"Right, now blink for me, please," Dr. Chandler said.
Scout blinked obediently.
"Now follow my finger with your eyes only, don't move your head," he continued.
Scout watched his gnarled finger without turning her head.
It was the following morning. The sun shone brightly into George's room as she sat up in his bed. The dogs were watching Dr. Chandler's finger, too, which Scout found amusing.
Dr. Chandler sat back. "Well, everything seems fine, I think," he said in that reassuring way doctors the world over seemed to have. He was a doctor straight out of English central casting, right down to the baggy argyle cardigan, stethoscope and ancient black bag he carried. "Though you really ought to have called me yesterday," he admonished George.
George nodded guiltily. "I know, I know," he admitted. "You're sure she's fine, though, doctor?"
Dr. Chandler patted Scout's knee. "She's had a bit of a fright, that's all, brought on by sleep deprivation and a nightmare from travel and sleeping in a strange bed." He rose. "Some good food, a nice, bracing walk in the sea air and a few good nights' rest and she'll right as rain, I'd stake my life on it." He smiled at George and Scout, eyes twinkling.
"What do I owe you, Doctor?" Scout called as he got to the door.
He waved her words away. "Already been taken care of," he said. "Now you take care of yourself, young lady. Pretty young thing like you, wouldn't do if you got hurt and had to leave us first thing, now, would it?"
George followed him out and walked him to the front door.
"And how's your shoulder?" Dr. Chandler asked.
"Oh, a little bruised, but I'll recover, no worries," George replied with a grin, rolling the shoulder in question.
"Do I need to take a quick look?" the doctor asked.
George shook his head.
"Thanks again for coming so quickly," he said, shaking the doctor's hand.
"Please, don't mention it," the doctor said sincerely, putting his other hand on top of their clasped ones. "Now listen, George. I didn't want to say anything in front of her, frighten her unnecessarily, you understand, but you really should keep an eye on her for the next few days, hm? Especially at night? Seems a bit high strung, that one. Wouldn't want her to get hurt, running around this huge place in the dark alone." He gave George a look.
George looked back and nodded.
"Good man," Dr. Chandler said, clapping him on the back as he left.
George turned, made a pit stop in the kitchen for tea and ran back up the stairs, taking them two at a time, quite a feat with the hot tea in his hands.
Scout smiled when she saw the mug.
"You English and your tea," she said, shaking her head. "Some stereotypes are rooted in complete truth, I guess."
"Shh, drink your tea," he admonished, handing her the mug.
She accepted it and sipped, drawing her knees up. She poked at her hair a little, and pulled the comforter up so it covered a little more of her, and George realized that she was uncomfortable. She'd probably never been in a "morning after" situation with a man before, he realized.
How cute.
"So, um, listen, George?" she began hesitantly.
He looked at her attentively.
"About whatever you just paid for the doctor?" She saw him begin to shake his head and she rushed to finish speaking. "And the door from last night? I'll pay, okay?"
"Scout, no, don't be daft," he said impatiently.
"How am I being 'daft'?" she asked, setting her tea aside. "All appearances to the contrary, I'm an adult, I can take care of myself." Two spots of color appeared on her cheeks. "The broken door is my fault, I must've locked it, like you said, it couldn't have gotten locked any other way. And the doctor had to be called because I gave myself hysterics." She looked at George, quietly indignant. "You're not responsible for me."
He took her in, sitting up in his bed, pale yellow pajamas with a Peter Pan lace collar, small band aid on her forehead, looking all of fourteen, and sighed, walking over to sit next to her.
"Well, in the immortal words of Ross Geller, 'I respectfully disagree'," he replied with a small smile.
Scout immediately smiled back.
"I never pegged you for a Friends fan," she said, pleased.
He shrugged. "I'm just full of surprises, I guess.
"My point," he continued, "is that, while you're here, you're in my employee, and living under my roof. You're in a foreign country where you don't know a soul, in an isolated, out of the way place where even mobile service is spotty at best."
Scout smiled again at his pronunciation of "spotty".
"Whatever happened last night, you were badly frightened," he said. "And who knows, it could all have begun when the curtain thingummy fell on your head in the library yesterday afternoon." And he reached out and gently touched the band aid on her forehead. "That was definitely my fault, or my employees' fault, rather.
"So whatever you experienced in your bed, whether it was a nightmare, or hallucination, or my house has whacking great rats or whatever, the fact of the matter is that you couldn't get out of your room and felt like you were in danger, and that was my fault as well, and I had to remedy that, which I did." He shrugged.
"There you have it. None of this was willfully caused by you, and no more nonsense about it." He rose. Apparently the subject was closed. Scout blinked in surprise.
George saw the look on her face and sat back down.
"Look, I'm sorry. I've lived pretty much alone for the last two years. I've become a bit of a boor, I suppose." He shrugged again. "My point is that it's not your fault, none of it. Besides, I've got buckets of money, and you obviously don't, it's ridiculous for you to pay."
Scout looked him in the eye, and he noticed the spots of color hadn't faded from her cheeks. "How do you know how much money I do or don't have?" she asked quietly. "Not that it's any of your business, but just so there's no misunderstanding in the future, maybe we should get a few things clear, okay?
"My great-grandfather was Gerald Franklin Lawson, part owner of the Lawson steel mills that were all over the northeast. He diversified into land right before the steel industry went belly-up, thankfully for us, and was, like, a bazillionaire at the turn of the twentieth century. My whole family's been really, really honest and really, really lucky, and our money's grown and grown, so none of us will ever have to work, like ever, if we don't want to." The color on her cheeks was scarlet by now, and Scout looked magnificent. "We have buildings on four Ivy League campuses named after our family, and I can count fifteen US senators and three presidents in my direct lineage. So no, I'm not really hurting for money, okay?" She picked up her mug and took a drink, just for something to do. "I don't like to dress rich, or live rich, or ride in limos or whatever, because I think most of it is kind of gross, frankly." She blinked at George. "But I can pay to replace a door that I broke, and I can certainly pay my own doctor's bills," she concluded.
George sat on the bed a measured distance away from her, feeling an absolute fool. He took a deep breath and looked around the room before making eye contact with the furious young woman sitting on the bed.
Wow.
"I'm so sorry," he began.
Scout was immediately contrite.
"No, fuck, I'm sorry," she said. "You were just trying to be kind. I've never corked off like that at anyone, ever." She put her face in her palm. "I'm so embarrassed."
"I judged you," George continued. "I made assumptions about you based on--on things, superficial things, and I shouldn't have, and I'm so, so sorry." He nodded at her. "Please accept my apology?"
"Jesus," Scout said in agony. "Of course I accept your apology! How did this conversation even happen? Please accept mine?" She laughed an embarrassed laugh, and George joined her.
"Yes, I accept, fuck yes," he said, nodding vigorously.
"But I'm still not letting you pay for anything," he added quickly, lifting his eyebrow at her.
Scout was taking another drink of her tea, and she snarfed it all over George and Bandit, who looked comically surprised.
"Thanks for that," George gasped.
"Oh my god," Scout could barely breathe from laughing. "I'm so--so--sorry!"
"Yeah, I'm sure you are," George agreed amiably, rising to change his shirt.
Scout watched as he pulled his shirt off, admiring his nice, muscled back. Will had been scrawny, narrow shoulders, pale and fleshy. She'd thought him beautiful at the time. She quickly looked away before George turned around.
"George?"
"Yeah?" He came back to sit on the bed.
"How did you know to come to my room last night?" Scout gazed at him. "Was I screaming or something? Because I thought I was being really quiet?"
He pointed to Bandit and Jess, who seemed to believe the no bed rule had been permanently rescinded, and had just sprawled out, making themselves at home.
"They were going crazy in here. They wouldn't settle down, kept going to the door, even though they'd both been outside and everything. I ignored them for a bit, but they kept bothering me, and one of them finally just pulled my duvet clean off me, yanked it right to the floor." Scout could hear the shock in George's voice. "So I got out of bed, grousing, you know, and opened the door to the corridor, and they nearly knocked me down running past me, and tore off down the corridor, straight for your room. I followed, and they were losing their minds, jumping at your door, scratching at it, trying to get in, so I tried to open it, but the knob wouldn't turn, so I listened, but I didn't hear anything." He looked at the dogs and shrugged. "But I trust them, you know? They've never been wrong about anything, so I started pounding."
He and Scout looked at each other. George found her pale blue eyes mesmerizing.
"Well, however you got there, thank you, George," Scout said quietly. "Thank you for coming." She reached out and clasped his hand over the comforter.