thirteen

When it comes to marriage and all human relationships, the last place we ever search for problems—or hope to find them—is within us.

~A scientist’s observations on love

“Dress? Whatever for?” Golda watched me imperiously from her chair at the window on Thursday as I threw open the curtains in her dreary sitting room, releasing glorious streams of sunshine into the room. It had been overcast for the three days since the incident, so I’d allowed her to remain indoors and wallow in her hurt, but now the sun was out. It’s time she was too.

She shielded her eyes as if struck. “What is the meaning of this?”

“It’s a glorious day, and I’ll not let you miss it.” I wheeled my own blend of tea to the table, inhaling the magnificent swirl of mint and citrus. She’d recovered well from her fall, and her heart rhythm seemed stable—surprisingly so.

“We did actually speak the other night about what I think we did, correct? You do realize I have a—”

“Dire need for adventure? Without a doubt.” I’d poured over graphs of heart function, cardiology studies, clinical data of autopsied hearts that had been thickened by a similar disease. The heart, it seemed, was the source of many ailments and problems all over the body. Too often, only the symptoms were treated while the undetected illness created further damage.

I’d found no evidence of a cure, and after all my research and scientific analysis, it was Gabe’s solution that rang truest—filled hearts keep beating. The one time she seemed truly happy was when she spoke of her horses, so when she’d dressed, her hair smoothed back into fine netting, I led her down to the stables and handed her a riding hat.

She blinked at the groom holding a horse by the bridle, ready to help her mount. “What is this?”

“A ride. You do know how, I assume.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You are relentless. Is this why you forced me out of my room?”

I held the bridle while the groom went to fetch a second horse. “Are you coming?”

“I should say not. I’m not even wearing a riding habit.”

“I’ve heard you can ride, but I’ve yet to see it.” I lowered my voice. “Most of your grooms say the same.”

With a grimace and a glance toward the lone groom about, she dug her foot into the stirrup and pulled up in one smooth, expert move. “There, now. Satisfied, Miss Duvall?”

I grinned, raising my eyebrows. “Are you?”

She looked at home on the back of that regal animal, her posture sensitive to the horse’s movements. I’d never known a lady to mount a horse without help, and my estimation of her rose. The groom returned with a second horse and handed me up.

Golda watched me, eyes snapping. “Now, let’s see how well you ride, Miss Duvall.” Then, before I could ease her into a gentle plod over the fields, she clucked to her horse and they were off at a decent canter, sending up a swirl of white cottonwood fluff behind them. With a grumble, I urged my mount on, galloping toward the cliff’s edge. The woman’s laugh echoed over the open field as the wind swept over it, loosening our hair and billowing our skirts.

I caught up to her near the coast as she reined in to an easy trot, face lifted to the breeze, hand clasping her hat to her head. “You mustn’t go racing off that way. This was meant to be a slow, easy ride. Remember what you have.”

“A dire need for adventure, if I remember correctly.” She gave me a sardonic look. “What good is having breath left in my body if I don’t use it?” Her lips looked a bit pale, but her eyes were bright and shining.

I bit my lip to keep from smiling. “You’re an expert horsewoman, Mrs. Gresham.”

“You don’t live for years on a stallion estate without knowing how to ride.” She shook out her silvery locks and fixed her hat back onto her loosened hair.

I looked at my patient, studying her face for signs of fatigue, for a relapse, but I saw only life and full-bodied passion there. Her eyes shone.

“And don’t you feel better now?”

We rounded a hill that blocked the wind, and the world quieted around us, the distant waves sounding like the inside of a shell. She studied me with that unyielding gaze. “I do.” Our horses paced along the upward-winding path. “You know, I shouldn’t have minded if fate had seen fit to give me a daughter like you, Miss Duvall. You are, at least, interesting.”

“Thank you.” I staggered under the immensity of her compliment, like a small streak of gold in a mine that only gave an ounce for every hundred feet of rock. “The ones you do have are marvelous human beings, Mrs. Gresham. You should be proud.”

She frowned. “You say that as if you believe I despise them. Do you agree with them, then? Do you believe I’ve . . . ruined them, as they said?”

I hesitated. “You’re quite direct with them.”

“It’s a great passion of mine to see them succeed, to help their strengths rise above their weakness. What good am I to them if I do not push them forward and upward every moment they’re under my roof? They have such incredible talent, you know, each one of them.”

“Why not tell them so?”

“A body only fixes what’s broken, Miss Duvall.” She sat tall on her horse.

I breathed in the fresh sea air and sensed the weight of conviction upon my heart. “Pardon my forwardness, madam, but there’s much more to helping shape a person than lopping off their flaws.” I shoved aside thoughts of degrees and arranged marriages, of promises and futures, and continued up my brazen path. “Every word a mother speaks is like a knife—with power to shape or to wound. To guide or merely interfere and compel—”

“Why must you drag this out? I thought you intended to make me feel better, not worse.”

“Because things needn’t remain the way they are between you all. I can tell you want it to be different, that your heart yearns for it, and I cannot bear to see you lean on a nurse—a stranger—when you have an entire family under your roof. There’s hope for the Greshams to become a warm and strongly united family, a glorious Crestwicke legacy for you to leave that’s far more personal and weighty than mere poetry. But it’s up to you to make it so.”

She sat straight and silent, and the soft echo of my passionate words felt foolish. I’d let myself go again, spouting every thought that came into my silly head. I couldn’t even tell if she’d heard anything I said, until she spoke at last. “Would that I had someone who cared enough to interfere when I was their age—so much might have been different for me.”

I said no more.

We had reached the ruins, our horses pacing beside each other as we looked up in respectful silence. Her thoughts shifted almost visibly as she studied the crumbling stones, expression softening. “We almost married here, you know. Mr. Gresham insisted on a church wedding, though.”

“What a perfect place for it.” The air wet my face and I smiled, sinking into delight. “It’s like heaven up here. A taste of God. I’ve always felt that, even as a visitor.”

She looked me over and gave a satisfied nod, as if I’d accurately answered one of her many unspoken tests. “I began coming here to play when I was a girl, and all of Crestwicke was a derelict ruin like this tower. Trees growing through the windows, vines around the railings. Such a crime it seemed, to neglect a place like this.”

“You bought it in disrepair, then?”

“Not me, but Mr. Gresham. He knew I loved the place.” She looked into the trees beyond, into the pleasant glow of sun streaming toward us through the leaves. “He fell in love with me first, and I merely thought him ridiculous. I laughed, actually, when he first told me. We were but chums.”

“But you eventually came to love him too.”

She turned, blinking, and the heavy curtain swept back across her face, separating us once again. “Yes, of course.”

“It’s a beautiful story.”

She bestowed a faint smile, as if I’d eavesdropped on everything she’d just said. “Quite.” She reached down and smoothed a gloved hand down her horse’s neck, running fingers through its mane. “It’s time we turned back.”

“Yes, I’m sure it’s nearly time to dress for dinner.” I checked over my horse’s bridle. “Do you think you could eat?”

She gave a light smile. “Enough to feed a regiment.”

I grinned at this unladylike admission and shifted, settling into the saddle on stiff muscles. Hunger indicated life had been lived thoroughly, and that was just what we needed this day. “No race this time.”

She merely raised an eyebrow and turned her horse. I released my pent-up breath and urged my mount to trot alongside hers, hooves whipping the grass. Even at this slower pace she looked wild, but blazing with freedom and delight. What a change—such spirit, even in her illness. A remarkable woman I would never forget, no matter how many patients I had.

We crossed through the trees and approached the stables from the back as a tall figure marched up and grabbed hold of Golda’s reins, flashing a look of burning anger toward me.

“What is the meaning of this?” Burke growled the words. “What sort of nurse are you, Miss Duvall? Other than sacked.”

“I still do the sacking in this house, and I’ll thank you to remember it.” Golda spoke imperiously from atop her mount, where she’d begun to pale.

“You don’t rule the medical licensing board, though.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “One claim of medical negligence and your career will be over. You think it’s hard to gain acceptance in the field as a woman, it’s nothing compared to a woman under investigation.”

I stared at this man, my gaze hardening. He was the one guilty of neglect, the way he’d wanted to ship his mother off to an institution. He had no idea—no idea—what those places were like, yet they were somehow his preferred solution. Odd how his first show of protectiveness appeared when she looked fresher and more alive than ever. Perhaps that threatened his plans.

Burke helped Golda down. “If you won’t remove this woman from your employ, you will at least accept Dr. Tillman as your physician. Perhaps he can talk some sense into you.” With a firm arm around his mother, who seemed suddenly resigned, Burke moved with her toward the house. “I’ll call him now.”

I simply stared, visions of the dungeon-like asylums where Golda would die, of my dear friend losing his mother in a most wretched, unnecessary manner. And the contract—my own sort of dungeon.

I watched her rigid back as she allowed herself to be taken to the house, knowing I could do nothing. The truth was, I had all the heart of a doctor, but none of the credentials. I led the horses into the stables to hand them off to a groom, but it was Gabe who met me there, freshly oiled bridles hanging over his shoulder. He watched me as he discarded his load and snapped on our mount’s leads. By the look of his face, he’d overheard. “You’re all right, then?”

“Oh, Gabe. What can be done now?” I felt strangled.

He ushered the first horse into her stall. “Panic, I suppose.”

I blew out my breath and hit his arm.

He turned solemn eyes on me while the other horse stamped and tossed her head. “Let God be God, Willa. He knows a fair bit more than you, believe it or not.” He slipped the bridle off, then guided the creature into its stall with a hand along his flanks. “For what it’s worth, you’ve won my mother over. That was plain just now.”

I gave him a brokenhearted smile. Did his mother’s approval earn back his, as well? “She loves an excuse to stand up to Burke, I believe.”

“She wouldn’t bother if she didn’t want you around. She likes you.”

Warmth flooded my chest with a nearly tangible force. How did he always do that? I smiled sadly at him. “She’s begun telling me things. Very authentic, surprising things.”

He froze, leather bridle dangling over his head as he went to hang it. His back was to me. “Oh?”

“Did you know she wanted to be married at the old ruins? Perhaps she has a touch of romance in her after all.”

He frowned. “Did she also tell you that theirs is a marriage of convenience?”

This stopped me cold, jaw slack. “A . . . what?”

“But you eventually came to love him too, right?”

An awkward shift. “Of course.”

Another piece to the puzzle, a fuller picture taking shape. The lack of romance in this house, the broken love matches . . . her own discontent had trickled down to the entire household, every love story that came after it, dulling what could be with what made sense. “Everyone has a story, it seems. I’ve merely scratched the surface of hers.”

He turned and his look was intense, waiting to hear what she’d told me.

I did not indulge his curiosity.

Dr. Tillman arrived at the house, and I begrudgingly told him everything I knew, then he asked, per Burke’s orders, to meet with the patient alone. I obeyed, but a new protectiveness had settled over my heart toward this patient, for she had no one. She was surrounded by family, but she was truly alone.

I waited in the empty library, helplessly leafing through books and outdated periodicals, and listening for Tillman’s departing footsteps. Before I heard them, I looked up, and there he stood in the doorway. “I’d like her to see a specialist.”

“Why, so they can tell her she’s broken beyond repair? She already knows that.”

“New discoveries in cardiology are unfolding. With the innovation of anesthesia, surgery is a safer, more common occurrence. You never know what science can do until you try.” He strode into the room. “I’m acquainted with a physician who’s devoted his life to understanding heart function, and if anyone can help her, it’s him. He operates from a specialist hospital in London, and I’m certain I could convince him to admit our patient.”

I stared, unblinking at the casual use of our. “You cannot expect me to support this.”

He let out a breath. “No, I suppose that’s too much to ask, isn’t it?” He studied me, making note of something. “I know how you and your father feel about institutions.”

“And do you know why? Have you seen the inside of one?”

“Not since university days.”

“I’ve watched surgeons don coats with years’ worth of blood and fluids as they go to operate. I’ve seen them move from a tuberculosis patient to a child with an open gash without washing infected blood off their hands. Did you know the assistant surgeon at St. Thomas’s sees over two hundred patients a day? Do you realize they only accept patients who come with burial money in hand?”

“This is not a regular hospital, and it’s far better than doing nothing.”

“Is it? She’s lived this long with the condition, right at home. This would merely ensure her speedy end.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “It goes against everything I value to not at least try.”

I looked directly into his eyes. “And it goes against everything I value to turn her over to such a fate.” I studied him, debating my next move. “Come.” Leading him toward the rows of books, I headed straight for a particular shelf.

“It’s no use showing me your propaganda on miasma. Miss Barton’s on to something, but—”

“Actually, I was going to show you this.” I pulled a heavy Bible from the shelf and paged to the verse that had propelled me on Father’s journey with him years ago. “Leviticus says this: ‘And he that is to be cleansed shall wash his clothes, and shave off all his hair, and wash himself in water, that he may be clean.’ There are plenty more admonitions like this.”

“A ritual cleansing—an act of respect.”

“Of necessity. Don’t you see? God told his people to wash their hands after slaughtering their burnt offerings, after working with open sores, any time they came in contact with blood. That was for a reason.”

He frowned, running fingers along his whiskered jaw. “Blood is blood, and in this modern world with too many patients and too few doctors, there’s no sense in cleaning what’s about to become dirty again. There isn’t time for such formality.”

“But don’t you see, all God’s instructions have a layered purpose—letting fields lay fallow every few years—which allows them to replenish. Waiting to circumcise baby boys until the eighth day—which is when blood begins to coagulate. And abstaining from pork—which is deadly if left undercooked, as the Israelites then certainly would have done. Dr. Tillman, he’s a God of order and sense. He doesn’t ask us to do things for pomp and show. He’s wise to the ways of the world he created, and his instructions are meant to help us navigate it, even if we don’t understand them.”

He looked down and toyed with the signet ring on his finger. By his silence, I knew I’d lifted the corner of his interest, his intellect.

“Come, now look at this.” I selected one of the journals containing Snow’s germ theory and opened to the article. “Just look at these photos of what’s under his microscope—the organisms, the bacteria. Look, here are the types of bacterium that grew from his samples. Vulnerable patients come in direct contact with all of it, and it’s seeping into open cuts, flourishing into infections and disease that spreads like wildfire. This—this—is why Father and I are so passionate about starting a new type of clinic. It’s needed.”

He exhaled, looking around the room. “All right, all right. So what if there is truth behind this? You’ll have a hard time convincing overworked surgeons to go to such lengths in their postoperative work—this means cleaning instruments, hands, clothing, linens . . . between every single patient. You also run the risk of losing more patients because the surgeons won’t be able to see as many.”

“Well, perhaps they shouldn’t short staff themselves by keeping half the population from becoming doctors.” I raised an eyebrow, and his expression melted into a small smile.

“You’re a force, Miss Duvall. It’s no wonder you aren’t content to remain a nurse.” He put the journal back. “What if I promise she’ll not be operated on without a clear benefit, and you will be consulted before anything is done? This initial trip will be a mere consultation, and then I’ll bring her home for your advice before anything more is done. It’s worth a try.”

I sighed. “I don’t see what good it’ll do. Perhaps if she’d gotten help earlier, but now . . .”

“Do not underestimate the power of hope, Miss Duvall. When all seems lost, sometimes that’s all we have—and it can mean a lot.”

“Prepare, then, to also face the power of crushed hope.” I leveled a heavy stare, but he only smiled.

“We’re agreed, then. We’ll make a go of it and see who is right.”