3
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Matthew quietly entered his daughter’s bedroom. Miss Shearing sat dozing in the corner rocking chair. That alone gave Matthew a measure of relief, for it meant Phoebe must be faring better.
Matthew had checked on Phoebe several times during the night, and each time she seemed to be resting comfortably. Still, he’d barely managed to get more than two hours of sleep. He gazed at the sleeping child, wisps of blond hair lying across her cheek. His chest tightened as it always did at the remarkable resemblance she bore to Priscilla.
He laid a hand on her forehead, relieved to find it cool to the touch. Perhaps this time they would be fortunate, and the sniffles wouldn’t turn into anything more serious.
Miss Shearing was right to have called him home when she had. She knew from previous experience not to take any chances. The mildest malady could turn deadly with little notice.
He arranged the quilt around Phoebe’s shoulders, tucked her worn rag doll beside her, and straightened.
At the same time, Miss Shearing sat up in her chair. “Dr. Clayborne. What time is it?” She rubbed her eyes and patted a few stray hairs into place.
“A little past seven. No need to rush. Phoebe will likely sleep late this morning.”
Miss Shearing rose and smoothed her wrinkled skirt. She peered at his suit. “You’re going to work?”
He bit back an irritated sigh at the censure in her tone. “I planned to, yes. Phoebe passed a quiet night with no evidence of fever, and I have every assurance that if her condition worsens, you will let me know immediately.”
A flush spread over the woman’s plain features. “Of course.”
“Very well, then. Good day, Miss Shearing.”
She pressed her lips together and inclined her head.
Why did the woman’s disapproval rankle so? She’d been with Matthew ever since Priscilla’s death over two years ago and had proven invaluable to him. Yet lately, there had been a subtle shift in her attitude that Matthew couldn’t begin to define.
Implied expectation? Thinly disguised disapproval?
Whatever it was, it made Matthew uncomfortable, and he found himself spending as little time as possible around the woman.
Thank goodness for his work. Without it, he had no idea what he’d do. Assisting his patients was the only thing that calmed the inner demons clamoring to take over his mind whenever he found himself idle.
Matthew made his way down to the front entrance of the grand home he’d shared with Priscilla. A wedding gift from his father-in-law, Dr. Terrence Pentergast. Matthew looked around at the enormous entry and held back a grimace of distaste. He’d never liked this house and had tried to move out after Priscilla’s death, but her parents insisted he stay for Phoebe’s sake. She needed the familiarity of her childhood home, they said. It would help her cope with the loss of her mother. And so he’d given in, even though the residence was far too grandiose for his taste. If only the house were the sole source of conflict between him and the Pentergasts.
Matthew shook off his morose thoughts and retrieved his hat from the hall stand. He checked his reflection in the mirror and prepared to head out to catch the streetcar. Would the irksome Miss O’Leary be on hand to annoy him again today? With the stubbornness she’d displayed so far, he imagined she would.
Footsteps sounded on the staircase. Miss Shearing appeared in the hallway.
“Might I have a word with you, Doctor?”
Matthew held back a sigh. “What is it, Miss Shearing?”
She took a hesitant step closer. “Couldn’t you call me Catherine?”
Matthew startled at the emotion evident in her brown eyes—a combination of sympathy and . . . affection? Goodness, had the nanny developed feelings for him? That might explain her odd behavior of late, but he prayed it was not the case, since he in no way reciprocated. After his wife’s death, Matthew had vowed he would never again be responsible for a woman’s unhappiness.
“That would be highly inappropriate. Now what is it you wish to discuss?” Perhaps if he made himself as surly as possible, it would dissuade any wrong notions.
Color rose in her cheeks. “I’m concerned with the lack of progress in Phoebe’s recovery.”
“If you’re talking about her lungs, I am well aware of their weakened condition.”
“I’m referring to her emotional state.” She frowned. “Phoebe’s taken to hiding in her closet again. In addition, she’s stopped speaking. I thought I was making headway with her, but something has rendered her mute again.”
Matthew’s muscles seized, her words confirming the relapse he’d begun to notice in Phoebe as well. He’d rather face an injured soldier with an amputated leg than speak of crippling emotions. He kept his own scars buried so deep that he need never speak of them. Only in his nightmares did they surface. How could he help his daughter with her demons when he was powerless to overcome his own?
Miss Shearing gripped her hands together in front of her plain brown skirt. “Do you know of anything that might have triggered a setback?”
He searched his memory for anything out of the ordinary in the past few weeks and could think of nothing. “I’m afraid I have no idea.”
She moistened her lips as though nervous. “Seeing that I’m not qualified in matters of the mind, I’d like permission to call in a psychiatrist to treat Phoebe.”
Matthew’s stomach muscles clenched. “Absolutely not. I will not subject my daughter to . . . that. Am I clear?”
Miss Shearing’s mouth puckered as if she’d tasted something unpleasant. “Very. I’m sorry for wasting your time.” She turned, her skirts flaring behind her, and walked away.
On that sour note, Matthew left the house, anxious to be out in the cool morning air, away from his home fraught with problems. He would never subject Phoebe to a psychiatrist. Not after the one he’d endured when he had returned from overseas. Electric shock treatments. The endless barrage of questions that dredged up horrid memories from the war.
No. Much better to forget the past and move forward.
He’d managed to do so, and his daughter would do the same.
Deirdre paused in the dimly lit corridor outside Dr. Clayborne’s physical therapy room to shore up her courage. No matter how surly the man was, she would ignore his attitude and concentrate on acquiring the skills to help Mama.
Clearly the doctor was not inclined to change his mind about coming to Long Island, and Deirdre was beginning to think that was a good thing. Mama did not need such a disagreeable man around her. She deserved someone cheerful and optimistic, and if no such person existed, then Deirdre would become that for her.
She opened the door and entered the empty room, surprised to discover she’d arrived before Dr. Clayborne. Finding the switch for the overhead lights, she illuminated the space, then stood to marvel once again at the equipment he employed to treat his patients. A series of ropes and pulleys to test the endurance of withered muscles, parallel metal bars at hip height, as well as a variety of iron weights, straps, metal braces, and crutches. They seemed like instruments of torture, but if the doctor was seeing results, they must be doing the job. How would she duplicate such equipment at Irish Meadows? She made a note to discuss that with Dr. Clayborne.
“You must be an early riser, Miss O’Leary.”
Deirdre’s spine stiffened at the deep voice behind her. Pasting on a smile, she turned to face Dr. Clayborne.
He removed his hat and set it on a hook before casting his cool blue gaze on her. Determined not to be intimidated, she crossed the room. “I am up early most days,” she said. “How is your daughter faring today?”
A flicker of surprise lit before the mask settled into place. “She is stable for the moment. Thankfully, no fever developed overnight.”
Deirdre noticed then the lines of fatigue around his eyes and mouth. He must have spent a nearly sleepless night watching over his daughter. Despite her dislike of the man, she couldn’t help but soften a little at the idea of him as a worried father. “Who is with her now?”
“Her nanny, as usual.” He removed his jacket and took a white coat from the tree stand.
Sensing the conversation had come to an end, Deirdre removed her own overcoat and smoothed the white apron of her nursing uniform. At least today she felt more professional, not dressed in her street clothes. If the doctor noticed the change, he didn’t mention it.
“Who is the first patient?” she asked brightly, exchanging her cloche hat for her nursing cap.
Dr. Clayborne picked up a file. “Samuel Pickett. Age twenty-two, left leg amputated at the knee. He’s recently been fitted with a wooden leg and is having trouble adjusting to it.”
Deirdre held back a sigh. Normally such a case would interest her, but she didn’t see how working with an amputee would help her mother’s paralysis.
“My next patient may be of more interest to you.” The doctor speared her with a knowing glance.
Had her dismay shown? She usually hid her emotions well, as she’d been trained in nursing school. But with Mama, she seemed to have lost her objectivity.
“Mr. Rockford has a spinal injury from a bullet and is paralyzed. The techniques I use with him may be of benefit to your mother.” He said the words begrudgingly, as though he didn’t want her there.
Which clearly he didn’t.
“Thank you. I’m most eager to see it.”
Dr. Clayborne placed the file on the counter and exhaled wearily. “My refusal to treat your mother is in no way personal, Miss O’Leary. I am simply unwilling to leave my patients and cause a setback in their progress. As well, I have my daughter to consider. Her delicate condition dictates many of my actions.”
For the first time, Deirdre understood his deep reluctance. He didn’t want to abandon his patients or his daughter. She could respect that. “I understand. I had little expectation I would be able to change your mind.” She smiled. “As long as I can bring back some tools to help my mother, I will be grateful.”
His shoulders relaxed slightly from their stiff posture. “I’ll do my best to help with that.”
His features softened ever so slightly, allowing Deirdre to imagine what he might look like if he ever smiled. The effect might be . . . breathtaking.
The arrival of Dr. Clayborne’s patient erased such silly musings.
For the most part, Deirdre did nothing but observe Dr. Clayborne with Mr. Pickett, a bright young man with a shock of blond hair and deep brown eyes. Though his stump obviously pained him, he remained cheerful throughout the rigorous exercises.
“If I’d known you’d have such a pretty nurse helping you today, I would have worn my best suit and combed my hair.” The man’s charming grin made it impossible to take offense, and Deirdre merely laughed.
“Nothing like some incentive to inspire you.” She gave him a bold wink, earning a blush in the process. “You’re doing very well, Mr. Pickett.”
“Please call me Sam.” He dropped onto a stool to rest.
Deirdre brought him a towel and a glass of water, ignoring Dr. Clayborne’s frown. “Do you have a family, Sam?”
He drained the glass, handed it back to her, and wiped his chin with his sleeve. “No, ma’am. I had a girl before the war, but when I came home like this”—he gestured to his leg—“she couldn’t handle it. Found herself a new beau.”
“I’m so sorry.” Deirdre kept her features impartial, though inwardly she railed at such fickleness. If the man she loved had returned from the war minus a leg, Deirdre would have been happy just to have him alive.
“That’s enough for today, Sam,” Dr. Clayborne said. “I’ll see you on Friday.”
“Thanks, Doc.” Sam rose from the stool and limped to the door, where he grabbed his cap. “Nice to meet you, Nurse O’Leary.”
“Likewise, Sam.” She smiled as he exited the room, the sound of his wooden leg thumping down the hall.
“Do you always flirt with your patients, Miss O’Leary?”
Deirdre turned to find the disagreeable scowl back on Dr. Clayborne’s face.
She lifted her chin. “I use whatever means I can to lighten my patient’s mood. Be it a joke, a smile, or a wink.”
Heated sparks seemed to light his blue eyes. “We are here to help our patients, not entertain them.”
“I disagree, Doctor. In my opinion, healing is much more effective when a person is in good spirits. A patient’s physical well-being is directly tied to their emotions.”
“Hogwash. If your hypothesis was correct, then a morose or depressed person would never get better. I have seen numerous instances to the contrary. In fact, I am living proof of it.” He flushed and turned away.
Deirdre bit back the retort on her lips. Obviously he’d let something slip he normally wouldn’t discuss.
She joined him at the counter. “I simply meant that healing occurs far quicker in a person with a cheerful disposition. Have you not noticed this in any of your patients?” She kept her tone gentle, non-inflammatory.
His hand stilled on the papers he’d been sorting. “There are one or two who might fit that description.”
“Then why not try to lift their spirits while healing their physical ailments? It makes the work so much more enjoyable.”
He looked at her with such incredulity she almost flinched. Uncle Victor had told her a little of Dr. Clayborne’s participation in the war. Clearly, the poor man did not realize how emotionally wounded he was. Perhaps there’d been no one to lift his spirits when he’d been injured.
A knock on the door drew their attention across the room, and Uncle Victor entered. From the grim set to his jaw, Deirdre steeled herself for bad news.
Oh, Lord, no. Please don’t let it be Mama.
“Matthew, I’m afraid your nanny called. She’s taken Phoebe to the Hospital for Sick Children.”