eleven

Words sink into the parts of our hearts that no physical weapon can go. And it’s those standing nearest to us who can thrust their swords the deepest.

~A scientist’s observations on love

I caught Essie in the parlor Saturday morning, cloak and bag in hand, as she attempted to steal out a side door. She spun when I touched her shoulder and her face was mottled, eyes red. “Essie, what’s happened? Is it your family?”

She shook her head, erratic curls bobbing. “I’m not cut out to be in service, miss. I make mistakes. I am a mistake.”

Stricken, I grabbed her arm. “What nonsense, Essie. Tell me what’s happened.”

“I’ve gone and broken something again.”

“Nothing that can’t be—”

“Her red teacup.”

“Oh.” I pulled back and looked over the doomed girl’s face. “You’ve not told her yet?”

“Why should I? She’s going to sack me. She tells me so all the time. Might as well start the leaving before she makes me.”

“Do you have somewhere to go?”

“I’ve a friend in Cheapside who says he can find me work.” By the dip and hard angle of her face, it was obvious what sort of work she meant. “It’s decent pay for a sacked maid with no references, and he says there are men who favor red hair.”

I tightened my grip on her arms. “Oh Essie, you cannot do that.”

“Well, I can’t do much else now, can I?” She stiffened, chin jutting. “Alls I’ve ever done is this, since I was ten, and if I can’t do it anymore . . . Well, any job is better than the workhouse, ain’t it? At least I’ll have a chance.”

“You can do this work. Surely you see that. There’s more to service than a lack of mistakes. You’re amiable and prudent, with a fine heart—exactly what a maid should be. Hasn’t anyone ever told you these things?”

She sniffed, eyes downcast. “Someone did tell me once that I had a great deal of strength and kindness. I rather liked hearing that, and I suppose kindness is a fitting virtue for a maid.”

“There, you see? Won’t you stay and give it a try? I’ll even talk to Mrs. Gresham for you. You’re a wonderful housemaid who sometimes makes honest mistakes. There’s no need to throw away all that good. Especially when someone else sees you that way too.”

She fidgeted. “He told me if I could see myself as he does, I’d be brave and unstoppable, and . . . well, I only wish I could be.”

“Brave and . . .” Dread crawled through my veins. I knew those words. “Who is it, Essie? Who’s said all this to you?”

She pursed her lips. “I don’t rightly know, miss. It was in a letter, and he wasn’t brave enough to sign it. He passed it to me in the linens one day.”

I looked at that freckled face, the lines under her eyes, and the wayward hair—and I pictured her clinging to that letter while she hung over the washbasin.

“It’s only because things like this aren’t allowed to happen at Crestwicke, miss. You needn’t worry over his character. He’s only taking care that we’re not caught.”

“Might I see this letter?”

“I gave it to Miss Clara. She promised to help me figure out who sent it.”

“Who’s Clara?”

“Why, it’s Mr. Burke’s wife, miss. Haven’t you met her? Such a sweet little thing.”

I held back an inner groan. Of course it was her. The ghost-girl who was not a girl or a ghost, the one who hated me. I swallowed back the rising panic and took Essie’s hands. “Promise me you’ll stay, and there’ll be no more talk of the friend in Cheapside. You belong here, pouring your heart into service as you’ve always done, with or without mistakes. Let me worry about the teacup.” I hadn’t any idea what to do, but I couldn’t ever resist fixing a situation, whatever it took. It was the doctor in me.

She studied me, then gave a nod. “All right, then. I do so want to find out who’s written those lovely things.” She smiled. “I want to tell him what he’s done for me. I’m quite low sometimes, but I cannot help feeling he knows something I don’t. That makes me hope, and hoping makes me a fresh, shiny new woman.”

I forced a smile and squeezed her arms again.

She heaved a sigh. “I suppose I should start with the linens in Miss Clara’s room, and perhaps steal that letter back for a moment. I’ll show it to you.”

She disappeared then, leaving me alone in the chilled parlor where Essie was to have stoked the dying embers. I rubbed my hands together and moved to stoke the hearth as best I could, but stopped, struck by the pale face of Clara Gresham watching me from the opposite double doors. When our eyes met, she floated toward me with her usual ghost-like movement and held out a letter. “It isn’t the one you’re looking for, but this has come for you. It was delivered to my room by mistake with some other correspondence.”

I recognized Father’s bold scrawl across the envelope and tucked it into my apron pocket. “Thank you.”

“That was kind, what you said to her. Very kind.”

I released tension I hadn’t even known was there. “She deserves every kindness. Essie is a good sort.”

She studied me, as if assessing my motive. “That letter of Essie’s—you know something about it, don’t you?”

“I can’t be certain unless I see it again. Would you mind—”

“Impossible.” Her lids lowered, and she glanced to the side. “I’ve misplaced it. Or someone’s taken it, I cannot tell. Don’t tell Essie until I find it—she’ll be terribly crushed.”

My tense heart twisted further. “Of course.”

I helped my patient open up her day, bringing her correspondence and listening to the lively planning of her performance. My brain galloped with worry, here and there, but I came to no brilliant solutions on anything.

Finally when the early afternoon sun drove Golda to her damask lounge chair and her eyes fluttered closed, I moved to the window and looked down over the yard to the stables and saw man and horse in their delicate dance. Gabe stood tall and still in the corral before a sleek and glorious creature of deep walnut color, palm up and waiting. It was amazing, really, watching him approach the great beast with both gentleness and supreme control, even while the skittish animal leaped away to circle the corral over and over.

The horse took a few quick sniffs of the upturned palm, then Gabe moved closer and smoothed his hand down the length of its neck to the shoulders. It was like an invitation, warm and gentle, that drew the horse in spite of his fear. The horse flinched and jerked away, its massive muscles quivering, and Gabe approached again, palm turned up. I nearly felt the gentle, calming caress this time as his hand moved along the great beast’s neck and down to his shoulders and back, his quivering muscles easing at the touch. Perhaps that’s why we got on so well—I was just as skittish and he had the same impact on me.

Turning back to glance at my patient, I wondered at the way even Golda seemed drawn to him, comforted by his mere presence when she tolerated no one else. Watching her sleep, I sighed and pulled out Father’s letter, breaking the seal and slipping out the contents. It was a letter as well as three notices of local betrothals from a newspaper, a recipe my stepmother had clipped, and a notice of a poetry night with Longfellow in Brighton. I pondered this last one—perhaps I should tell my patient her favorite poet was in England. I unfolded Father’s letter, skimming through. The paragraphs about his new clinic made me homesick.

I’ve begun speaking with investors about building. I have a few on board, but most see it as little more than another small-scale hospital. I only hope my work outlives me, so people realize from it exactly what is lacking in London hospitals.

A few more paragraphs, then he wandered awkwardly into advice on love.

You will find joy in marriage, Willa, even if it isn’t what you hoped for. Belonging to a person, and having someone who belongs to you, has a surprising sweetness and comfort in maturing years. I pray you’ll find such comfort, daughter. No medical career has arms to hold you in the dark nights.

If you should happen to return unsuccessful, do not deal too harshly with yourself. Your old father—and Dr. Tillman—will welcome you back with ready arms, prepared to make a soft landing for you here.

What he’d meant as a comfort lingered like a threat, driving me to succeed—both with my position and with the love letter that had brought me here. I glanced again to the window, and Gabe stood now with his face beside the great creature’s, a cautious mutual trust forming between them. Not many could convince a wild stallion to allow them close, but it took the right man, a gentle touch, and a great deal of patience. This, Father. This is how a man should woo a woman. Gentle, patient, humble. Suddenly it occurred to me why I’d naturally tied that letter to Gabe—their approach was the same. How rare, how valuable, was that writer and the love offered to some unknown person.

“A love letter?” Golda’s voice made me jump.

Stomach clenched, I shoved the missive in my pocket. “News from home. From Father.”

When the dressmaker came for a fitting of the performance gown, Golda shooed me out and I went in search of Aunt Maisie. It was time to find that letter while I still had my position here, and deliver it. If anyone had taken the missing letter from Clara’s room, it would be her. Rightfully, it might be hers anyway.

I found her before a cold hearth in a little sitting room near the front of the house, a handkerchief draped over her upturned face as she slept. With a knock she stirred, the handkerchief floating to her lap. She glanced about, then settled her gaze on me with a smile. “You’ve come to hear more.”

“No, actually—”

“No matter. You’ve come.”

I moved a chair closer to her and helped her sit up. “Aunt Maisie, I must confess something. I’ve misplaced Grayson Aberdeen’s letter, and now it’s leaked into the household.”

She blinked. “Leaked?”

“You haven’t . . . taken it back, have you?”

“I only wish I had. Tell me, who’s found it, and what has happened?”

With a sigh, I clutched my knees and summarized the letter, Essie believing it was hers, and what had become of it. “I was hoping you’d found it among Clara’s things and—”

“What do you take me for, a common snoop?” She bounced in her seat on that last word.

“Of course not. I just thought perhaps you saw it and picked it up. I’ve no idea where it is now, or how to get it back.”

“I believe I know. Clara was the last to have it, you say?” She sighed. “It’ll be Burke who found it. Burke, who was slinking around the foyer, asking the poor butler to keep account of his wife’s comings and goings, and especially to notify him if she received any letters. Now what on earth would make a man say such a thing?”

I wilted against the chair, hand to my forehead. “A love letter among his wife’s things. Oh, Aunt Maisie, what shall we do? We must get it back, but how do we untangle the damage it’s already done? Burke thinks his wife . . . and Essie. I couldn’t bear to tell her the letter isn’t hers. Not after . . .” I told her in hurried sentences about the broken teacup and Essie’s dilemma, despairing over the scaffolding being built throughout this house and the mess it would soon leave behind when it fell.

Her prim little smile gave me hope. “Don’t trouble yourself over that silly red cup. She’ll have it come teatime.”

“But that’s a mere half hour from now. Where on earth will we find another?”

She straightened. “Why, in my little alcove of course, in a box under my bed where I keep the rest of the set. There were a dozen, you know.”

“Why, Aunt Maisie, you’re brilliant!”

“You think that poor little parlor maid is the first one to break the sainted red cup? I’ve eight left.” She winked.

I laughed out loud, squeezing her hands and beaming my warm thoughts in a smile. “You were the perfect one to come to with this trouble.” I helped her stand, balancing her with a gentle hand. “Now, if only you could help me solve the riddle of this performance too. She’s being fitted for her costume now.”

She grunted as she shuffled forward. “That would be your mess, Miss Duvall. I’ll be no help in convincing them of anything. Precious few care what an old woman thinks.”

The informal planning meeting happened accidentally the following Monday evening, after Golda had sent me off with a few assignments in preparation while she had a soak in her white porcelain tub. I’d gone to find Celeste, but it was Gabe who found me, and I rushed toward him. “Oh Gabe, I need your help terribly.”

“Of course. But first, there’s someone I want you to meet.” He pulled me into the music room.

He pointed toward a cameo-like woman draped in blue silk with luscious blonde curls twisted over her shoulder, and the truth jolted me. This must be her, the fabled match. In a breath, she was before me, looking me over with flashing eyes as Gabe made the introductions. “Caroline wished to meet you.”

“So this is Willa Duvall.” Caroline Tremaine offered a smile, her eyebrows arched. “I have to admit, she isn’t what I pictured.” The woman spoke with such calm, as one who had nothing to prove.

I curtsied, highly aware of my plain uniform beside her robins-egg blue gown edged with fine lace. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Tremaine. I’ve heard only good about you.”

Her laugh was quick and sure, highlighting a well-placed beauty mark on her cheek. Even her flaws made her pretty. “What a dear little thing she is. I cannot believe we’ve never met in all your other visits to Crestwicke.”

“Thankfully we’ve remedied that. I’ve looked forward to making your acquaintance.”

“And I you.” She smiled. “I’m certain you know all the stories about our dear Gabe.”

The word our rankled in an odd manner.

Gabe frowned. “Not all.”

She merely raised those perfect eyebrows with a knowing smile.

I licked my lips and looked upon Gabe’s familiar face, wondering what untold stories lay buried there. What did I not know? A small, sharp sense of betrayal snaked through me, even though I tried to brush it aside. He owed me nothing.

Except now I was intensely curious.

“Oh Miss Tremaine!” Celeste sailed toward us and clutched the woman’s hands. “Parker told me you were here. Won’t you show me that piece on the piano again?”

“Of course.” She glanced once more at Gabe and hurried with Celeste to the instrument that stood at an angle in the sunny windows.

I turned to Gabe. “So that is Caroline Tremaine, the perfect match.”

“It is.”

“I’ve no idea why you say she wouldn’t have you. Speaking strictly on a scientific level, the slight angle of her body in your direction suggests she feels some measure of attraction to you. I saw her touch your arm, signifying familiarity.”

“Hmm.”

“Would she at least be accepting of your work with stallions?”

“Her father breeds racehorses for the elite of London society.”

“Oh.” I licked my lips. “I suppose she’d tolerate it, then.”

“She’s the best rider I’ve ever seen. Fluid and agile atop the wildest creature. She has an uncanny ability with them.”

Just like Gabe. “And your combined businesses . . .”

“The result would be incredible. We’ve considered a merge at some point.”

As had Golda, I was sure. No wonder she didn’t want her stallion-breaking anomaly wasted on a mere nurse from Brighton.

“Now, what about that help you needed?”

“Well, it seems your mother wishes to hold a performance. And that’s simply—” I exhaled. How did I put into words the truth of the situation?

“Truly, a performance?” His eyes lit, then he smiled, seeing my unveiled distress. “Not to worry. You’ll not be left to plan it alone.” He leaned forward, giving my arm a squeeze. “I knew I could count on you.” His face brimmed with delight and something else—relief?

I stepped back, speechless. Horrified. What did one say to that? Temper your excitement. Your mother actually sings like a strangled bird halfway down a cat’s throat. I opened my mouth, hoping it would fill with brilliant words, but instead the door opened and Burke strode in.

His steps slowed as he saw us standing close and one eyebrow cocked up. “Well, now. I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Not at all.” Gabe looked bright and alive. I was dying inside. “We were just beginning to discuss plans for Mother’s performance.”

Burke’s eyes snapped with open amusement, his lips twitching into a wry smile as he strode into the room. “Really?” He stretched the syllables out far longer than necessary. “A performance, is it? You must have had a profound impact on her, Miss Duvall, and you are to be congratulated.”

“Oh no, I—”

“Come, don’t be modest. We must honor you at this little soiree, perhaps announce you as the genius behind her singing. We’ll bring you up front for applause and let everyone see you.”

The piano music stopped, and all of them were listening. If only I could shrink into myself. “Truly, that isn’t necessary.” All I wanted was to understand what God wanted of me in all this, and a list of instructions clear as an apothecary’s mixing.

“No, it’s brilliant.” Gabe tipped his head with such a dear smile of encouragement. “You deserve every bit of praise. You always manage to fix what’s broken.”

Except I hadn’t. Her voice was still quite broken.

“You could make it a dinner, a formal affair.” Caroline approached from the piano. “How many do you imagine would fit in the parlor, if the chairs were arranged in rows?”

I blinked. Dinner? Rows?

Burke grinned at me. “Why not rent a hall? No need to leave anyone out.”

Oh no. Oh heavens, no. I had to stop this mess. It was like a runaway carriage without a horse. Or a brake.

“Maybe a harvest soiree in the fall.” Gabe turned to me with a face so wretchedly hopeful. “Do you think she’d be willing?”

I looked to the others hanging about the fringes, the staff scurrying back and forth with dinner trays. I could see the truth just beyond the surface of all their faces, the abundant awareness of what this performance would be, yet no one said anything against it. “Perhaps we should wait and see what—”

Burke crossed his arms. “Didn’t you say she requested it? Best ask her soon, while she’s still of a mind to do it.”

Gabe’s face melted further into gladness. “I shall ask her the first moment I see her.”

The truth echoed in my throbbing head. This was terrible. Wretched. The reactions of her friends would devastate her. Everything would crash down if no one put a stop to it now.

“Oh yes, do.” Caroline stepped beside him.

“She’s ready for company, miss.” A maid approached with the demure comment, and Caroline seized on it.

“Let’s convince her right now.” She took Gabe’s arm and led him to the door.

The others turned to follow and one word burst from my lips: “No!” They paused and all eyes were on me in an instant. The moment of truth had come. Isn’t that what I’d promised at the outset—honesty? It was time to administer a large dose of it. “Please. We must all acknowledge the truth of this matter.” All I could see was her pale face, that delicate poise, receiving the laughing reactions of her friends, who’d think it all a farce. A grand joke.

“Won’t you tell us what that is, Miss Duvall?” Burke stepped forward, eyes narrowing in his distinguished face.

They all quieted, faces turned toward me as if awaiting a prognosis. Good heavens, I was the child announcing the emperor’s nakedness.

“The truth is, the state of her larynx is such that . . . her vocal cords and her lungs have not been properly strengthened to produce auditory tones pleasing to the ear, and the entire vocal system . . . well, it is not congruent with tonal quality . . .”

“What are you trying to say, nurse?” Burke placed a hint of irony on that last word.

“The truth is, well . . . her voice. She cannot sing.”

After a moment of silence, Caroline Tremaine shrugged. “Why not let her have her little amusements? Let us host her performance and clap loudly enough that she’ll feel the whole room is applauding.”

Burke crossed his arms. “You’re suggesting we pretend her singing is as glorious as she wishes it was?” Gone was the wicked amusement that had colored his features. “Clap loud enough to drown out the stunned silence of the rest of the audience? Invent compliments to feed her inflated pride?”

“You needn’t pretend.” Clara’s soft voice came low and smooth as she stepped from the shadows. “When you truly love someone, you find what’s good about them and say it. It’s all a matter of where you focus.”

Tension thickened the air.

Caroline waved them all off. “Come now, a few harmless white lies, some sweet pleasantries—”

“Lie to save her precious feelings?” Burke tensed. “Don’t we do enough of that around here?”

I gripped the back of a chair. The woman was intelligent enough to glean the truth. “Please, let us figure out how—”

“I won’t do it.” Celeste shot from her chair, silencing them all. Her shoulders trembled, the coldness in her stark face chilling. Had the atmosphere of this place finally soaked into her as well? “You’ll never make me lavish praise on that vain peacock of a woman, not even for a moment. She’s controlling. Arrogant. Self-important. Utterly domineering. Mean-spirited and brutish. Worse than any man and only half as intelligent.”

“You don’t mean it, Celeste.” Gabe’s quiet voice failed, for once, to turn the situation. Servants paused to listen discreetly.

“I do mean it. Look what that woman’s done to the household.” Celeste shook, face pale and eyes wide, as she stood before her family, spitting out feelings as if they’d been pressurized for years. “She’s stuffed Burke into a society marriage, made his wife feel like a leech. She has poor Essie so afraid she’s tripping over herself, and she’s chased Father from his own home. Can’t you all feel the poison she oozes into this house? It’s killing us all, and if she isn’t happy here, then so be it. Let her leave. But I will not fluff her feathers this way after all she’s done to Crestwicke. Do you like her? Or you?” She pointed to Clara, then to Essie. “Does anyone here like Golda Gresham at all?”

The silence seemed to echo off the papered walls, strong enough to curl it at the ends. Gazes lowered.

Burke’s voice broke the silence. “Well now, Miss Duvall, you’ve done what you promised and brought out the truth. Congratulations.”

A distant tinkling crash somewhere above jarred the tension. The truth struck me hard and fast. Golda was above us. The fireplace. She could hear. She’d heard everything.

I bolted up the stairs, chest burning as I burst through the double doors of her suite. No, no, no, no. Please, Father.

She lay wilted on the rug like a fallen dove, a broken teacup on the hearth. Two gold slippers protruded from the hem of her massive skirt, and she looked white as death.

Apoplexy?

I dropped to my knees, felt for a pulse. Weak. Please wake up, please wake up. If those words spoken below were the last ones she heard on this earth . . .

The old nightmare swept over me in cool, bold strokes as I dug through my bag. Our quiet cottage, the clock thunking out the seconds, Mother’s blood oozing onto my hand where she’d struck her head. She’d fallen down the stairs, onto that vase. That truly ugly, awful vase. I clutched her there on the kitchen floor, but she wilted, slowly escaping breath by breath, leaving me behind.

No, Mama. I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t know.

Golda’s slender body now lay wilted in my arms, heavy and helpless. This . . . this is exactly why I’d become a doctor, so it would never happen again. So I’d always know what to do when heaven began beckoning to a soul too early. I leaned over the mother of my best friend with a bottle of smelling salts and prayed he wasn’t about to experience the same wrenching pain I still couldn’t forget.