“Mrs Bryant – Elizabeth . . . you must understand there is only so much that I, as your doctor, can do.”
Elizabeth shed not a tear as she sat in his surgery, but she looked completely broken. “I had thought,” she said softly, “God would not give me the hunger for a child if He would not also supply it.”
Gerald swallowed. How to tell a woman desperate for a family that all avenues had been explored, and all options fulfilled? “There is a theory in medicine,” he said gently, “that believes the pressure women such as yourself put themselves under actually makes it more difficult to conceive.”
And now there was a tear there, and Elizabeth laughed drily. “Are you telling me your medical opinion and solution for not being able to have a child is to stop wanting a child?”
“Just . . . just that you are too harsh on yourself,” Gerald corrected her. “Just that you are a woman and a wife, and those two aspects of your character are no less because you have brought no child into the world.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “I accept what you say is indisputable, Doctor Anderson, and yet I do dispute it. I cannot put into words just how impossible it is to ignore the hurt that dwells within one, each and every time a child is not given to us.”
There was little more to say. It was a hard lesson, that the Lord did not always deal fairly on this world. The little he could do for her certainly was not enough.
“Good morning, Doctor Anderson!” A bright cheery wave was Katherine’s herald. She bounded forward in a long gown of cheerful yellow.
Gerald bowed. “Good morning to you, Mrs Bryant.”
“You should not call me Mrs Bryant, Doctor Anderson, there are three of us!” Katherine Bryant grinned at him, her wide eyes looking him up and down in a way that made him feel like a piece of meat. “‘Tis far easier to call us by our first names, I assure you.”
Gerald smiled weakly. It was difficult enough attempting to remain aloof and separate from this family when he was sitting in his surgery, but they made it almost impossible for him to venture outside his front door without one of them . . . well, being courteous to him.
“Katherine, then,” he acquiesced uncomfortably, shifting his feet on the doorstep of his home. “Thank you for your kind invitation, but I cannot join you and your family to dine this evening.”
“And why not?” Her question was innocently asked.
Gerald bit his lip. He did not have a ready answer, and unless he thought of one soon, he was going to end up actually having to leave the sanctuary of his own home that evening to spend time with other people.
“Goodbye, Doctor Anderson,” another voice spoke softly into the silence. “And thank you for your time.”
He bowed automatically. “My pleasure, Mrs Bry – Elizabeth,” he corrected himself as he moved to let her leave.
“Elizabeth, fancy seeing you here!” her sister exclaimed. “I did not realize you were consulting with Doctor Anderson – you are quite well, I assume?”
Katherine’s eyes had narrowed, but Elizabeth smiled reassuringly. “Of course, Kitty – it is just a check-up, you know I like to be careful.”
Gerald tried not to catch Elizabeth’s eye as she lied to her sister. It was a difficult one, of course; it is always easier not to tell your family anything, until you are certain – and yet the concern that frequent visits to his surgery would bring could be more than enough to start tongues wagging, and now that Katherine herself was with child –
“I hope I am not too late?”
A third voice had entered the throng, and now Gerald was starting to get a little overwhelmed. All three of the Mrs Bryants were now collected around his doorstep, and he did not seem able to rid himself of any – and there was a child there, too.
“Thank you again, Doctor Anderson,” repeated Elizabeth. “Now then, you must come to dine with Jonathan and myself this evening, I – ”
“For shame, Doctor Anderson, accepting invitations from others when you have expressly rejected my own?” Katherine smiled wittily, but it did nothing to reduce Gerald’s anxiety.
“Erm . . . well, well then, you see . . .” He spluttered, hating the stare the child was drilling into him. “Come now, Mrs Bryant – Katherine, my apologies – I have not accepted any invitations to dine and it is not – ”
“My apologies, Elizabeth, Katherine, but I do have an appointment.” Phoebe Bryant spoke in a breezy, unaffected air, but there was a steely hardness behind it that cut Gerald to silence, and immediately encouraged the other two women to leave.
“Of course,” Elizabeth inclined her head. “Good afternoon, Doctor Anderson.”
Katherine joined her in the courtesy, and then the two of them went off, arm in arm.
Gerald leaned against the doorframe and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his brow.
Phoebe Bryant grinned at him, her fiery red hair shining like flames in the sun. “They can be quite a handful, can’t they?”
“Yes indeed,” replied Gerald honestly – and then realizing his mistake, he said hurriedly, “I mean no! Of course not, any patient of mine – ”
But his words were drowned out by Phoebe’s laughter, and the giggles of the small child beside her.
“You have nothing to fear from me, Doctor Anderson, I will not tell on you.” With an elegant hand, she gestured inside, and he meekly obeyed, walking into his own home and allowing her to shut the door behind them.
“I have never met two sisters by marriage who were so in tune with each other,” Gerald confessed as he helped Phoebe and her child to two chairs in the surgery. “It is astounding.”
“That is because they are sisters by blood, as well as by marriage,” Phoebe relied nonchalantly.
He blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“Two sisters married two brothers!” The child had piped up, red and auburn curls falling over her eyes as she leaned forward excitedly. “It is like a fairy tale, is not it?”
Gerald could not help but smile at this pronouncement. “Exactly like a fairy tale, Miss…?”
“Sophia Vazquez,” said the girl promptly.
His smile slipped slightly, and Gerald’s heart fell. No. It could not be. It simply was not possible.
“My daughter is eleven years old,” said Phoebe quietly, “and from my first marriage. Aaron Bryant is my second husband.”
Relief, cold and factual relief, flooded over Gerald. She did not seem to understand, she did not know – and that was the way it should be. There was no reason for her to know.
“Sophia, is it,” he croaked, and then cleared his throat theatrically with a good few punches to the chest. “There we are. Now, Sophia, what can I do for you?”
A strange rash on a shoulder was examined, and Gerald lost his concentration into the task ahead of him. Being a doctor was the most absorbing and fascinating profession in the world, he had often thought, and it was moments like these that gave him the most joy.
“No more rustling through that patch of nettles, young lady,” he said in a mock stern voice. “Even if it is your secret path to the land of the fairies. They are not doing your shoulder any good.”
An embarrassed shrug, and a relieved mother. “Doctor Anderson, how can you discern such things without taking a step outside your own front door? You are indeed most talented, and we are fortunate to have you here.”
Every word burned into Gerald like a knife. She did not recognize him then; it was his own bad fortune that someone from San Marco would be here – but there was no detection in her eyes, no hint of perception they had met before.
Good. That was exactly how he needed it to stay.
“Please do feel free to bring her back to me in three days or so,” he said gruffly, rising to indicate the appointment was over, “if the rash has not died down.”
Phoebe too rose, and Sophia copied her mother. It was impressive, thought Gerald as their likeness startled him into reverie. Children looking so alike their parents – even that freckle on the base of their necks, exactly the same . . .
“. . . Doctor Anderson?”
Gerald started. “My apologies, ladies, my mind wandered off somewhat – now then, let me show you out.”
He almost managed it. He almost managed to get another Bryant wife out of his new home without an invitation to tea, or to dine with them, or to go on a walk with them. But not quite.
“So, we will see you then?” Phoebe was looking up at him expectantly as she tugged her skirts around her in the street, rearranging her gown.
Gerald colored and tensed his shoulders. “Thank you for your kind invitation, Mrs Bryant, but – ”
“Phoebe, please,” she said with a smile. It was a smile that cut into his soul just as easily as his surgical knife could have cut into his heart.
“Phoebe,” he repeated reluctantly, and then continued, “I simply cannot interfere in a family affair, it would not be right.”
“But the Harvest Festival is not a family affair!” Sophia chimed in, a broad smile across her face. “‘Tis a party, and you are invited!”
“There will be others there too, if that is your concern,” Phoebe added softly. “You are most welcome, Doctor Anderson.”
Gerald bit his lip. It was getting more and more difficult to keep himself to himself, to avoid this unusually welcoming and joyful family, and of all things, a Harvest Festival would be the least intense – and with other people there, perhaps he could disappear as the festivities gained a-pace.
He made a decision. “I thank you,” he said, bowing, “and gratefully accept your invitation.”
The beaming smile on Phoebe’s face felt like a chill to him, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from immediately turning his back and slamming the door. As it was, he waited until they were a few houses down, and he had waved at Sophia as she looked back, before he turned around slowly, took two steps forward, and closed the door quietly.
Dear Lord, he prayed silently, back to the door and eyes closed. Am I ever to escape the deeds of my past?
Mariana Bryant hated the Harvest Festival.
Well. Hated was a strong word. Her fingers circled the rim of the glass she was holding, seated in the shade of her favorite tree, her back to the trunk. Disliked, perhaps. Did not enjoy. Would rather avoid.
The breeze rustled the branches above her, and an apple fell to the ground just to her right with a gentle thud.
“Careful, Mariana,” a voice called that sounded like Phoebe from a distance.
She sighed. Another thoughtless comment; how exactly was she to avoid the dangers of falling apples?
Shifting slightly in her seat, Mariana raised the glass to her lips and enjoyed another long drink of pressed apple juice. No, it was not the Harvest Festival she disliked itself; it was the talking. With over ten guests, they were almost twenty people here in the Bottom Field, and the inane chatter that buzzed around her drowned out almost all noise.
It was like losing another one of her senses, and it made it almost impossible to move. There was no way to tell how far away from the back of Jonathan’s house she was, as she couldn’t hear the echo. The well was silent, and the birds that normally gave her an indication of how high the trees were above her were drowned out by the laughter and joy emanating from the other guests.
Sighing again, Mariana placed the glass to her left and reached out to find her knitting, left carefully near her knees. There. Now she could at least be productive, and avoid idleness as she waited the long hours for the festivities to come to an end.
Another row complete. Two more, and she would need to start turning. A burst of laughter carried over the wind, and Mariana tasted Elizabeth’s chicken pie on the breeze.
“A dance!” Someone was saying – someone who sounded a lot like Phoebe. “Come now, Abigail, please play for us.”
Mariana snorted. The last thing Abigail would want to do is play that piano forte Aaron and Thomas had dragged out of the house the previous morning – but with such a crowd of insistent guests, she was almost certain what the end result would be.
“Well, if you insist,” came the awkward reply.
Mariana shook her head, although no one surely would be there to see it. Poor Abigail; that was what came of being the youngest in your family. Perhaps she should be grateful she was blind after all, if it enabled her to escape such social niceties.
Rhythmic thudding into the ground signaled the dance had begun, and Mariana began to work on turning the heel. Perhaps, with all this dancing, the Harvest Festival would be over quicker than last year.
“You have no wish to dance, sir?” This was a voice she knew, but could not place. Unconsciously tilting her head towards it, Mariana frowned in concentration. “Well, it is of no matter – why do you not sit there, with Miss Mariana? I am sure she would be pleased with the company.”
Definitely a man’s voice, she thought. One I have heard before . . . Laken Weston. Not that odious man again, always causing trouble wherever he goes. Thank the Lord he is a travelling trader, never settling in one place for more than a few days. If he got a liking for the place, we would never be rid of him!
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a man seating himself beside her. His shoulder brushed hers, and she leaned away instinctively, heating rising through her. Was it not enough that she evidently wanted to be left alone? Laken Weston: what a troublemaker. What idiot from the nearest town of El Seco had he tricked into seating near her?
“Good afternoon, Miss Mariana.”
For a moment she was lost; the voice soft, and gentle, not one she had encountered before. And yet there was something about it . . . something she knew.
“I am glad my accident in knocking you to the ground has done you no harm.”
Irritation and annoyance flooded through her veins as she remembered. “Doctor Anderson. What are you doing here?”
There was a pause, and then he said, in a rather bewildered voice, “I was invited – I had been informed others would be joining the festivities.”
Mariana left a silence for just long enough to make it uncomfortable – a specialty of hers. “Oh, well. If you were invited…”
She let the sentence trail off awkwardly, and then resolutely turned away from him, thrusting her nose in the direction of the dancers. It did not matter that she couldn’t see; it was enough for him to appreciate the slight.
“How are you enjoying the Harvest Festival?”
“Very much,” she said shortly.
She did not turn towards him, hoping beyond hope if she ignored him for long enough, he would simply go away. Who wanted to spend a festival seated next to an irritable blind woman?
Doctor Gerald Anderson, apparently. “I have not attended one before; it is my first. How long have the Bryant family held such a party?”
Mariana crinkled her forehead as she turned towards him again. “I do not want to talk to you,” she said baldly. “Go away.”
She felt shame as she turned away her face again, but she could not help it. Oh, if she could see how different things would be. Perhaps she would be able to see the same handsomeness Abigail and Elizabeth – and Katherine, for that matter – had been able to see. Perhaps he would have asked her to dance. Perhaps she would have said yes . . .
“I do not blame you,” came his next words in a quiet voice. “If I had suffered under a doctor like you have, I would not want to talk to me either.”
Mariana sniffed. “Left blind by the incompetence of a previous doctor? Yes, that is probably sufficient to earn a mistrust of the medical profession for life.”
“I do not doubt it,” was the serious reply.
Really, was this man to be reasonable, after his outburst in the street when he had knocked her clean off her feet?
“I have no kindness for medical men,” she said stiffly, “and a determination to leave you alone. I wish you would give me the same courtesy.”
For a full minute, Mariana thought she had been successful in her endeavors, but it was not to be.
“You can happily leave me in the cold.” Doctor Anderson’s voice was quiet, and dark. There was a darkness in his tone Mariana knew well. “In many ways, doctors are terrible people.”
Her mouth fell open. “How can you be harsh on your own profession?” She had twisted now, knitting left abandoned in her lap, to stare in the direction of this strange man.
Doctor Anderson shrugged, and she felt the shrug against her shoulder. “Only God should have the power of life and death. ‘Tis not something that we, as mere mortals, should even touch. In all my thirty-five years, sometimes I worry that . . . some doctors are too proud of their power.”
Mariana’s mouth was still open. “I have never met a doctor like you,” she said, despite herself, the bitterness from her voice completely gone.
He chuckled, and his laughter flowed through her, close as they were. “I hope you never meet another,” he said drily. “There are few who have suffered like I have.”
As she tried to process his statement, understand exactly what he was saying, he was rising.
“Good afternoon, Miss Mariana,” he said quietly. “It was pleasant speaking with you.”
And in an instant, he was gone.
“Doctor Anderson, wait!” She spoke in haste, without thought, without a decision, just reacting to the loss of his presence. There was no reply. “Doctor Anderson?”