The Love Note

by Joanna Davidson Politano

  “Don’t you have work to do, Gabe? I can handle this.”

  He hefted the bundle of rags in one arm. “You see to your patients. Let me do this.” His gaze caressed me as he walked by, bearing the load.

  I watched him go. Two deep breaths were all I allowed myself before I moved up the stairs to see to my patient. Golda still lay cocooned in her bed, but her languid eyes had opened to look about.

  They angled toward me when I entered. “I suppose you have your wish, Miss Duvall, for here I am, still weighted down to this earth.”

  I smiled. “I’m glad, my lady. We have plenty more work to do. God isn’t finished with you and neither am I.”

  Her lashes lowered, but she said nothing.

  As I moved toward my room to soak my balled-up apron and change into a fresh dress, a terrible, strangled shriek rang throughout the house. I turned and ran, others joining me as we rushed to find the source.

  It seemed we might not have escaped death after all.

  twenty-four

  No human’s story truly ends. Even the sad ones, the empty ones, trickle down and soften or harden those who stood near.

  ~A scientist’s observations on love

  By evening, the front-facing windows and doorknobs were draped in crepe, the parish minister summoned, and death notices sent. A pallor of gloom descended upon Crestwicke Manor, wrapping us all in the sudden awareness of our frail existence on earth.

  “You will, of course, lay out the body.” Celeste spoke to me with a lowered gaze. “You are the nurse among us.”

  “Of course.”

  For the entire three days in which we observed her death, the term Crazy Maisie was never once uttered. Perhaps this was, in part, because the outspoken Burke Gresham was still absent, with no one seeming to know where to send word to him. Even Golda, in all her sharpness, did not speak ill of Maisie. The departed was painted as a dear, confused old woman, one to be remembered fondly, as most often are when viewed in hindsight.

  I missed her with wretched, arresting pain. Her passing created an ache of longing and deep regret. All I could see when I closed my eyes was her desperate face begging me to return and hear her story—any story, for all she cared—and rescue her for a moment from the suffocation of insignificance. I felt as though I had failed her.

  Questions piled up, too, that I could no longer ask her. Questions about words, about the search for real love, about her extraordinary life. It hadn’t been her tale she’d been telling me—I knew that now. Hers would take much longer, and it would have been an adventure story.

  I dreamed of her sprinting through heaven with a belly laugh and a twirl, her immensely beautiful soul freed from the earthly shell that had failed her toward the end. That image, the sweet, sweet hope of it, kept me afloat.

  Aunt Maisie was buried at the rise of a grassy hill in the family cemetery, where an iron fence guarded the sleeping inhabitants. Golda leaned on me and her lady’s maid all the way up the hill and throughout the service. We huddled together beside the willow tree as the minister uttered his sermon over the fresh hole in the ground, directing each of us to afterward throw a handful of dirt. The others eventually peeled off and strode back to the house, but Golda remained. Therefore, so did I.

  I glanced at her face and saw there the orphaned look of one who’d just lost the one person who always loved her completely, the same look I’d worn after Mama died. Had they been close once? I braved a gentle touch to her taffeta-covered shoulder, and it remained stiff and jutted.

  A small shudder passed through her, but she didn’t cry. “I rather expected her to live forever.” Golda stared straight ahead, her eyes red-rimmed but tearless. “She’s simply always been here, never truly aging on the inside . . . It seems so sudden.”

  “Maybe to us, but she lived a long life. Not everyone is blessed with that.”

  Wind played with the crepe strings holding the black hat to her head as she gave a single nod, her gaze wandering across the other stones in the family plot. Then she rose and crossed to kneel before a lovely stone covered in lichen, a female figure carrying a small lamb etched into its base. A lump bobbed in my throat and I dared not approach. It seemed a sacred moment between her and whatever absent life the stone recorded, so I remained in place, watching with fascination as the layers of poise trembled around her like petals in a breeze. She stooped to pick a wildflower and place it on the grave, tracing the etching with her fingertips.

  I glanced at the stone when Golda turned from it.

  George Charles Gresham 1841

  Josephine Louise Gresham 1841

  Eloise Margaret Gresham 1843

  Unnamed infant Gresham 1844

  Beloved ones

  Infants, every one of them, with only one date each on the stone. Another gaping wound in Golda’s life came uncovered, rendering a starkly clearer picture than I’d had the day I’d come. It was true—everyone had a story, some with cracks deeper than anyone could imagine.

  A solicitor arrived at the house, bearing the last will and testament of the deceased, and my name was mentioned among those he called. My heart thudded as I followed the black-garbed Greshams into the library, which I found a delightfully fitting setting. No one dared look about at the others as the solicitor began with the usual language. To Golda, she left her meager heirloom pieces. Clara received a lovely ivory and pink shell comb, Gabe a stack of books, and a handful of ancient foreign coins of untold value from all her travels were distributed to “the charlatan family members who never knew a thing about me.”

  I smiled. She’d finally used the word.

  Celeste blinked. “That’s truly what it says?”

  “I can read it again if you’d like.”

  “That’s quite all right. Is there more?”

  He cleared his throat. “To Miss Duvall, the lovely little nurse who attended my Golda, I entrust the greatest of all my possessions.” Silence tightened the air, but then he finished with, “My book of words.”

  A nearly giddy relief passed around the listeners, and I lowered my face to hide a smile. Of all the ways that sentence could have ended, nothing delighted me more.

  Yet it was the final lines of the will that intrigued me most, made my imagination run wild. “The one possession that I insist on taking with me to my grave is the secrets I’ve been asked to keep. They are bequeathed to no one and will not be let to leak from this old soul who’s kept them well for years. May they all rest in peace as I now surely do.”

  Golda disappeared and I found her sitting alone in the drawing room with marble-like poise, arrayed in Maisie’s modest jewelry, fingers wrapped around the end of the chair arms. “Leave me.” She whispered the words, but they were clear.

  I obeyed but remained close.

  I checked on little Phoebe often during those days of mourning, looking over her neatly stitched incision, and I had the privilege of watching Celeste cut the girl’s wild mass of hair as she prattled on about her meetings and the powerful women there. They were a pair, each with their own strength that was magnified in the presence of the other. Celeste spoke long and often about the women’s league and everything they accomplished, and Phoebe, sweet wide-eyed Phoebe, looked up at her with all the adoration stored up in her neglected little heart.

  That they had found each other was a miracle. The affection between them was evident, and watching them together balmed my grief a little.

  I lay like a dull rock on my bed at night, sadness and shock and regret all fighting within me for release. Tears built up behind my eyelids, hot and pressurized. When I could not find sleep, I comforted myself by leafing tenderly through her book. She’d inserted a note at the beginning—For the future doctor, who will wield her powerful words along with bandages and stethoscope.

  And the final notation that nearly broke me—Never stop searching for authentic love. You’ll find it.

  Yet she hadn’t. She hadn’t.

  I clutched my chest with a wave of loss and turned
the pages.

  Sequacious—A splendid, most delicious word on the tongue, until one learns its meaning and promptly spits it out. “A blind and submissive following of another.” I follow, but never blindly. I submit, but not without cause. Marriage has not come upon me because I’ve not found a one that would allow me to enter it unsequaciously, so unmarried and unsequacious I remain. I follow God, ’tis true, but that is done in full possession of my thoughts and will. It is an active pursuit, with nothing sequacious about it.

  Sovereignty—The sovereignty of God is a thing of utter beauty. But like any good piece of art, to fully appreciate its magnitude, one must step back and drink it in as a whole, seeing how the brushstrokes of little everyday occurrences all combine to create a larger picture. Blessed are those who have the opportunity to do so this side of heaven.

  Golda woke in a sullen state three mornings after the burial, her shell of bitter hurt having solidified overnight. I remained on the fringes of wherever she was in those days, leaving her to herself but always nearby to help when needed. I became enraptured in Maisie’s writings, forgetting the rest of the world existed.

  Until it intruded.

  The door opened downstairs, footsteps were on the landing, then Dr. Tillman strode in behind Parker with a long envelope that he held out to me. “This came to my residence. I couldn’t wait.”

  Durham University Admissions was stamped boldly across the top, their red seal on the flap. I grabbed it and looked up into the face of the man who was unwittingly handing me the very axe that would sever any chance of romance with him or anyone else. Would he still bring it if he knew?

  Golda straightened in her parlor chair, lowering her stitching project. “Whatever is the matter over there? I detest secrets.”

  I shot him a warning look, my pulse vibrating through the hand that held that letter. The balance had been delicate since Aunt Maisie’s passing, and I dared not upset it. He gave a grim nod and backed away, expression burning with nearly as much fervor as my heart. “Just a letter.”

  Shoving the envelope in my apron pocket, as if it were any old correspondence from any old place, I went through the motions of my duties—locating vials, urging my patient to rest, propping her swelled feet. In a quiet moment, I reached down and touched the letter in my pocket. You did it, God. Giving me a miracle, going beyond my abilities. I walked about in a cloud of gratitude, but kept my lips pressed firmly together to guard my secret.

  When I could bear it no longer, I slipped out into the hall on the pretext of visiting the water closet—which I’d make time to do as well, if only to validate my excuse—and tore open the envelope. My vision blurred, but there were words. What did they say? It wasn’t long. Why wasn’t it long?

  We regret to inform you . . .

  I blinked, clearing my vision. The heat of shock pulsed through my whole frame. No, this couldn’t be! It wasn’t what it seemed. Not a refusal, not after everything.

  Our schoolboard has made the joint decision not to admit a female student at this time. We feel the field of medicine is best led by men, as it has been for centuries, and trust you will understand our decision . . .

  I barely saw the other words. The floor beneath me shifted, reality spinning until I was nearly ill. How could this be? How could they take this away from me with a few half-hearted sentences? I shoved the paper back in my pocket and backed against the wall. The path before me had moved—no, it had gone missing—and I had no direction. This school was my one hope, the only one professing liberal policies. Now my future narrowed to nothing. Everything melted like snow against my clutched fingers—the respect of a degree, a future in medicine, the legacy of Father’s research. I would not be a doctor after all. Just regular Miss Duvall, the insignificant spinster who could always be pushed aside to make room for a man.

  I slipped into my chamber to compose myself, but the inscription in the front of Maisie’s book jarred my tender heart. For the future doctor. I closed my eyes and choked back sobs. It all felt so very wrong—the letter, that contract with Father, Maisie’s death. The thread of her life had been cut, and it felt like mine had too, in a way. The grief I’d so carefully stitched up these last days swelled, threatening to burst. Maisie had died feeling useless, which was wretched and unforgiveable.

  Because I had once again failed to stop and truly see what someone needed.

  I hurried into the hall to find Golda again, but a sudden weakness stopped me. White dots swirled in my vision. I leaned on the wall and willed myself back to normalcy.

  “Willa.”

  I flinched. It was Gabe. I straightened my expression and lifted a benign look. “Yes?”

  He was not fooled. “What is it, Willa? Is it your father? My mother?” He took my shoulders. “Pray, what’s wrong?”

  Chin trembling, I pulled the shameful rejection from my pocket and held it out, letting it reveal the truth. He expelled a single laugh, dropping his head. “That’s all?”

  All? I snatched back the letter, every muscle stiff. All the hurt, the crushed hope, the immense grief, swirled together and boiled out. “What do you mean, ‘all’? How dare you! You’ve no idea about anything.”

  “I merely thought—” He gestured toward the closed door behind me.

  “No, you don’t think, Gabe. You’ve never even left home, and you couldn’t possibly know what it means to have dreams crushed because you haven’t got any.” My heart wrenched at my spiteful tirade, but I couldn’t unspill those words. I couldn’t bear to humble myself just now, either.

  I spun on my heel, thrusting open the doors, and moved away with a thudding heart. Thankfully the room was dim with a coming storm, but I still turned my face away when Mrs. Gresham looked up at me.

  “Bad news, I take it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  A pained look of longsuffering stretched across her porcelain face. Yes, she’d have to endure a little bit of cloudiness inside the house as well today. I simply could not produce sunshine when my heart was storming.

  “Your father is well? And your stepmother?”

  “Yes, everyone is well.”

  “Then what is the matter?”

  “I’d rather not speak of it.”

  “I see.”

  For a tedious three-quarters of an hour, I watched the unfolding events of the household with a measure of disconnect. None of it seemed quite as important, no task truly worth doing. Vials were refilled, tea poured, heartbeat monitored, but it was merely my hands performing the work. The rest of me was somewhere else.

  When the rain poured in earnest, a deluge down the rippled window glass, a carriage rode up and delivered a man to the front door. He entered below with a squeak of boots on tile, then a quick march up the stairs to us.

  Moments later, Mr. Gresham appeared in the doorway, his face pale. “Has Burke returned?”

  Golda straightened. “Hello, yourself.”

  “Burke—is he here?”

  “We’ve not heard from him lately. I assume he wasn’t at the London flat?”

  “He was. Left this morning. Something’s happened that I think you should know about.”

  A grave look passed between them and Golda Gresham turned to me. “Go on, get along with you. We must speak in private.”

  I hesitated, evaluating her pale face. “You don’t need me?”

  “Take care of your little secret problems. I’ll be here with all my usual infirmities and demands when you return.” A glimmer of a smile appeared. “Have a good cry into a cup of tea and come back in an hour.”

  But it wasn’t a cup of tea I needed.

  Desperate for the weighty peace I always found in the ruined tower, desperate for God, I sprinted out the side door without lantern or cape, tearing across the yard and up the winding path. Cold rain pricked my back through my cotton uniform. Please, God, I begged, even as I came in sight of the ruins. The heavens opened and the rain poured down, and I reached the ruins breathless and soaked. A sensible girl would tak
e cover, but I had no sense then. Only deep grief over unexpected loss and jagged endings.

  I closed my eyes and lifted my upturned face to the sky, to the God who had loved me enough to bless me in spite of myself. Was all that for naught, Lord? Have you no more use for me? The sting of becoming useless—of watching Maisie end her days in that state—tore at my heart. God would of course know of the contract with Father—that I’d be headed into marriage with Dr. Tillman after all these years of pouring myself into medical training.

  A rumble of thunder was the only reply, and I shivered. Cold rain poured down my face, trailing down my back and soaking into my stays, my chemise, my very skin, cooling and cleansing my hurt. I waited there for my answer as the storm raged on around me, willing God to give me some direction that made sense of all this. I shuddered with the immensity of the world spread out below me, the magnificent impact of the storm and crashing waves, my own small self atop that muddy hill.

  Soon my entire body trembled with cold, and I had nothing from above. Please, God. One final whispered prayer, then I sank to my knees and convulsed with uncontrollable chills. I stood on trembling limbs and tried to climb down the cliff face toward the beach without muddying my skirts, but the second rock gave way, dropping me down the embankment. Rocks and grit tore at my skin, until I landed on a rocky ledge with a thud and hit my head. With a groan I rolled over and looked up. It was a long, rocky path back. I was stuck here. Just me and the Almighty.

  Breathe. I closed my eyes as pain swam.

  A warm hand rested on my drenched back, gentle and weighty. God? Have you come?

  twenty-five

  Studies have tried to prove there’s nothing special about fresh spring water, and thirsty people seem eager to settle for the public variety—unless they’ve tasted the alternative. It is the same in love.