by Myra Johnson
“No need to sugarcoat the facts.” Lieutenant Ballard’s gaze faltered. “I hit you—no excuses—and I’m humiliated as—”
Mr. Ballard jabbed his brother’s good arm. “Now, now, Gil, no swearing in front of the lady.”
Mary’s face warmed. She offered a shy smile. “Working among soldiers, you can be sure I’ve heard every kind of curse word known to man—and probably a few only the devil himself might utter.”
“I’m sure—”
The lieutenant interrupted his brother with a wave of his hand. “Don’t you need to get to the hotel, Thomas?”
With an exaggerated eye roll and mock salute, Thomas Ballard backed away. “Right, right. I’ll be back in two hours, on the dot, sir.”
Lieutenant Ballard massaged his forehead. “Just get out of here, will you?” Then, as if he’d heard the rudeness in his tone, he glanced up at Mary and shrugged. “Apologies again. You don’t deserve to have my foul temper inflicted upon you every time we meet.”
Just to be standing this close to him—close enough to see the sunlight from the window cast blue streaks through his thick, dark curls—oh, she’d take him in good temper or foul. “You’re a fine, brave man who has served his country well. No one on God’s green earth can blame you for a little touchiness now and again, considering all you’ve endured.”
“A little touchiness?” The lieutenant choked out a harsh laugh. “Miss McClarney, I hit you, and I’ll never be able to forgive myself. Please tell me there’s some way I can make it up to you.”
Mary’s heart fluttered. “Well, I—”
A tug on her sleeve drew her attention. One of the hydrotherapy attendants, a burly man with a mustache, stood at her elbow. “Excuse me, Nurse McClarney, but you have a patient ready to return to the ward, and I need to get Lieutenant Ballard started.”
Lieutenant Ballard signaled him away with a brisk tilt of his head. “Give us a minute, will you, Lester?” He reached for Mary’s hand and pulled her closer.
Suppressing a shiver, Mary hoped it was mutual attraction she detected in his gray-green stare, rather than the mix of guilt and resignation the eyes of her heart could not deny. Oh, she knew full well he’d broken his engagement with the lovely Miss Kendall. Every nurse on the ward was gossiping about it within an hour the day Miss Kendall left in tears. But was he truly over her or only pretending to himself and the world?
Either way, one question remained: could a man like First Lieutenant Gilbert Ballard ever find room in his heart for a common Irish working girl like Mary McClarney?
Mary McClarney. Quick with a Cupid’s-bow smile to cheer a downcast heart or a stern rebuke to shame a stubborn patient into submission. The petite redhead, rounded in all the right places, stood in stark contrast with—
Let it go, Ballard. It’s over.
So why shouldn’t he be looking elsewhere for a little happiness, a little diversion? He was still a man, after all. Or at least most of him was still intact. Although some days he’d gladly amputate his head if it was the only way to be rid of these infernal headaches.
He glanced at the delicately freckled hand cradled in his, and then up into luminous green eyes gazing at him in wonder and surprise. She was attracted to him, he could tell. In fact, as he thought back to his days on the ward—before the infamous morning he’d popped her in the jaw—it sure seemed as if she’d given him more than his share of attention.
What could it hurt? He was lonely, bored, sick of evening cribbage games with Thomas, sicker still of his mother’s rigid control over his life, and sickest of all of his own vile company.
“Miss McClarney—Mary.” He squeezed her hand. “Would you allow me to take you to dinner one evening soon? It’s the least I can do to show you how sorry I am for—well, for everything.”
A rosy flush worked its way up her fair cheeks. Her free hand flew to her bosom. “Why, sir, I hardly know what to say!”
“Just say yes.” And quickly, before I lose my nerve or the hopeful gleam in your eye turns to pity. “We could go tonight if you’re free. When does your shift end?”
She tucked a carrot-orange tress under her cap and glanced behind her, then lowered her voice to a nervous whisper. “I shouldn’t be fraternizing with the patients, you know. Mrs. Daley doesn’t approve.”
“I’m not exactly a patient any longer, just coming in for physical therapy.” Gilbert grinned as he envisioned tugging the cap from her head and letting those lustrous curls shake free. Something stirred inside him, something he hadn’t experienced in a long, long time. Something he hadn’t dared to even allow himself to feel. But now, it warmed the cold, nearly forgotten place deep within his belly with an intensity he couldn’t suppress, and the urgency emboldened him. “Please. It’s just dinner. Tell me what time to pick you up.”
She looked at him askance, her gaze sliding to his left leg—or lack thereof. “How will—I mean—”
Shaking off a self-conscious twinge, he released an easy laugh. “It’s all right. My mother has a driver. Or if he isn’t available, there’s always Thomas.”
Mary’s smile softened. Her hand warmed against his palm. “All right, then, I’d love to dine with you. But I’m afraid tonight isn’t good. My mum—she’s not well, I’m afraid. She’ll expect me home to cook for her.”
“Then you name the day.”
Her eyes narrowed in a thoughtful look, and then her smile beamed once more. “I’m off this Friday. I could get Mum’s supper ready early and then be free to join you.”
“Friday it is. May I call for you at six?”
“Miss McClarney!” Lester, the mustachioed therapist, wheeled his patient closer, and Mary jerked her hand free of Gilbert’s. “Some of us have a schedule to keep, if you don’t mind. Sergeant Weber is waiting to go back to the ward.”
Mary gave Gilbert a coy glance, deep dimples cratering her cheeks as she murmured, “Six would be lovely, thank you. I’ll leave a note for you at the front desk with my address.” Then turning with a swirl of her white pinafore, she nudged Lester aside and seized the handles of the sergeant’s wheelchair. “So how was your treatment this morning, Sergeant Weber? Nearly good as new, are we?”
Gilbert watched her go, unable to tear his eyes from the provocative sway of her hips. The ache in the pit of his belly grew stronger. He wanted her. Badly. Or at least what she had to offer. Oh, he’d be a gentleman—or try.
The rest . . . it all depended on Miss Mary McClarney.
16
A pale pink dawn was already creeping through her window shades when Annemarie awoke Friday morning. She sat up with a start and checked the time on her bedside clock—a quarter past seven. For heaven’s sake, she never slept this late! Papa would be on his way to the factory by now.
And Sam—Mama should have awakened Annemarie at two this morning to take her turn sitting up with him.
She cinched the sash of her robe, her unruly mass of tangles catching in the collar. Tugging her hair free, she hurried downstairs and found her mother in the kitchen, a pan of poached eggs steaming on the stove. “Mama, were you with Samuel all night long? Why didn’t you wake me?”
“It’s all right, dear.” Mama smiled over her shoulder. “Put some bread in the toaster, please. These eggs are almost ready.”
Obediently, Annemarie took two slices from the breadbox, set them on the toaster racks, and plugged the appliance into an electrical outlet. “But Samuel—I told you to wake me—”
“Hush, now, and help me get breakfast ready. The kettle’s hot. Fill the tea ball and get some tea steeping.” Mama turned down the stove burner and then sprinkled the eggs with a dash of salt and pepper.
Annemarie frowned as she opened the tea canister and scooped black pekoe into her mother’s acorn-shaped silver tea strainer. “I should go check on Sam. Did he have a good night? When did you last look in on him?”
“He had a very good night. Which is exactly why I didn’t bother to wake you.”
“You need your
sleep, too, Mama. We agreed to take turns.” Donning an oven mitt, Annemarie reached for the burbling kettle. No sooner had she poured the water than the acrid smell of burnt bread stung her nose. “Oh, no, the toast!”
“See what you get for talking when you should be helping?” Mama took a plate from the cupboard and dished out the eggs.
With an annoyed growl, Annemarie unplugged the toaster and used a fork to remove the smoking slices. Once she had two more pieces of bread in place, she started the toaster again, this time standing over it to make sure the bread toasted to a perfect golden brown. “Who’s this for, anyway? You hardly ever cook eggs on a weekday.”
Mama quirked a grin. “Why, our dear Samuel, of course. He’s wide awake and hungry this morning.”
Annemarie’s heart galloped with giddy delight. “Oh, Mama, is he?”
“The toast, dear, the toast!” Mama laughed as she poured tea into a china cup, stirred in a dash of honey, and set it on the bed tray Annemarie had only just noticed sitting on one end of the kitchen table.
With shaking hands, Annemarie forked the toast onto the plate of eggs. “Do you suppose he wants butter or jam? Or both?”
“Neither.” Mama gave her a pointed look. “Dry toast to sop up his eggs is plenty for his stomach to handle for now.” She took the plate from Annemarie and set it on the tray next to a folded cloth napkin. “I’d ask you to carry this in to him,” she began, the faintest edge to her voice, “but I’m afraid in your state of agitation you’d spill his breakfast in his lap—if you even made it that far!”
“I can manage just fine, thank you.” Annemarie cut in front of her mother and wrapped her fingers around the handles of the tray. In a gentler tone she added, “Mama, let me do it. You’ve spent enough time in his room.”
Mama tilted her head to offer a grateful smile. Reaching into a drawer, she withdrew a clean gauze mask. “Here, then. Dr. Lessman said we should wear these at least a few more days, just to be safe.”
Annemarie fumbled with the ties, her fingers snarling in her uncombed hair, until her mother finally tsk-tsked and came to her aid. Then with a steadying breath and no small amount of annoyance with herself, Annemarie hefted the tray. When she started toward the hallway, her mother’s low chuckle echoed behind her.
Leave it to Mama to read more into Annemarie’s discombobulation than was there. Of course, she was anxious about Samuel’s health. His fever had raged, and he’d drifted in and out of consciousness for nearly a week. More than once, they’d been ready to call for an ambulance to take him to the hospital, but Dr. Lessman never failed to come right away to check on his patient and reassure them. Thank the Lord complications had been few and Samuel was expected to recover completely.
Sam, Sam. How attached Annemarie had grown to this dear man in the short time she’d known him. He’d proven to be a steadfast and caring friend, one she’d come to count on even more in the wake of her broken engagement.
Annemarie paused in the hallway. She couldn’t even pretend she hadn’t seen it coming. Even so, she could scarcely believe how her childhood sweetheart had changed in a year’s time. His cool detachment chilled her heart. Worse was the bitterness lurking just below the surface, the anger ready to explode at the least provocation.
Blame the war. Blame the accursed war.
Annemarie’s throat closed. She sniffed back the threatening tears and jutted her chin. Hadn’t Samuel lived through the same horrors? He may not have carried a rifle or lost a limb, but she’d listened in anguish to his fever-induced rantings about war’s death and devastation. He’d lost friends, ministered to the injured and dying, no doubt presided over more burials in a month’s time than a hundred clergymen combined would face during the entire course of their careers.
Though she hadn’t known Sam before the war, she couldn’t imagine he had changed very much from the kind, compassionate, faith-filled man he’d always been. His tender heart, his gentle ways, his loyalty to Gilbert even when Gilbert pushed him away—Chaplain Samuel Vickary defined virtue by his very life.
The bedroom door stood ajar. She nudged it open with her hip and greeted her patient with a cheery smile—one he probably couldn’t even appreciate thanks to the mask. “Good morning, Sam! Mama said you were awake and hungry.”
He looked tired, but his eyes shone with a clearness she hadn’t seen since before he’d taken ill. “The smell of breakfast in the air was just about to drive me insane.”
“You probably smelled the toast I burnt.” Annemarie set the tray on the dresser. “Will you need help to eat?”
“I don’t think so, if you’d rearrange my pillows a bit.” Samuel drew a hand along his jaw, nearly a week’s growth of beard darkening his cheeks. “Wish I had the strength to shower and shave first. I must reek to high heaven.”
“Not to worry. Papa’s been seeing to your . . . hygiene.” Heat surged in Annemarie’s cheeks, and she was thankful he couldn’t see her blush behind the mask. She helped him reposition his pillows, then turned to the dresser to retrieve the tray. “Now that you’re getting stronger, I’m sure Papa will help you shave soon.”
Samuel smoothed the blankets so Annemarie could set the bed tray across his lap. She unfolded his napkin and laid it upon his chest. “There now, all set. Eat before everything gets cold.”
He cut off a bite of egg with the side of his fork and lifted it to his mouth. His eyes closed in a look of ecstasy. “Delicious!” After another bite or two he looked up at Annemarie, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a weak smile. “Are you watching to make sure I clean my plate?”
She hadn’t realized she was staring and gave a tiny laugh. “Sorry. It’s just so good to see you feeling better.” She plopped into the bedside chair. “I was—we were all so worried about you.”
“I’ll be forever indebted to you and your parents. I’m practically a stranger, and yet you risked your own health to take care of me.” Samuel laid his fork aside. His head fell against the pillows, and he sent Annemarie a worried gaze. “I’ll never be able to forgive myself if you get sick.”
“Stop such talk right now. We’ve taken every possible precaution, and besides, the Kendalls are hardy stock.” She flicked her hand at his plate. “Your toast is getting cold, and so is your tea. Finish up now, or I shall have to force-feed you again.”
With a sigh, Samuel raised his head and bit into a slice of toast. After a few more bites, he took a sip of tea, then licked his lips. “I don’t remember much of anything since I took ill. Your mother said you found me wandering up and down the street outside your house.”
“You were delirious with fever. I can’t imagine how you ever found your way here.” The memory of that night brought new waves of confusion. “Or why,” she added under her breath.
“I walked to your house. I wanted to—”
Samuel’s hand shook as he set the teacup into the saucer with a clatter. “Did I—” He covered a cough with the napkin, then rested his head, eyes closed, brow furrowed. “Did I say anything?”
“Nothing made much sense.” Annemarie twisted the ends of her sash and mentally replayed some of his ramblings.
“Never love me . . . always him.” Someone must have broken his heart, fallen for another.
“So beautiful . . . not worthy of her.” But who—and why? No one could possibly be more worthy of love than Sam.
“Need you . . . please stay.” Yet only Annemarie had been in the room when he’d murmured those words. He’d groped for her hand. His red-rimmed eyes had bored into hers with a soul-searing intensity she couldn’t entirely write off as influenza-induced delirium.
She stole a glance at him and saw he’d drifted off to sleep, his hands lying limp atop the blankets. He’d finished most of his eggs but barely nibbled on the toast. The effort must have exhausted him. As gently as possible, she removed the bed tray and slipped quietly from the room.
When Samuel opened his eyes later, the first thing he noticed was the quiet. The feverish thrummi
ng between his ears had dissipated sometime in the night, along with the rasping rales of chest congestion. All well and good, but the one sound he wanted to hear had also faded—Annemarie’s tender voice.
He rolled his head toward the empty chair. Hadn’t she been sitting right there while he ate? But now the bed tray was gone, and a brighter sun beat against the window shade between the parted drapes.
Maybe he’d only dreamed she’d brought him breakfast—except those were definitely toast crumbs on the sheet, and the aftertaste of honey-sweetened tea still lingered upon his tongue.
Footsteps sounded outside the door. Samuel’s pulse quickened. He shifted higher against the pillows. “Annemarie?”
“Just me.” Mask in place, Mrs. Kendall sidled into the room, and Samuel berated himself for the unwarranted stab of disappointment. “Good, you’re awake. You were napping so peacefully after your breakfast I hated to disturb you. I thought you might like to know your mother telephoned again.”
Samuel eased into a more comfortable position. “I’ve worried her, haven’t I? Has she called often?”
“Every day.” Mrs. Kendall’s gaze darted about the room for a few seconds before settling on Samuel. “She would have rushed right back to be with you, but we assured her you were being well cared for and wouldn’t want her exposed. I was happy I could tell her how much better you’re doing today.”
“Thank you.” The weight of gratitude he owed this family threatened to overwhelm him. “Thank you for everything.”
“Not another word. We’re so glad we could help.” Mrs. Kendall folded her hands at her waist, but the faint tinge of unease hadn’t left her eyes.
“Is . . . is everything all right?”
“Oh, don’t mind me.” With a self-deprecating laugh, she busied herself straightening a doily on the dresser, then adjusted the drapes. “Would you like a little more light in the room? It might cheer you.”
Since his head no longer hurt so much, he wouldn’t mind at all. “That would be nice.”