by Betty Bolte
Amy bent her head in acknowledgement of Frank's parting words. "We shall speak soon, Emily, about further wedding plans. Until then."
"Fare well." Samantha waved at Frank and Emily as they continued on their way down the street. She turned to Amy. "I'll send word to you when your help will be of most benefit."
"Very well. I am going to speak to my sister and then return to Benjamin's. I feel I should return post-haste. Good-bye." Amy started walking away, her steps hurried.
As Amy disappeared into the crowded streets, Samantha patted her leg once more, and then she and Thistle headed for home.
Chapter 7
The next afternoon, Trent sauntered down King Street toward George Manning's residence. Low clouds obscured the sky, hinting at rain in the distance. The town suited him, with its neat houses lining the streets, the hustle and bustle of merchandise in and out of the harbor, and the acceptance he'd received from everyone. Well, except the intriguing and beautiful Miss Samantha, but then her reaction to his aims was understandable. He'd grown comfortable living in the port city much faster than he'd expected. Fortunately, his father had moved to Charles Town the year before the British succeeded in capturing the port city. Because the elder doctor agreed to remain neutral and the Britons needed physicians, the occupying force permitted him to continue his practice. Trent's years in Philadelphia studying medicine had prepared him for his profession, but not for how fond he'd become of the southern city upon his arrival a few months earlier. As much as he enjoyed the benefits of living with his father, he needed to establish his own place, his own path forward. Thus his plan to investigate available properties within the city limits suitable for his hospital and perhaps quarters for himself.
Increasing his pace with renewed determination, he turned to approach the elegant brick house. Three stories tall, the building hinted at the affluence of the owner. Much like the continual demand for doctors, legal matters continued to plague folk even during war. Bounding up the three brick steps, Trent knocked on the door, aware of the abundance of flowers and shrubs as well as the fresh paint on the black shutters. Subtle but clear signs of a well-tended home.
A whoosh announced the opening of the heavy wood door, drawing his attention to the dark haired man smiling at him. His first impression of George was of a man about his own age with an honest face and amiable features, standing a couples inches taller than Trent. He stood straighter as a result.
George greeted him with a welcoming smile. "May I help you?"
"Good morning, sir." Trent introduced himself as they shook hands. "I'd like to discuss acquiring a property, if you have a moment."
"I do have a few minutes." George opened the door wider and ushered Trent inside. "May I take your cloak?"
"Yes, thank you. I won't stay long."
"That's quite all right." George hung the garment on a peg by the door and then indicated for Trent to follow him. Trent trailed after his host as he led the way down the dimly lit hall.
Although sparsely furnished, the accoutrements and ornamentation of the furnishings in the Manning home impressed Trent. Elaborate gold framed oil paintings hung on the wall. An oriental vase stood on a small round table. Elegantly worked wainscoting and door frames subtly revealed the elevated sensibilities of the man leading him toward the back of the house. George's tastes mirrored Trent's, so much so being in the house felt as much like coming home as any place he'd ever lived. A desire to own such a home bloomed in his chest as he followed George along the carpeted hall and through the open door into his office.
"Please, have a seat." George pointed to a chair as he walked around the desk and took his seat.
"You have a fine home." Trent moved in front of the chair, flipped his coat tails out of the way, and then sat down. "I hope one day to have a comfortable house to call my home."
"Is that why you've paid me a call today?" George slid open the drawer on the desk, placed a sharpened pencil into it, then closed it again.
"Not exactly." Trent started to say more, but Catherine eased into the room at that moment.
"Pardon me, gentlemen." Catherine approached the desk with a tray bearing a steaming tea pot, cups, and plates of biscuits and finger sandwiches. "I thought you might enjoy some refreshments."
While Catherine and George arranged the contents of the tray on the end of the desk, Trent perused the gleaming furniture and variety of furnishings. George's office space appeared tidy and organized, no doubt reflecting the same qualities as their owner.
The office housed quite a variety of books displayed on built-in floor-to-ceiling shelves. A quick look at the titles revealed George had several of the same titles as Trent. Many revealed they shared a deep curiosity about nature. An elaborate globe rested in a gold stand in the corner by one window. A highly polished mahogany desk stood in the middle of the room, two wing-backed chairs facing it. Behind the glossy surface, George occupied a high-backed chair, reminiscent of a king's throne. Haphazard stacks of papers flanked a clean stack of linen paper. An elegant silver inkstand and quill stood ready for his hand.
One day Trent planned to have fine furnishings such as those surrounding him. After he succeeded in establishing his hospital. Trent relaxed a bit at the thought and crossed his legs. George appeared to be a man who approached life with respect for others and integrity in his transactions. Trent decided he could do business with him.
Catherine dipped into a brief curtsy before excusing herself from the room. George settled back against the chair, regarding Trent with curiosity in his eyes.
"I see you love to read as do I." Trent motioned to the collection of books. "Who is your favorite author?"
"Have you read Tobias Smollett's The Expedition of Humphry Clinker? He's extremely good fun to read." George chuckled, a brief snort of sound, before shaking his head.
Trent nodded and drummed the fingers of one hand on the armrest. "He has a fine way with the language and in giving the reader something to consider after he closes the book."
"Yes, such as how ineffectual over the long term the poor chap's effort proved to be to unite Britain across its national borders." George shuffled the pile of papers into a neat stack.
"Or between the Motherland and her colonies." Trent crossed one leg over the other and relaxed against the plush chair.
"Indeed. You make a good point." George studied him with a wry grin as he tapped the polished mahogany desk with one hand. "So tell me, as I know you didn't come to discuss literature or politics, what sort of property did you have in mind?"
"One large enough to be a hospital." Trent tugged his waistcoat into place. "Do you have such a building on the list of confiscated properties?"
George drummed his fingers on the desk, squinting in thought. "You'd want something rather big with plenty of rooms..."
Trent shifted in his seat. "I need a large space for an operating room, as well as room for beds for the invalids."
"The old McAlester place might be large enough for a small hospital." George stilled his incessant drumming. "It would be a good place to start, a temporary location while we search for more appropriate accommodations."
Trent swallowed. The image of the impressive home, with its picturesque garden and welcoming gazebo drifted into his mind's eye. From what he'd heard, the place was laid out in a satisfactory manner, though too small for the scale of operation he envisioned. He might eventually build on to it, make it more suited as the demand increased. He seemed to recall an empty lot beside the building, and of course he could build over the current garden if necessary. But Samantha's home? "I thought it was occupied."
George nodded. "Ere long it will be in the inventory, as soon as I can process the paperwork. Should be within the next week. I can give you a fair deal on it if you're interested. I wouldn't even need to put it up for auction, if so."
Curiosity piqued, he couldn't resist. "How much would you ask?"
George waggled a hand and shrugged, then quoted a price so low as to b
e an embarrassment to Aaron McAlester's good name. All he'd worked for over the years, essentially given away in disgrace. Still, purchasing the house at a low amount would enable him to finance better equipment. An idea worth considering... He pictured a steady stream of patients flowing through the wide front door. Perhaps convalescing among the beautiful flowers that would fill the garden in the spring and summer, the mingled scents creating a heaven on Earth for the injured and ill. He imagined doctors and nurses moving through the many interior rooms, checking on the wellbeing of the people lying on comfortable cots as they recuperated from surgery. On top of all the fine dreams, he saw again the scene when he stood on the street watching Samantha's parents drive away. Then the memory of Samantha sobbing in his arms brought him back to reality.
She'd kill him in his sleep. Stab him with a knife through the heart. Or mayhap something less violent but just as effective, like poisoning his ale. Maybe he should rethink the idea. "Do you have anything else, perhaps larger?"
"Hmmm..." George started flipping through the stack of papers on his right. He paused to read one, shook his head, turned the pages, and then stopped to read another. "This one might be a possibility. It's a three story building on the north side of town, used to be a warehouse with private quarters on the first floor. It's available, but since it's not a confiscated property, it will cost a good deal more than the other. Several gentlemen have considered it but the amount we'd need for it was more than they could manage."
"Tell me more about it." Anything to keep Samantha from harming him in his sleep or worse. Although he didn't really believe they'd ever be more than colleagues, he'd rather have her good will toward him than the opposite. They may find themselves working together for another patient's benefit at some obscure time. And maybe one day they might even find a way to be something more on a personal level. "How much will it cost? When is it available?"
They discussed the particulars, including the fact the building would cost ten times Samantha's house. His burgeoning hope deflated. An astronomical price well beyond his meager means. If he sold everything he owned, he could not afford such a place. Perhaps his father could assist him in his endeavor or at minimum make a suggestion as to how the purchase might come to pass. Though it did rankle a touch to require his father's assistance in the matter, the end result outweighed his pride.
"If it meets with your approval, I'd like to visit the property. Then I'll consider it and will inform you should I decide to buy the building."
"I have no problem with you inspecting the building for its suitability to your need." George rose and extended a hand. "Let me know when you'd like to visit the place, and I'll make the proper arrangements."
Trent pushed to his feet and shook George's hand. "Thank you for your time."
"My pleasure. Seems we have a great deal in common."
"Indeed. Mayhap you'd join me for a pint at McCrady's one evening."
George grinned and nodded. "Along with their famous roasted chicken and potatoes."
"We shall settle on a date and time in the near future. For now, I'll see myself out." Trent fingered the brim of his tricorne hat he held in his hands. "I'll send word of my decision."
"Very well. I'll do whatever I can to help. Charles Town needs a decent hospital." George sat back down at his desk, straightening the pile of papers with a series of sharp taps on the wood surface. "Good day, my friend."
"And to you." Trent strode back down the hall, slipped his cloak off the hook and onto his shoulders, and then went out into a lightly falling drizzle. He set his hat on his head, and hurried toward McCrady's Tavern to meet his father. He needed advice, and his father had always served as a sounding board for him. Even when he'd been away, they'd communicated by letter each week, sharing news and seeking guidance from one another in a host of situations. At the moment, the question in his mind focused on how to purchase the building he desired rather than the one he could afford. He'd dreamed of founding his own high-quality hospital since he'd been a boy, assisting his father in caring for patients. The more he learned, and the better ways of treating illness and injury he'd witnessed, the greater his desire to make his dream a reality. All of the study and research led him to the brink of the hospital becoming real. He thought of nothing else but how to achieve his dream. His contribution to the future of Charles Town, one of the friendliest and finest seaport cities in the newly independent nation of America.
The rain fell harder and he lengthened his stride, pulling his cloak about him as puddles formed on the dirt street. He strode down King, then turned onto Broad and marched briskly on toward Bay and the tavern, all the while thinking about his one concern in the matter of the hospital's location. Buying the less expensive property would simultaneously accomplish his plan and further antagonize Samantha, but he had limited options. He either went with the McAlester house or gave up on his mission. It was nothing personal against her or her family, just business. He clenched his jaw against the driving wind. Surely she would understand.
* * *
Half an hour later, he sat across a scarred round table from his father. The senior doctor nursed an ale, the bittersweet aroma of hops scenting the air of McCrady's tavern. Mutterings and chatter surrounded them. A fire blazed in the massive fireplace, fighting the chill from the December rain outside. Trent sipped a mug of steaming coffee, grateful for the warmth in his gut after the long walk in the blowing rain. The blasted weather would only lead to more illness in town, perhaps even more cholera or yellow fever. He swallowed a hot mouthful of tea and hoped his thought would prove incorrect. The cold and wet weather, though, often did lead to more complaints. At least Trent's trousers were no longer cold and clammy against his legs.
"You're being awfully quiet." Robert considered his son. "So, how fares your gunshot patient? Benjamin Hanson, isn't it? Is he any better?"
If only he had some progress to report, Trent wouldn't feel like such a disappointment in his father's eyes. "The enema has had no effect. His fever worries me. I'm concerned the wound is inflamed and spreading poison through him."
"You know how these things progress, and thus what will happen next." Robert swallowed a long gulp of beer, and then wiped the foam from his lips with a cloth napkin. "You'll need to cut off the arm if so."
His thought exactly, but he'd given his word. Trent tapped a finger against the clay mug. "He won't permit me to, and Miss Samantha plans to defend his position."
"Surely you jest." Robert studied him, his hands gripping the bottle. "You're the doctor. You alone must decide what is best for your patient."
"If it were solely my judgment, then I'd say amputate." He beat his fingers on the table. "However, I've given my word to Benjamin I'd consult with Samantha."
Robert snorted as he shook his head. "Then you must talk sense to the girl, make her see reason." Robert lifted the bottle to his mouth and took a long drink.
"A task easy to give to another, but not easy to complete." Trent shook his head, the vision of Samantha's serious eyes and determined set of her pretty mouth occupying his mind. "I shall try again, but I hold out little hope."
"At a minimum, you'll need to increase either the frequency or the amount of the bleeding to balance his humors." Robert wrapped strong fingers around his mug. "If you cannot balance them, the poor man has no chance of surviving."
Trent frowned and pressed his hands onto the table top. "He will run dry if I bleed him too often. I think instead I'll increase the enema's potency."
"Sounds like a reasonable alternative for the time. If you had access to better facilities, perhaps you'd have more chance of success." His father nodded and then drank from the bottle. "What did Mr. Manning have to say?"
What indeed. He could speed the ousting of Samantha from her home or take on a monumental debt. Either way had its negatives. "The perfect place is available over on the north side of town. Space aplenty for beds and an operating room, and it has living quarters attached."
Robe
rt peered at him. "I sense a hesitation?"
Trent nodded. "It costs more than I have any possibility of possessing. Which brings me to the second property."
"One you can afford?"
"Yes, but it's Aaron McAlester's place. George said he could sell it to me for next to nothing."
"I see." Robert tapped a finger against the mug. "The house is in a decent location, but it's rather small for a hospital."
"Agreed. If I start there with a clinic, I can wait and allow its reputation to grow along with its client base. Then move when funds permit." He swallowed a gulp of coffee, the heat slowly working its way down his throat.
Robert nodded slowly. "A sound plan. I always say one should live within one's means."
"Indeed, it's the conservative approach. However, there is a major drawback I cannot ignore." He tapped the fingers of his right hand on the scarred surface. "Miss Samantha will not take kindly to the idea of me owning her father's house instead of her."
"Business is business." Robert waved off Trent's objections as easily as blowing away wisps of smoke from a candle. "Besides, she has no claim to the property. The state has decreed property owned by British sympathizers be confiscated and sold at auction to true citizens."
Trent snorted. "Her head may agree with the concept in theory, but I believe her heart will disagree with the actuality." Trent leaned against the wood chair back and crossed his arms. The more he pondered the ramifications, the less he liked them. He closed his eyes for two heartbeats and then focused on his father. "Someone will buy it, but it won't be me."
"Be sensible, son." Robert stared at him for several moments. "Don't throw away your ambitions over a woman's sentiment."
Was he considering her feelings over his own? If so, why? It wasn't like she held any sway over him. Her somber brown eyes and flowing black hair made her appear an exotic woman, one intriguing and beguiling and yet dismissive of him. Still, the anguish she demonstrated within the circle of his arms couldn't be ignored. Far be it for him to make her feel such grief again. He wouldn't allow it. But his father needn't be apprised of his ponderings on the matter.