7
Prosperity received the position at the hospital two days after the tea and without an additional interview. Apparently Dr. Goodenow’s recommendation carried a great deal of weight.
The first days at work were a blur of finding her way, locating the supplies she needed, and laboring until every joint and limb ached. She had difficulty keeping her eyes open after supper, even when the baby cried. When she laid her head on the pillow each night, she dropped at once into a dreamless sleep.
That left little time to contemplate David, except on Sundays, when she scanned the congregation at church and looked for him on the walk there and back. Every army uniform caught her eye, but none were David. She ought to be relieved, but the desperate ache refused to dim as May gave way to June.
Laundry and scrubbing floors occupied her days. She’d thought her hands roughened back home, but the sheer quantity here left them raw. She heeded every snippet of instruction, even when it didn’t make sense. There would be time to raise questions after she’d gained Miss Stern’s confidence.
After she finished the workday, generally a little before sunset, she liked to walk the shoreline behind the hospital. Though the air carried a familiar ocean scent, it was not home. She missed the dunes and the crashing waves with their cool salt spray, but at least it was all the same ocean. Perhaps these waters had once touched Nantucket’s shores.
“You’ll turn brown as a coconut if you don’t bring a parasol,” Dr. Goodenow called out to her one day.
She stopped and held her hand to the brim of her bonnet to shield her eyes. He stood some thirty yards distant, dressed as always in the black frock coat and top hat.
“I don’t own a parasol,” she called back.
He strolled toward her. She waited until he drew near.
His eyes twinkled. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”
“I didn’t expect you to seek me.”
He chuckled. “Touché.”
“Why are you here?”
“A meeting with Dr. MacNees.”
“I hope nothing is wrong.”
He shook his head. “Quite well, in fact. No cases of fever yet. We hope for a mild year.”
She puzzled over his report. “I’d heard several patients were feverish.”
“Not with yellow fever, or yellow jack as some call it. Recent cases have all proven the usual ague.”
“Oh.” She began walking the shore again.
“Find anything interesting?”
“Unusual shells.” She unfolded her hand to reveal the fragment of a shell with a pearly pink interior. “It’s beautiful.”
“That’s a tiny bit of the queen conch shell. You probably don’t see those on Nantucket Island.”
She shook her head. “It’s all so unfamiliar. I don’t even know the trees. What is that one, for instance?” She pointed to one near the hospital.
“A stopper. The berries are often used to calm the bowels.”
That piqued her interest. “Do you know about herbal remedies?”
“They are often quite effective. For instance, the bark of that tree, the buttonwood, is astringent and can be used to cleanse wounds.”
“Like the green bark of a white pine.”
“Ah, you’re a bit of an herbalist yourself.”
“From necessity,” she admitted. For several paces they walked in silence. She debated whether to explain that statement, and he perhaps waited for her to do so. Revealing that Ma had suffered consumption could jeopardize her hard-won position, for some feared the disease could pass to those who nursed the infected.
Dr. Goodenow did not press her. He simply walked beside her in silence, content to wait.
He had been a kind man, and his support had doubtless led to her receiving the position. Guilt pricked her. Withholding truth was also deception. Hadn’t she suffered greatly from just such deceit?
She stopped and stared out at the ocean. “My mother suffered weakness and coughing for many years and finally succumbed this April. They say it was consumption.”
She waited for the disapproval and the hurried excuse. They did not come.
“Ah yes, I do recall you mentioned that your mother had passed.” He stood with hands clasped behind his back.
“I burned the linens, everything that was not hard surfaced—and those I scrubbed with vinegar. The rooms I aired with chloride of lime.”
“Quite sensible.”
Though he appeared unconcerned, she must be certain. “I show no symptoms of the disease, and it has been more than a month since we buried her.”
“Rest assured, Miss Jones, that I have no fears that you are spreading contagion.”
She breathed out in relief. “Then you will not inform Miss Stern?”
“Your mother’s passing is a private matter, I believe.”
“Thank you.” Prosperity watched the gentle swells pull at the broken shells and white sand. “Thank you also for telling me about the trees. I want to learn as much as I can. Is there a book I can read on the plants of the island?”
Dr. Goodenow shook his head. “That knowledge is passed down by word of mouth.”
Disappointed, she tried to concentrate on the shimmering horizon. “Then there is no way to learn.”
He chuckled. “There are always ways to learn. You simply need to ask.”
She looked at him then, noted the kindly gaze and the soft crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Like David. She shook away the thought. Dr. Goodenow was nothing like David. He was much older, for instance, but he did know which plants could be used for medicine. “Will you teach me?”
He simply smiled. “Allow me to walk you home. The sun will soon set.”
Miss Jones’s question had startled Clayton Goodenow. Their conversation had been pleasant, and he’d enjoyed probing the extent of her nursing experience and her knowledge of medicines. He hadn’t anticipated the curiosity—or the attraction.
He walked her home that evening and then found an excuse to talk to the marine hospital surgeon every day that he was free. Patient visits were finished early enough to allow this little indulgence, though he took care not to raise the suspicions of Miss Stern, who tolerated no inkling of impropriety on her staff. More than one young housekeeper had been sent packing for becoming too friendly with a patient or orderly or physician. Miss Jones, shrouded as she was in mourning black, appeared to draw no interest from either staff or patients, but beneath that somber exterior was a lively mind. That was what attracted him.
At least that’s what he told himself.
She ought not walk alone, whether on the shore or between the O’Malley house and the hospital. Since she clearly had no relations on the island and must have suffered a devastating end to an understanding with her beau, no one could protect her. He took it upon himself to ensure her safe passage, especially after dark. She did not know the island and could easily wander where she shouldn’t, but in truth he craved her eager questions.
It had been too long.
“You are here again?” she asked when he met her at the workers’ gate late in the afternoon many days later.
“Happened to be in the neighborhood.” The overly buoyant reply surely rang as untrue to her ears as it did to his, but he could not seem to stay away. “May I walk you home?”
She closed the gate behind her. “The O’Malleys’ house is very nice, but it is hardly home.”
Her wistfulness caught his attention. “You miss Nantucket.”
“Then you intend to stay?” Clayton held his breath.
“For now.”
Again that wistfulness tugged at his heart. “You are most welcome here.”
“Thank you.” Her smile was weak. “And thank you for offering to walk me home, but I have an errand to run first. Elizabeth heard lemons arrived from Havana and asked me to get some.”
“I could help. To carry them.” The fumbled words and rush of heat startled him. That hadn’t happened for many years.
Her puzzled expression only made him feel sillier.
“She only wanted a few, and the market is very close.”
“Forgive me.” He nodded stiffly to counter the momentary lapse. “If you agree, I will walk with you until I turn onto my street.”
“Thank you, but it isn’t necessary.” She strode forward without him.
Though disappointed, he must acquiesce. If he pushed too hard, she would run away, and he would lose even the friendship they had developed over the last week. These feelings she drew to the surface were only an aging man’s fancy, a way to relieve the unending ache of Sarah’s loss.
Then she stopped and looked back at him, a grin teasing the corners of her mouth. “I didn’t mean your presence would be unwelcome.”
His spirits buoyed as if the sun had finally come out from behind years of dark clouds. He hurried to join her.
She gazed up at him with those luminous, innocent eyes. “Perhaps you can tell me more about the trees and plants that are suitable for medicine.”
“Of course.” There were worse things than medicine to draw two people together.
“If you are certain,” she said.
“I am.”
He had not been this certain in twelve years.
David worked late as usual. Though the laborers were released at sunset, he stayed an hour more to make notes on progress and set up the next day’s work. The day had been fruitful, with new supplies of iron arriving that afternoon. He’d privately instructed the smith to mark the spikes, which would make them less palatable to thieves, if in fact the previous batch had been stolen.
By the time he left, supper had been served, and the work camp hummed with song, laughter, and raw jokes.
He walked across town toward the garrison, tarrying a moment outside the inn where his commanding officers preferred to dine. He would have liked to inform the captain of the new plan, but Captain Dutton was hosting several officials. Laughter filtered out the open door. David longed to once again laugh.
Before Aileen, he’d enjoyed returning to his quarters, had reveled in the fact that everything was in its place. Now he dreaded the residence. In addition to the disarray, Aileen would make demands until his head ached. For a moment he considered lingering at the inn, but that’s how he’d gotten into trouble in the first place.
He sighed and moved on. If only he could remember that night almost nine months ago. If he had awoken in her arms, these questions would not linger, but he’d awoken in the barracks without recalling a trace of what had happened the night before. How could he have done such a thing and remember none of it?
He strolled down the streets and purchased a loaf of bread from a baker who was closing his shop for the day. The walk between the garrison and fortification brought the only silence in his day. During this time he faced no demands. No worries. This time was his alone.
Near the turtle cannery, fishermen hauled their catch ashore. He watched for a while, wondering how it would feel to sail away from the world and its demands. One of the sailors whistled a tune, and David answered. The man cast him a grunt of appreciation before resuming his work scrubbing the deck.
David walked on, breathing deeply the flowery scent perfuming the night air. Jasmine, someone had told him. David didn’t know one bloom from another. He only noted the cloying scent, so different from Prosperity’s freshness.
Prosperity. She must have left by now on one of those ships. She would be standing on deck, watching the sun slip below the horizon. If he thought God would listen, he would pray that she found comfort back home.
A man escorted a finely dressed young woman toward the chapel. Wednesday evening. Ah yes, he remembered the prayer meetings well. Prosperity would sit attentively with the women. He had to sit with his brothers on the opposite side of the chapel. When Father wasn’t looking, he would cast a look toward Prosperity. For a split second, their gazes would meet. Then she would duck her head, and pink would suffuse her cheeks in a way that only made her more beautiful.
Prosperity. Oh, the ache in his soul. To think of her gone forever nearly killed him. Yet he must let go. That meant walking away from what could never be and accepting what was.
He turned from the young couple and left the docks. Too soon the garrison loomed ahead.
The guard stopped him at the guardhouse. “Lieutenant, I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, sir.” The man grinned. “Mrs. Latham sent for the midwife.”
“The midwife?” David instinctively turned toward his quarters. The lights blazed.
“Yes, sir. You’re going to be a father.”
David didn’t wait for the guard to finish. He ran.
The house was in chaos. Shrieks and screams rent the stillness of night. Mrs. Ambleton, the other assistant engineer’s wife, and the rest of the officers’ wives filled the small parlor.
“There you are,” she proclaimed when he stepped through the door. “I was about to send Will to find you.”
David drove straight to the point. “What’s happening?”
The youngest of the wives giggled. The oldest shook her head.
Mrs. Ambleton glared. “You’re going to be a father.”
“I know that.” At her shocked expression, he added, “The guard told me. I meant to ask if the midwife is here.”
Mrs. Ambleton shook her head. “We thought you were her.”
“Who is with Aileen?”
“Mrs. Stormant’s girl, Evie.”
David wasn’t certain the colored maid was up to birthing a baby. “We need to do something.”
Another fit of screaming, followed by raw language, descended from the upstairs bedroom.
“I’m sorry.” David felt his ears burn. Why couldn’t his wife temper her tongue?
Mrs. Stormant, heavily jowled and resplendent in gold-colored silk, chuckled. “The best of us falter at such a time.”
David glanced at the staircase. “Shouldn’t someone, uh, else be with her?” He hoped they wouldn’t tell him to go up the stairs.
“My Evie has birthed five babies,” Mrs. Stormant said, taking the loaf of bread from him and handing it to another lady. “She will handle things until the midwife arrives.”
“Should I go . . . ?”
“No!” the women said in unison.
“You must wait,” Mrs. Ambleton confirmed, “until you are called in.”
That was a relief, but it still left him with the uncomfortable dilemma that four—no, five—women inhabited his parlor. Somehow they’d managed to pull together a tea service. The table from the veranda was set up in the corner with the beginnings of a game of whist under way.
His wife shrieked again, the cries crawling up his spine and her language heating his face.
He tugged at his collar. “Shouldn’t I do something? It sounds like she’s dying.”
Mrs. Stormant took pity on him. “Trust me, it’s perfectly normal.” She ushered him toward the door. “Generally the men congregate out of doors. Since this has just begun and might take hours, I suggest you go to our quarters. Cook will give you some stew. If I’m not mistaken, the colonel just returned. He will round up the rest of the officers to see you through the night.”
David wasn’t sure he wanted to spend an evening listening to outrageous storytelling, but it was better than sitting in a parlor full of women.
“We’ll send for you when the baby is born,” the commander’s wife said.
His baby. Perhaps a son.
For the first time, he found some joy in this painful marriage.