5

Despite the warm summer morning, Nell McClarney huddled on the settee beneath a thick afghan. Her ribs ached from all the coughing she’d done since Monday night, and she suspected a fever had taken hold. She dare not let on to Mary, though, or she’d never hear the end of her daughter’s lectures.

Poor lass, giving her heart to a man like Gilbert. Could Mary not have fallen for someone with whom she had more in common? Rich beyond imagining, his family was, not to mention both he and his mother certainly had a taste for wine! Disaster loomed, Nell felt certain. An iceberg more fearsome than the one that sank the Titanic would scuttle this relationship before sweet Mary could find rescue.

Another coughing spasm rattled Nell’s chest. She reached for her teacup and found it empty. Without the energy to make her way to the stove to heat more water, she moaned and burrowed deeper into the cushions.

She dozed off only to awaken when someone touched her shoulder.

“Nell? Are you all right?” Genevieve Lawson, her silver-haired next-door neighbor, hovered over her.

“Oh, Ginny, I didn’t hear you come in.” Nell pushed up on one elbow, then had to stifle a cough.

Genevieve gently pressed her against the pillows and adjusted the afghan, then laid the back of her hand against Nell’s forehead. “You’re burning up. I’m going to call Mary and have her come home.”

“No, please, I don’t want her to fret. I’ll be fine.” Again, Nell tried to sit up, but the effort caused spots to dance before her eyes. “Perhaps you’d brew me another cup of tea . . .”

“Glad to. However, I’m still calling Mary.” Genevieve set her hands on her hips, eyeing Nell with a schoolteacher frown. Recently retired after thirty years of teaching, the woman had plenty of experience staring down wayward students.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Nell wheezed, but her protest went unheard—or perhaps Genevieve simply ignored it, turning abruptly and marching to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, the teakettle whistled, and shortly Genevieve returned with a steaming cup of tea. She set it on a side table, then helped Nell to a sitting position. “I’m going to run home now and call the hospital, and I’ll hear no arguments about it. Don’t you dare move from this spot until I return.” On her way out the door, she grumbled something about the foolishness of Nell’s not having a telephone of her own.

Aye, and see how far your money goes when you’ve no other income and must rely solely on your daughter to provide.

However, Mary did say she’d be earning a bit more after her promotion. Nell was so proud of her girl, such a hard worker and smart as a whip. If only you could see our daughter now, Charles. Why did you have to be so thoughtlessly careless that day?

Ah, if only it had been the one day. But no, Charles McClarney was dead before his time and all on account of his own folly. Nell had loved him, always would, but she prayed every day that when Mary fell in love, it would be with a man truly worthy of her affection.

Unfortunately, as far as Nell was concerned, Gilbert Ballard had much to prove.

The hot tea soothed her raspy throat and helped to loosen the phlegm. She felt measurably stronger by the time Genevieve returned. “I hope you didn’t alarm Mary. I’m just having a bad day, that’s all.”

“Bad day, indeed.” Genevieve plopped into a chair and smoothed the skirt of her deep green shirtwaist. “What am I going to do with you, Nell McClarney? One of these days I’ll drop in only to find you stone-cold dead, all because you’re too miserly to have a telephone so you can call someone when you need help.”

Nell sniffed. “There’s a big difference between miserly and frugal.”

“Not when your health is at stake.” Arms crossed, Genevieve arched a brow.

Neither spoke for several minutes as Nell sipped her tea and tried not to resent her friend’s interference. Ginny was only being kind, and heaven knew Nell appreciated her concern. With Mary working long hours at the hospital, it comforted Nell to know Ginny was right next door. Nell’s chronic bronchitis was chronically unpredictable. Fatigue, stress, excitement, a weather change—she never knew what might precipitate a worsening of symptoms.

And she’d certainly experienced an untimely amount of stress at the Ballard home two evenings ago. Never had she encountered a woman as haughty and vain as Evelyn Ballard. Only the most ignorant of simpletons would have failed to notice how the woman strove at every turn to intimidate Mary, to subtly drive home her conviction that Mary would never be good enough for her son.

Well. Nell McClarney would just see about that. Clearly, the young lieutenant’s mother hadn’t an inkling of what passed for quality. If ever there were a true Proverbs 31 “worthy woman,” it was Nell’s daughter, Mary.

“And here’s where I note any changes in medication dosage.” The petite Mrs. Hatcher tilted her head upward to catch Mary’s eye. Her pixie-like smile beamed warmth and encouragement, reminding Mary how much she’d miss seeing the sweet woman around the hospital after her retirement.

Mrs. Hatcher might be small in stature, but she’d certainly leave behind some big shoes to fill. Mary could only pray she’d live up to the challenge.

She bent over the counter for a closer look at the pages spread out there. “Your system makes good sense. Can you tell me—”

“Mary! There you are!” Out of breath, Lois Underwood barged up to the third-floor nurses’ station. “Excuse me for interrupting, Mrs. Hatcher, but I’ve chased all over the hospital looking for Mary.”

“Is there a problem, dear?” Mrs. Hatcher’s expression remained unperturbed, but Mary caught a slight edge to her voice. Rumor had it the usually even-tempered charge nurse tolerated no rudeness or insubordination. However, she was much more likely to kill one with kindness than berate with a tongue-lashing in the style of Mrs. Daley.

In this respect, Mary decided she’d try to emulate Mrs. Hatcher.

In the meantime, she drew back her shoulders with a sniff and turned her attention to Lois. “Anyone on the ward could have told you I was up here with Mrs. Hatcher going over my new job responsibilities.”

“Excuse me for not taking time to check your social calendar.” Lois blew out an exasperated breath.

Mrs. Hatcher stiffened, the toe of one shoe tapping out a rhythm on the tile floor. “That’ll do, Miss Underwood. Pray tell, what is so urgent?”

“Reception got a call from Mary’s neighbor.” Lois’s tone turned contrite. Her gaze softened as she turned toward Mary. “Your mother isn’t well and needs you to come home.”

The starch went out of Mary’s limbs. “Saints above, I should have known! She was looking a bit peaked this morning when I left for work.” Apologizing both to Mrs. Hatcher and to Lois, she raced downstairs and over to the administration building, praying all the way Mrs. Daley would give her permission to leave early. If necessary, and Mum’s health permitting, she could give up her day off and make up the lost hours tomorrow.

Near tears by the time she’d spoken with Mrs. Daley and then clocked out, Mary stumbled down the corridor, bypassing the painfully slow elevator and heading for the main staircase. Dear Jesus, watch over my mother, I beg you! She’s all I have, and I need her—

“Mary! Have a care!” Dr. Russ grabbed her by the shoulders just as she tripped on the landing. Guiding her out of the way of the other two doctors taking the stairs with him, he tucked a steadying arm around her waist. “You’re crying. Did something happen?”

With a sniffle, she explained about her mother. “I’ve no idea how serious it is, but if Mrs. Lawson thought it worth calling the hospital, it can’t be good.”

Dr. Russ chewed his lip. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Before she could insist she must be on her way, he caught up with the doctors he’d been in conversation with and murmured a few words Mary couldn’t hear. One doctor nodded brusquely, the other shook Dr. Russ’s hand, and then they bustled off.

“All right, let’s go.” Dr. Russ tucked her hand beneath his elbow and started for the staircase.

Mary held back. “I beg your pardon?”

He gave a sympathetic chuckle. “I’m driving you, Mary. My colleagues will cover for me while we go check on your mother.”

Both relieved and stunned, Mary released a soft cry. “Oh, thank you. Thank you!”

After a quick detour to his office to grab his medical bag, Dr. Russ escorted Mary out to his car. Within minutes, they left the hospital grounds and drove up Reserve toward Mary’s neighborhood. The instant Dr. Russ parked his roadster at the curb, Mary threw open the passenger door and charged up the front walk.

When she skidded to a halt in the parlor to find Mum and Mrs. Lawson sipping tea and chatting like two busybodies, all the breath whooshed out of her lungs. One hand to her bosom, she waited for her thudding heart to work itself loose from her throat and settle back down where it belonged.

“Don’t look at me that way,” her mother scolded as she set her cup and saucer aside. “’Twasn’t my idea for Ginny to call the hospital.”

Genevieve Lawson tsk-tsked and shook her head. “She’s acting better than she feels, mark my word. She’s feverish, and she’s been coughing up a storm. I knew you’d want to know.”

“Indeed I would, and thank you, Mrs. Lawson.” Finally able to catch a full breath, Mary perched on the settee next to her mother and felt her head. Definitely warm, and Mum’s chest rattled with every inhalation.

Just then, Dr. Russ appeared in the doorway. Still wearing the white lab coat he hadn’t taken time to remove, he looked decidedly out of place in their tiny parlor. His glance bounced between Mrs. Lawson and Mary’s mother as if determining who the patient was.

Mary stood. “Mum, this is Dr. Donald Russ. He was kind enough to drive me from the hospital. Doctor, my mother, Nell McClarney.” She tilted her head in her mother’s direction. “The very obstinate Mrs. McClarney, I should add.”

Mary’s mother quirked her lips. “Now look who’s calling the kettle black.” She coughed softly into a handkerchief before smiling sweetly at Dr. Russ. “My apology for my daughter dragging you away from your duties on a fool’s errand, Doctor. As you can see, I’m none the worse for wear.”

“Would you let me be the judge?” With a chiding smile, he crossed the room and took Mary’s place on the settee. Reaching into his medical bag, he brought out a thermometer. “Open, please.”

The moment Mary’s mother parted her lips to protest, Dr. Russ slid the thermometer bulb beneath her tongue. She tried to mumble something, but he shook his finger at her, then calmly withdrew a stethoscope from his bag. “Sit forward, please. I’d like to listen to your lungs.”

Casting Mary a poison-dart stare, her mother resigned herself to Dr. Russ’s examination. As Mary watched and waited, her heart swelled with gratitude toward the doctor. Knowing Mum received his expert attention went miles toward relieving Mary’s worries. Her mother was always so reluctant to spend money seeing their regular physician.

“Mary, dear . . .” Mrs. Lawson rose and motioned Mary toward the kitchen. When they were alone, she continued, “I hoped calling you at the hospital wouldn’t cause problems, but I truly felt you were needed.”

“It’ll be fine. I explained to my supervisor.” Mary glanced toward the parlor, her lips clamped together. “She hasn’t seemed well since I heard her coughing in her sleep Monday night. I should have known dinner with the Ballards would be too strenuous for her.”

“She told me about the evening. She has . . . concerns.”

“I’m sure she does.” Mary certainly had a few of her own.

“If I may be so bold,” Mrs. Lawson began, resting a hand on Mary’s arm, “the Ballards are . . . well, let’s just say they think more highly of themselves than they ought.”

Mary squared her shoulders. “Mrs. Ballard, perhaps. But it’s unfair to lump them all together. Gilbert is nothing like his mother, nor is Thomas, if I’m any judge of character.”

“I hate to speak in clichés, but as the saying goes, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Folding her arms, Mrs. Lawson crossed to the window over the sink, staring out as if remembering. “I taught both boys in school, you know. Gilbert was definitely the more industrious, but he could be adamant about wanting his own way.”

Mary could vouch for that aspect of his personality. She firmed her mouth and remained silent.

“Thomas, while a clever lad, was too intent on escaping his older brother’s shadow,” the older woman continued. “And their mother—oh my! She simply would not hear either of her sons required correction.”

“If you’re trying to convince me I should stop seeing Gilbert, it’s no use.” With an apologetic shrug, Mary strode to the pantry. “I should see what we have on hand for supper.”

Mrs. Lawson caught her arm. “Please don’t trouble yourself. I have a chicken stewing at home, and I was going to make a batch of dumplings. Plenty for all of us.”

The weight of her worries, the strain of the afternoon, and now more dire warnings about Gilbert and his family—it all began to close in on Mary. Shutting the pantry door, she turned with a tired sigh. “It’s very kind of you. I’ll just go check on Mum.”

She found her mother reclining on the settee, eyes closed, a damp cloth on her forehead. She looked to Dr. Russ.

He glanced up from rearranging things in his medical bag. “She’ll be fine, Mary. Not to worry. I think it’s just a bad cold.”

“But her lungs—she sounds so congested.”

“Unfortunately, with weak lungs, an infection often settles there.” He snapped his bag shut and straightened, then handed Mary a small square of paper. “I’ve written a prescription for a different cough medicine. When she told me what she’s been taking, well . . . let’s just say it’s a rather outdated formulation.”

Mary exhaled noisily. “I’ve suspected for a while Dr. Quatman hasn’t kept up with modern medicine.”

Dr. Russ’s grimace spoke more than words. “New discoveries are being made every day. A doctor who doesn’t stay abreast of developments is doing a disservice to his patients.”

“He’s been our family physician since I was a girl. I can’t get Mum to consider seeing anyone else.”

One of her mother’s eyes cracked open. “Now, lass, Dr. Quatman’s a good man. Don’t be speaking ill of him.”

“A good man who’s ancient as Methuselah. It’s the twentieth century, Mum, and if you continue letting him treat you with nineteenth-century medicine, he’ll be the death of you yet.”

Dr. Russ started for the door. “An argument best settled another day. Your mother needs rest, and I must get back to the hospital.”

Following him out, Mary touched his coat sleeve. “How can I ever thank you?”

He patted her hand, a strange smile lifting one side of his mouth. “Get the prescription filled and see to it your mother takes it faithfully for the next several days. You should see significant improvement by the weekend.”

A fierce headache had driven Gilbert out of the office early in the afternoon. No doubt, he’d returned to work too soon after Monday’s encounter with the pavement. But one more day stuck at home with only his mother and the house help for company, and he’d gladly have dived headfirst off the observation tower atop Hot Springs Mountain.

Aspirin. He needed aspirin. Pulling his roadster to the curb in front of Sorrell’s Drug Company, two blocks south of the Arlington, he cut the engine and then waited for a horse and dray to pass before stepping from the car. Plenty of horse-drawn conveyances still traversed Hot Springs streets but seemed more and more like oddities as the number of automobiles increased. Standing on the sidewalk, Gilbert stared after the horse as it rounded the corner onto Bath Street.

Memories assailed him. The plodding horse, though straining against its heavy burden, still held its head high and proud, so like Rusty, the chestnut gelding Gilbert had ridden in France. Recalling the horse’s tragic end evoked a pained moan from Gilbert’s throat. Ambushed, his company had taken many casualties. Weakened by meager rations, bleeding profusely from a bayonet wound, the poor animal had bravely stumbled onward as Gilbert rallied his platoon and shouted orders. Only when the battle had ended and the survivors had straggled back to camp did the valiant horse succumb to his injuries. With a final shudder, Rusty dropped to his knees, breathed his last, and fell over dead.

Rusty . . . and so many like him. Horses and mules driven past the point of exhaustion then left to die where they fell. Gilbert could still smell the stench of rotting carcasses, and it tortured him to this day that while human soldiers were afforded at least a semblance of a proper burial, these animals, as crucial to the war effort as any doughboy, were treated as so much refuse.

Nausea curdled his stomach. Leaning hard upon his cane, Gilbert tipped his head forward and squeezed his eyes shut. The war would always be with him . . . always.

Gathering himself, he turned to enter the drugstore, only to see Mary march out the door, a small brown pharmacy bag clutched in her hand. Instead of the nurse’s uniform he’d grown so accustomed to, she wore a plain white blouse over a pale blue pleated skirt. Except for a section of hair tied back from her face with a thin black ribbon, the rest of those thick, curling tresses hung loose about her shoulders, exactly the way Gilbert liked it.

He grinned in spite of himself, memories of war fading like mist beneath a searing summer sun. “Mary!”

She looked up with a start. Eyes the color of emeralds shimmered in recognition as a smile lit her features. She touched a hand to her temple as if to smooth her hair into place. “What are you doing out and about this time of day? Shouldn’t you be at the Arlington?”

“I left early.” He glanced at his watch—only half past four. “And shouldn’t you be at the hospital? I thought your day off was tomorrow.”

A worried look stole the smile from her lips as she explained about her mother. “Dr. Russ thinks this medicine will be better for her than what she’s been taking.”

“Dr. Russ thinks so, eh?” Gilbert instantly regretted his sarcastic tone. With an inward sigh, he ushered Mary beneath the building’s awning and out of the line of foot traffic. “I mean, he’s an army doctor. Are you sure he’s the right one to be treating your mother’s illness?”

“Not long-term, of course.” Mary gave her head a tiny shake. “I’m just hoping I can finally convince Mum to leave Dr. Quatman’s care and—”

“Quatman? Quackman is more like it! The old fuddy-duddy wouldn’t know measles from malaria. I can’t believe he’s still allowed to practice medicine.”

Mary harrumphed. “He may be behind the times and getting on in years, but his heart’s in the right place.”

“Ah, Mary, such an innocent.” Gilbert tweaked one of her curls, the feel of it like satin sliding through his fingertips. If he thought she’d let him, he’d kiss her right here in front of Sorrell’s and let every man traveling Central Avenue look on in envy.

“Don’t patronize me, Gilbert Ballard.” Her lower lip pushed out in a pout, an invitation for a kiss if Gilbert ever saw one. His stomach clenched. With effort, he raised his glance to her eyes as she continued. “I know it’s high time we changed physicians, but with Mum’s poor health and us not bein’ rich like your family, Dr. Quatman’s always let us pay what we could. I don’t know who else would be so generous.”

“Let me take your mother to see Dr. Lessman. He’s the best civilian doctor in town.”

“The best doctor money can buy, you mean.” Lowering her gaze, Mary fingered the little brown bag. “We couldn’t afford him, I’m certain.”

Gilbert lowered his voice to a pleading whisper. “Then let me help.”

She looked at him as if he could never understand—and maybe he couldn’t. He’d never known anything but wealth. Even while he squandered his army pay on morphine, booze, and gambling debts, he’d always had family money to fall back on.

Suddenly, as he looked down at Mary in all her guilelessness, his money seemed tarnished, even repulsive. He hadn’t earned a cent of it. His wealth was merely a lucky accident of birth. All his life, the Ballard name had effortlessly opened doors for him when others of lesser means fought to beat down those doors with bloody fists.

His gaze fell to Mary’s work-worn hands, and every broken fingernail, every tiny callus, every rough, red rash accused him. More than ever before, he grew determined to make his own way in the world, to be worthy of a woman like Mary. The Army may be through with him, but he still had a brain, and at least half a working set of limbs. There had to be something of value he could contribute to society.

Something besides his mother’s money.

And he’d find it. Then he’d make Mary his wife, and they’d raise their children to know what truly mattered in life.