"Have another lemon slice, will you?"
He didn't take one, because he didn't want to let go of her to do so. Touching her was much more appealing than sweets. And her tenseness wasn't easing, which was worrisome. "I'm not hungry," he said.
Now she sighed. "Your last assistant sent in a friend, but I didn't think you should hire her."
"Why not? Could the woman not read?"
She bit off the end of a thread and leaned away from him to reach into her basket for a spool, sighing again when he leaned with her. "Yes, she could read. But I feared she'd find herself with child before long."
His fingers stilled. "What?"
"You heard me." She pulled off a length of thread. "You've lost two assistants due to pregnancy already. Why do you think that is?"
Actually, he'd lost four assistants, not two—but he wasn't about to admit that now. "The water?" he speculated.
"Your generosity," she declared. "You're too nice, James."
"Pardon?" He relinquished her shoulders and walked around to face her. "How the devil can a person be too nice?"
"These girls are taking advantage of your generosity," she said, sticking the end of the thread in her mouth to wet it. He wanted that mouth on him. "They're getting pregnant on purpose. I'd lay odds that last girl sent her friend here with a promise of fifty pounds. You need to find someone older, someone more responsible."
"Older women aren't seeking work. They're busy raising children."
"I mean much older women." Having threaded the needle, she looked up, and he found himself lost in her greenish eyes. "Like your aunts."
He blinked. "My aunts?"
"Excuse me," she said, turning away to hand a number to a woman waiting by the counter with two children.
He hadn't even noticed they were there.
"You're number forty-two," she told the woman. "I'll call you when it's your turn."
She looked back to him, meeting his gaze again, making him think she wanted to say something. But she didn't. Her eyes went even greener. She swallowed slowly and then gradually seemed to go limp, like a marionette whose strings had gone loose.
The chatter of the waiting patients grew louder in their personal silence.
He whipped out a hand and pulled the scarf from her dress.
"Hey!" She snatched it back. "Whyever did you do that?"
"You're not acting like Juliana. And you don't look like Juliana—not with that silly scarf or whatever it's called."
"It's a fichu," she informed him primly, stuffing it back into place.
Juliana was never prim. Or so tense and emotionally distant. Wondering what could be ailing her, he skimmed his knuckles along her chin. "What's wrong, Juliana?"
Her jaw set. "Nothing."
"You're working too hard. You're exhausted."
She reached into one of the baskets and handed him a lemon slice. "Eat this, please."
"I'm not hungry."
"Eat it," she demanded in a most
