A Distant Shore
it.”
    Caroline stared at him in surprise. “But I thought it rendered you unconscious!”
    “When the proper dose is administered,” Ian explained. “But if you inhale just a little, it makes you feel… well, inebriated, I suppose. Or similar.”
    “And you think Mr. Wells is using the stuff for this purpose?”
    “I could not say for certain, but he was certainly not the man I first met all those years ago, the last time I saw him,” Ian answered heavily. “Besides his hands trembling, he seemed almost… wild. As if he were not in control of his emotions, or even his faculties.”
    “And you think this is because of the ether?”
    “Because of the addiction. An addict will experience withdrawal symptoms if he does not have the stuff regularly, and that is what I fear was happening to Mr. Wells when I visited.”
    Caroline shook her head slowly. “How dreadful.”
    “Indeed. I should not have mentioned it.”
    “And yet I am glad you did! I want you to share your concerns with me, Ian.” Caroline’s face softened for a moment before determination hardened her features. “But Ian, if Mr. Wells is addicted to this substance as you suspect, he surely cannot be trusted to perform the operation.”
    “Yet it is the culmination of his life’s work.” Even though he had to agree with his wife, Ian could not imagine Wells stepping aside for any reason.
    “And yours as well,” Caroline reminded him. “If Mr. Wells cannot perform the surgery, Ian, the solution is obvious.” She smiled at him, her eyes shining. “You must do it.”

Chapter Seven

    Prince Edward Island, 1838
    High summer was always one of the busiest times in a farmer’s life, and this summer was no exception for the MacDougalls. Harriet found she missed Maggie’s help with the household chores and the management of the kitchen garden, but even more so she longed for her daughter’s sunny presence and cheerful chatter. Her fourteen-year-old son George worked in the fields with Allan, and quiet, serious ten-year-old Anna helped Harriet, but she knew her youngest child missed Maggie as well. They had never been apart before.
    One afternoon a fortnight after Maggie had left on the ship Harriet stood out on the front porch, one hand raised to shield her eyes from the glare of the noonday sun. She could see Allan in the potato field, bent over the tender new plants as he and George weeded. There was so much work to be done, Harriet thought with a sigh, with the weeding and watering, the care of the animals, the ceaseless toil for both the land and the living. Allan was only forty-six years old but from a distance she saw how tired he looked stooped over in the field, how old , and the realization gave her a little pang of sorrow—and worry. How quickly the years slipped away, and yet surely God would grant them many more together.
    “Mam?” Anna stood in the kitchen doorway. “The raspberry jam is ready to be set.”
    “Good lass.” Harriet turned away from the sight of the fields, and her husband still stooped over. She pushed aside the worry and sorrow as she smiled at her daughter. There was work to be done.
    Yet that evening, after the children had gone to bed and she and Allan sat in their usual chairs with the night falling softly all around, Harriet felt the worry pick at her again. Allan’s dark hair was liberally streaked with gray, and a life out of doors had given him deep creases by his eyes and from his nose to his mouth. He squinted in the light of the oil lamp as he bent his head to the bridle he was mending, and Harriet felt that twist of anxiety inside. She must have made some sound, for Allan glanced up, the creases by his eyes deepening as he smiled at her.
    “Now what was that sigh for, mo leannan ?”
    “I didn’t mean to,” Harriet admitted. “It’s only there is so much work to be done.”
    Allan lifted one powerful shoulder in a shrug. “No more than there ever is this time of year.”
    “I’m not the lass

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