Chapter 3

Anna sent an urgent message to her father’s physician upon their return home at midnight. Fortunately their mansion on Fifth Avenue stood just a few blocks from the opera house. Two of the burlier footmen assisted her father up the curving flight of marble steps and into the east wing, which contained his suite of rooms.

Her father asked for privacy while the doctor examined him, so Anna paced the hallway outside his bedroom door until the pattern of ribbons and scrolls in the Aubusson rug had been burned into her brain. Winnie hovered nearby, along with Mrs. Ludley, the housekeeper, and their butler, Mortimer, and some of the other maids and footmen.

Mortimer approached. “May I get anything for you, Miss Anna?”

“No, thank you, Mortimer.”

She’d clenched her teeth for so long her jaw ached. The grandfather clock downstairs chimed one a.m. when the door opened and Dr. Buchanan exited the room, frowning as he rolled down his shirtsleeves and pocketed his stethoscope.

“Is he well?” Anna clasped her hands and waited for the doctor’s pronouncement. “Spare me nothing.”

Dr. Buchanan drew her to a sofa in the hall and carefully chose his words. “He is stable, for the moment, Miss MacDougall.” He hesitated, fumbling for words. “But … he isn’t a spring lamb anymore.”

“He has always been hale and hearty.”

Dr. Buchanan nodded sympathetically. “My dear, sometimes our bodies tell us it’s time to rest.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

The doctor avoided her gaze and stood. “He prefers to tell you himself, Miss MacDougall.”

Dread rose into the back of her throat, and she swallowed hard. “May I see him?”

“Briefly. I left some medications for him and administered a mild sedative. I’ll be back to check on him tomorrow. Good night, my dear.” He stroked his gray mustache and gave her an appraising look. “You need some sleep as well. I’ll see myself out.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Anna opened the bedroom door and quietly slipped inside. Her father lay propped up on pillows, and he opened his eyes when she entered the room and pulled a chair to his bedside. His face had regained his usual ruddiness, and the blue shadow around his lips had disappeared. Two corked brown glass bottles stood on the nightstand labeled “Digitalis Leaves” and “Nitroglycerin.”

“You’re feeling better, Papa?”

“Aye.” He sighed. “But it’s to be expected, lass.”

“What is?”

“That my life is nearly over.”

“Don’t say that. I can’t bear it.”

“But I must say it.” He took her hand and held it tightly. “It’s my heart, Anna. It’s failing. I’m nearing seventy, ye know. I willna be here forever. We must talk—”

“Don’t, Papa!” She jerked her hand out of his and stood up. “I can’t.” Her throat swelled, and she pressed her hand over her mouth, shaking her head to hold back the tears.

He gazed at her, his eyes deep and soft in the lamplight, and nodded. “Another day then, lass. Kiss me good night, and then off with ye. Let an auld man sleep.”

She rested her face against his and then kissed his cheek. Instead of going down the hall to her own bedroom, she stopped at the door to the bedroom that adjoined her father’s. Her mother’s bedroom hadn’t been touched since her death seven years ago on a snowy December night. Crystal perfume bottles waited on the sterling silver tray, and all her mother’s gowns still hung in the huge mahogany wardrobe. Every eight days, a maid dusted the room and wound the little French ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. The faint fragrance of Guerlains’s Jicky still lingered in the elegant room. Her mother had adored its classic sweet hay and lavender scent.

Anna sank to her knees beside the bed and grasped the counterpane. She laid her cheek against the silk and uttered a great sobbing breath. Losing her mother at the age of twelve had been the most difficult event of her life, compounded by witnessing her father’s deep pain and sorrow at losing his beloved wife. Now she had to face the fact that her father was growing older and it would only be a matter of time before she lost him, too. Why did it have to be this way?

Her mother had been fond of quoting Ecclesiastes, and one of her favorite verses came to Anna’s mind. “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die … a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.…” Oh, how her mother had loved to dance!

“I wish you were here, Mama,” she whispered into the darkness. She closed her eyes and thought of her mother’s beautiful face and cornflower-blue eyes, and most of all the way she would laugh—not politely, but throwing her head back with a deep belly laugh when something amused her.

Anna swallowed the lump in her throat. Elizabeth Mary DuPont MacDougall had firmly believed in her Lord Jesus Christ and the eternal life He had given her. Anna knew her mother was alive somewhere with Him and that one day they would be reunited, and that comforted her.

Anna turned her attention to the Lord. “Father, thank You for getting Papa home safely. Thank You for what a wonderful parent he has been.” She swallowed hard. “Please, let me have him a little while longer.”

Anna woke at dawn after a restless night and came down to breakfast early. Her morning tea arrived as her father entered the room fully dressed but walking slowly and holding on to the chair backs as he slipped into his seat across from her. “Good mornin’ to ye, lassie.”

“Papa!” She dropped her spoon, and it clattered against her teacup. “I didn’t expect you downstairs.”

He rang the silver bell beside his plate. “Can’t stay in bed … all day.”

Here in the sunny light of the breakfast room, the gray pallor had returned and the stubborn blue shadow ringed his lips again.

“Have you taken the medicine Dr. Buchanan left you?”

“Not yet.” He placed two tiny pills on the table.

The butler entered the breakfast room.

“Coffee, Mortimer,” her father instructed.

“Very good, sir.” Mortimer nodded and left the room.

Anna frowned. “Take your medication, Papa.”

He nodded and slipped one of the pills under his tongue and then the other when Mortimer returned with the coffee.

Mild spring air filtered in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and with it came the sounds of traffic on Fifth Avenue below, the clip-clop of horse’s hooves, an occasional shout, and the clattering of wagon wheels on the cobblestones.

Her father mopped his forehead, where a faint sheen of perspiration had broken out. “Have ye ever heard such a clishmaclaver? I’m ready to get out of the city, Anna. I’m pinin’ for Longmeadow. Let’s go away tomorrow, earlier than we’d planned.”

The thought of their country estate in Hyde Park immediately brightened her spirits. “We need to give the servants a day to prepare, Papa. And I forgot to tell you that Nora’s in town. I invited her to stay with us at Longmeadow.”

“Wonderful. We’ll have a full house then, won’t we?”

Anna bit her lip. “Shouldn’t you rescind your invitation to that Englishman?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why? He’s a canny lad. I like him. Ye might, too, if ye give him a wee chance.”

“Papa.” How could she make him understand? “I don’t want to marry. Ever. I can’t … Stuart …” She floundered, helpless to push away the waves of panic that threatened to engulf her at the thought of trying again.

Her father laid his hand over her trembling fingers. “I know, lassie. But you’ll have to humor me. I haven’t given up hope, even if you have.”