She'd come here a year ago, and had taken over a huge parcel of prime ranchland that bordered Limantour Beach. It was seven miles out of town on a winding, hilly road. Another Englishman, a speculator, had bought it back in 1900. There had been talk of a lavish resort then, of rich people coming up from San Francisco by the trainload, of renovations made to the station, of new businesses needed to service the wealthy, but it had all turned out to be just that--talk.
Rumor had it the speculator had gone bankrupt and that the doctor had bought the land from him. Some said she had money of her own and would build a great mansion, but so far she'd been content to live in the old clap-board farmhouse that stood on the property and leave things much as she'd found them.
On weekdays the doctor attended to her patients, and her daughter attended the local school. On Saturdays and Sundays they did not come into town during the day--not even for church--but were usually seen, skirts hiked up and knotted, walking along the beach, picnicking on the spit, or exploring Drakes Estuary in a rowboat. Yet, no matter what day of the week it was, no matter what the weather or the season, Juan knew that come evening they would always be here, the two of them, waiting at the station.
The doctor drove past him now, guided the horse to its usual spot, and alighted. Her daughter did the same. They didn't bother to hitch the animal. He stood placidly, used to this nightly ritual.
"Evening, Dr. Baxter, Miss Charlotte," Juan said.
"Good evening, Mr. Ramos," the doctor and her daughter replied.
The little girl walked into the station but the doctor stopped to talk. "How are your mother's hands?" she asked.
"Much better," Juan said. "The arthritis barely troubles her now. She said the pills you gave her are working miracles."
The doctor smiled. "Good, I'm happy to hear it. You must make sure she keeps on with them, Mr. Ramos."
Juan assured her that he would, then watched her as she walked from the foyer to the platform, as she did every evening, to meet the 5:15 from San Francisco.
Day after day they waited, but the person they waited for never appeared. The doctor and her daughter would linger until the very last passenger had disembarked, until the conductor had blown his whistle and slammed the carriage doors, until the train had pulled out of the station.
He'd asked her once for whom she was waiting. "Mr. Baxter," she'd replied. "My husband."
Juan believed her at first. He thought that she had come out here ahead of her husband. To set up the house for him. He believed Mr. Baxter would come because the doctor so clearly believed he would.
But then days had passed. And weeks. And months. A year. And still Mr. Baxter did not come. The women of the town began to talk. Some said he would not come for he'd been killed in a war. Others said he'd deserted her. A few were certain he'd been killed prospecting.
Juan began to feel sorry for the doctor. He wondered if perhaps she was not quite right in her mind. It was hard for him to see the hope in her eyes, and her daughter's, as the train pulled in. Harder still to see their disappointment when no one called out their names and no one came rushing to embrace them.
"Perhaps tomorrow," the doctor would say, as she and her daughter walked by him on their way home.
"Yes, perhaps tomorrow," Juan would reply.
He found it difficult to keep believing in Mr. Baxter, but he found it more difficult to stop believing in him. To do so would have been to admit that the hard and simple things of life--love, hope, faith--were foolish and counted for nothing.
The 5:15 steamed in now, and for a few moments, Juan forgot the doctor and her daughter as he waved at the engineer, barked at the porter to look lively, and took the nightly mail bag from the conductor.
He did not, at first, notice the thin, haggard man who got off the train after everyone else. The man was handsome, but gaunt. He walked with the help of a cane. There were lines in his tanned face. They made him look older than he was.
He did not see the doctor go pale. He turned only when she cried out. And then he saw them both--mother and child--run to the man and throw their arms around him.
He saw the man close his eyes and bury his face in the doctor's neck, saw him bend down to the girl and kiss her. But he didn't hear the doctor ask him what happened, where he'd been, how he got here. Or hear him tell her that it was a damned long story. He didn't hear the doctor say that she had plenty of time to listen to it--the rest of her life, in fact.
Juan did see the conductor handing down Mr. Baxter's bag. A porter moved to take it, but he ordered him away.
"Please, sir," he said to Mr. Baxter. "Allow me."
The doctor introduced them and then Juan followed them out to the trap. Charlotte scrambled into the back. The doctor climbed into the driver's seat. Mr. Baxter climbed in beside her, slowly.
Juan put his bag in the back, then waved them off. He was still standing on the pavement as they pulled away and he could hear Mr. Baxter say, "This is just like the fairy stories you used to tell me. A long time ago. In Arden Street."
And the doctor reply, "It's even better, my love. You won't believe how beautiful your new home is. It's the sea and the sky. Fresh salt air. The morning sun streaming in through its windows. It's everything you ever dreamed of, everything you wanted."
"The story ends happily, then?"
The doctor leaned over and kissed him. And then she kissed her daughter. Not caring who saw her. Not caring who heard.
"It does, Mr. Baxter," she said. "It has."
Acknowledgments
I would like to warmly thank Catherine Goodstein, MD, for generously sharing her insights on why one chooses to become a doctor, and her recollections of her own medical school days--both of which were invaluable to me. Dr. Goodstein's compassion, intelligence, and strength are all attributes I bestowed upon the character of India Selwyn Jones. India was also inspired by two pioneers of western medicine: Elizabeth Blackwell, the first woman to earn a medical degree in the United States, and Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, the first woman to gain medical qualification in Britain. In 1840, when Dr. Blackwell earned her degree, and in 1870, when Dr. Garrett Anderson earned hers, a large portion of society felt that a woman who wished to practice medicine was at best unnatural, at worst indecent. Condemned by the medical establishment, politicians, and the press, these two brave women fought tirelessly for the right to become doctors. After they won that right, they paved the way for future generations by founding medical colleges for women. Dr. Blackwell also opened the New York Infirmary for Indigent Women and Children, which employed female doctors and nurses.
I am indebted to the librarians and archivists at the Wellcome Library, the Royal College of Physicians Library, the Royal Free Hospital Archives Centre, and the House of Commons Library--all in London--for their knowledge, expertise, and patience. London's wonderful Science Museum provided a wealth of information on medicine and medical implements of the early twentieth century, as did Harold Speert, MD, in his books on the history of obstetrics and gynecology. Thanks also to Alex Dundas for answering many questions on mountaineering, past and present, with passion and precision.
I am grateful to my agent, Simon Lipskar, and my editors--Leslie Wells in New York and Susan Watt in London--for their enthusiasm, guidance, smarts, and talent. And most of all, I am thankful to my wonderful family for always encouraging me and always believing in me.
About the Author
Jennifer Donnelly is the author of The Tea Rose and the children's book A Northern Light. She lives in Brooklyn and Tivoli, New York, with her husband and daughter.
also by Jennifer Donnelly
The Tea Rose
A Northern Light
Credits Design by Fritz Metsch
Copyright
THE WINTER ROSE. Copyright � 2008 Jennifer Donnelly. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e
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