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Her eyebrows rose. “My sister’s well-being is very much my concern, Doctor.”

Graham met her gaze steadily. “Then we share that interest, at least.”

“Do we?” She handed him a jar of salve to place on a high shelf.

Graham set the jar on the shelf with deliberate care, taking a moment to control his rising irritation. “Your Grace, while I appreciate your concern for your sister, I suggest you direct your questions to me plainly or not at all.”

Marjory studied him before nodding once. “Very well, Doctor. What are your intentions toward my sister?”

“Honorable,” he stated simply.

“How reassuringly vague.”

Graham let out a short, humorless laugh. “Would you prefer I detail them in this closet, without having spoken to Lady Abigail first? That would hardly be honorable.”

A cry from the main room saved him from further interrogation.

“Duty calls,” Marjory said with a faint smirk, gathering her skirts and disappearing before he could respond.

Graham followed, glad for the reprieve.

Supper brought renewed chaos. Bowls of broth for the sick and a chunky stew for the healthy were doled out, water changed, cheeks cooled, foreheads checked again and again. Abigail moved among them like a ghost in motion—silent, watchful, tireless. Graham tended to the worst of the fevers and helped re-wrap the poultices. Marjory drifted in and out, managing deliveries, lists, and a sharp word for any volunteer who dawdled. The sun dipped low, shadows stretching long across the worn floorboards. One by one, the children began to sleep.

At last, the building settled into a fragile stillness—just the creak of old timbers, a cough behind a curtain, the soft hush of breath.

Graham brewed a cup of tea—strong, with a generous helping of honey for her throat—and set out to find Abigail. She had been moving on instinct for hours, the kind of stubborn momentum he recognized all too well.

He found her in the laundry alcove, trying to lift a full basket of wet sheets while balancing on her good foot.

“For God’s sake,” he muttered, crossing to her in three quick strides and discarding the tea as he went. He took the basket from her hands, ignoring her protests. “Where does this need to go?”

“The courtyard,” she replied, her voice strained. “They’re ready for airing, and we’re running short of clean ones.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“I can help,” she insisted. “The children are settled for now, and Mrs. Welling is seeing to their supper.”

Graham knew better than to argue. “Then you can direct me,” he conceded, carrying the basket toward the back door.

The small courtyard was little more than a patch of flagstones enclosed by high brick walls. Twilight pressed in, gathering shadows in the corners. A washing line stretched from corner to corner, and a wooden rack stood ready for smaller items.

As Graham hung wet sheets with methodical efficiency, Abigail worked alongside him, passing clothespins and adjusting corners.

Graham shook out a sheet, watching as she fumbled with the clothespins. Her hands were trembling slightly, though whether from exhaustion or pain, he couldn’t tell. Likely both.

“You should be resting,” he said, holding the sheet high so she could pin one corner.

“So you’ve mentioned.” She stretched to reach the line. “Repeatedly.”

“Yet you persist in ignoring sound medical advice.” He moved closer.

“I ignore unsolicited advice on principle.” Despite her words, she sounded more tired than defiant.

They worked in silence for a few minutes, the routine taking on an unexpected intimacy. The sheet billowed between them like a sail, then settled as they pinned it in place. Her fingers brushed his as they reached for the same corner, and she didn’t pull away immediately.

The simple touch sent warmth coursing through him. When had such casual contact become so rare in his life? He’d touched countless patients, of course, but always clinically, professionally. This was different—unguarded, human.

“Your sister is very protective of you,” he observed to fill the silence.