Chapter Eighteen

The daylight in July lasts well into evening, so the sky was still bright at the hour of seven, when John and I slipped downstairs to make tea and gather a small repast. Our constant need to touch and caress each other and steal kisses as we worked handicapped our progress. When finally we repaired to the dining parlor, someone pounded so hard on the door, I nearly dropped the tray I was carrying. John, well used to such interruptions, hastened to the door, while I ducked into the kitchen to remain out of sight.

Although I could not see the visitor, I could hear the conversation.

“Physician,” spoke a male voice. “My brother needs you bad.”

“What is the problem, Edgar Stout?”

“Yestiddy he got the runs real bad. Every bit run out o’ him, and now he’s throwing up yeller stuff and can’t stop.”

“Which brother? Where is he now?”

“The young one, Caelin. He’s at me mother’s cottage, down by the docks, the lane behind the seawall.”

“Did you walk here?”

“No, sir, the vicar lent me ’is ’orse.”

“Ride back as fast as you can. Get some men to help you, and take your brother away from the shore. Do you know the creek that runs past the Borney Inne?

“Aye.”

“This will sound strange to you, but pray do as I say. Take Caelin to the creek and immerse him in the water. Bring a cup and fill it with fresh, free-running water upstream from him. Get him to drink the water, do you hear? His life will depend on the water. I will meet you there.”

The door slammed, and hoofbeats sounded. John ran upstairs and then strode into the kitchen carrying his doctoring bag. His face was grim.

“John, what has happened?’

“Cholera,” he replied, and then he was gone.

Thus began weeks of disease and death. For reasons unknown to doctors and men of science, cholera struck hardest among the poor who lived in crowded areas. The impoverished men and women living near the docks were the most frequent victims, and their children suffered even more. Within a week, ten children had died, along with six adults.

John sent an express letter to authorities in Aberystwyth to beg for assistance. He spent his days and most nights by the docks, treating the ill and striving to enlighten the ignorant. I worked with him, as did the rest of my family and friends, along with many good-hearted men and women from the prosperous areas of the village. Many fortunate souls recovered from the terrible disease, but by the time it had run its course, a hundred men, women, and children had perished.

Gradually, we all returned to our normal lives. Vicar Bratt and his curate, having buried the dead, locked themselves away for a week to rest. I arrived home after tending a family with two children finally recovering. Miss Little had kept the twins inside for three weeks. They were bursting with boredom, and Deirdre was exhausted. I sent her upstairs to rest, taking the children outside. I dozed under the apple trees while they played. That blessed angel, Mattie, appeared to find me lying on a quilt in the orchard. She sent me to bed, where I slept for ten hours.

Two days later, Lila, Jesse, Mother, and all the McCrae children came to call. As we settled in the parlor, John came in, looking gaunt but rested. After a bit of chat, Jesse rose and clapped his hands for our attention.

“Cassie and Carter, what I have to say relates to you. Yesterday, Lila and I left the brood with Mother and rode all about the countryside and into town. Our mission was to tell the farmers, shopkeepers, and all the other folks that the hero of the day, our own Doctor Carter, intended to marry Mrs. Stanfield.”

Lila interrupted. “They asked questions aplenty about you, Cassie, and Jesse and I did not lie. We were frank about your divorce…”

“Cassie, no,” I cried, “why?”

“Why?” thundered Jesse. “Because honesty is best. And the people, to a man and woman, cried you up as the finest example of womanhood, who had risked her health to attend them in their hour of need.”

“Did they?”

“Aye. Old Seamus Pennleavey himself said, ‘Don’t care if she be divorced. Take her mesel’ if she’d be willin’.”

“But what about the vicar? He will not marry us, I am certain.”

“We pounded on his door,” replied Lila, “and forced him to admit us. We put the question to him and he muttered, ‘After your other sister’s wedding, naught would surprise me. Aye, I’ll marry them.’ ”

And so, at long last John and I were married on September 1. We spent our wedding night in John’s cottage, and my new husband carried me through the front door, deposited me on a sofa in the parlor, and ravished me on the spot!

“My darling, I thought you would make me beg,” I teased after I had stopped panting from my climactic tremors.

He laughed. “You could beg now,” he replied, “but I fear it will be of little use.”

I pressed against him. He wrapped his arms about me and whispered, “Give me ten minutes, my darling.”

****

As I sit here now at my writing desk, finishing my story, I smile at the memory of my wedding. No society wedding could have been more elegant and wonderful, for the main ingredient of the day was the sincere love we felt for each other.

Three years have passed since that event, and my son, Geoffrey, is now fourteen months old. Aleta and Ivan’s daughter, Bridget (named for my mother), is three and a fearless, vigorous, beautiful child, more interested in ponies than pianos. Her favorite adult besides Mummy and Papa is Georgina, for the two resemble each other in personality. Georgina and Eliot have chubby twin boys, only a year old, and Bridget calls them her pretend brothers.

My mother did not return to North Commons; however, she corresponds with my father and hopes he will visit. She lives with Lila and Jesse and has become an active and happy assistant in the household.

Our wonderful nanny, Deirdre Little, left us in the summer after Aleta’s wedding. Her brother in London summoned her to care for his household after the death of his poor wife. She writes regularly, and in her last letter she informed us she intended to marry.

Mattie remained with us, moving from her parents’ farm to live with us. She is a blessing in my life for her kindness and helpfulness.

John and I gave up our cottages and moved into a fairly large house in town, and it is often the scene of impromptu gatherings. Percy and Paulie continue to do well, although they can become cross when we all gather together. Wailing babies constantly need attention, and sassy toddlers pull the older children about, demanding games. Percy, William, and George usually escape to the outdoors, and Paulie, when her patience is at an end, disappears into her chamber with a book. My mother often joins her, and the two read together, cuddled on Paulie’s bed.

With my husband by my side and my dear friends and family around me, I thank Providence for these joyful times. The old saying is true: Love will find a way. Love can take strange pathways, but in time it will flow over all of us, blessing us with the greatest joy life can provide.