"I'm not sure Papa was a good planter. Becoming a doctor was probably the best thing he could have done. He moved to Galveston because he wanted to be a doctor for the people, not just the planters who had money. We lost everything when Confederate money became worthless, including our position in society. This house is all we have left, but he doesn't mind, because he prefers caring for ordinary people. He'll never make a lot of money, but he makes enough for us to get by. When people can't pay with money, they leave something else in return."
She was sure Holt knew all about that. She'd been told that country people in New England distrusted paper money and depended on the barter system.
"Did somebody leave this chicken?"
"No, but a patient left the flour. We get butter and eggs all the time. Sometimes we get so much, I have to sell it or it would spoil. Papa would prefer that I give it away, but we need the money."
"Okay, so your father's generous heart will keep you poor. That still doesn't explain his condition this morning."
"In a way it does. Papa gets so upset when he remembers what happened in Andersonville, he gets sick. Not that he gets a fever or has to go to bed, but he feels unwell, won't eat, and can't rest. The malaise saps his strength so much that in a few hours he can't walk steadily. He takes a drink to help steady his nerves."
"I don't believe you."
"And to help him forget."
"I can't accept that."
"I'm not asking you to believe or accept anything. That's what happens. He was much worse right after the war. He would be out of control for days at a time."
"What did you do?"
"I took care of the patients until he recovered."
She really succeeded in upsetting him this time. He probably wouldn't have looked any more aghast if she'd said the patients died and they buried them in the root cellar. Only nobody had a root cellar on Galveston Island. The highest point was only seven feet above high tide.
"You're not qualified to treat sick people."
"I'm far more qualified than a mother or father, and they treat their children all the time. Why is it worse when they come to me?"
"Because you're not a doctor."
His words made it clear exactly what irritated her about him. He could be a doctor because he was a man. Her knowledge was useless because she was a woman.
"What makes a doctor?" she asked.
"Training, study, knowledge, experience."
"I have training. I've worked next to my father for as long as I can remember. I have studied his books. And I have knowledge and experience because I've worked with patients, made diagnoses, determined cures, and put them into effect. That's how doctors are trained."
"We have medical schools now."
"But not every doctor goes to a medical school. Most still train through apprenticeships."
"But that doesn't make you a doctor."
"What does? A piece of paper from some medical school? Putting a sign up on my door? Men do that all the time. But they're men, so it's all right."
"It's not all right for men of conscience."
She rose to her feet. "Are you implying I have no moral sense?"
"Of course not. Sit down. You look like a hen about to pounce on a snake."
"What an appropriate metaphor."
"Will you sit down?"
She didn't want to sit down. She didn't want to remain at the table. She didn't want to listen to a word he said.
"I need to clear away the dishes. Papa will want his lunch soon."
Holt stood. "I'd forgotten. I'll tell him to come eat. But don't think we're through talking."
"You don't have any right to tell me what to do."
"I have a moral right, and you know it." He turned and left the room with a long, quick stride that signaled his irritation. Maybe even anger. His expression alone had made it abundantly clear that he believed she was doing something very wrong.
And though she tried not to think about it, she'd never been able to banish a vague feeling of guilt about the way she was protecting her father. But she didn't know a single doctor who didn't take a drink from time to time. Holt was right that a doctor could be called to care for the sick or injured at any time, but nobody ever said he had to deny himself sleep or relaxation. Besides, every man considered it part of his right as a free citizen to drink when he wanted.
Still, her conscience bothered her.
When it came to her practicing medicine, her feelings were different. Having been around her father her whole life, she'd seen more than most doctors when they went into practice. She kept journals of every case and studied them to see what she could learn. She felt certain her knowledge was sound in many areas.
But that was the crux of the problem. In many areas. There were some things she could only learn by attending medical school. But she didn't want to be a doctor. She never had. She wanted to be a wife and mother. She longed for that, but she also had to protect her father. So while she was waiting for the perfect love her mother had promised, she would continue to take care of her father.
"What did you say to that young man?" her father asked the moment he entered the kitchen. "He's as cross as a water moccasin that's had its nest disturbed."
"We had a disagreement."
"Do you have to have a disagreement with every man you meet? He seems like a fine man, one who--"
"Would make me a fine husband," she finished for him.
Her father looked slightly abashed. "I wasn't going to say that, but yes, I think he would make some woman a fine husband."
"Some woman, but not me. He's got too many hidebound ideas." Besides, the man she married would have to love her as much as her father had loved her mother. She couldn't imagine Holt loving anyone more than his sense of duty.
"He's a good man. You shouldn't mind his hidebound ideas."
"The same way I shouldn't mind if you get drunk before mid-morning."
He looked up, hurt in his eyes. "I only had one whiskey, and it wasn't a very big one. I wasn't drunk."
"I know that, and you know that, but your ideal husband in the other room thinks you were drunk and unfit to handle your responsibilities as a doctor."
"That's nonsense." Righteous indignation changed abruptly to chagrin. "We both know I've taken care of people when I was in much worse condition." He reached out and took his daughter's hand. "I know I have you to thank that you never let me work when I was truly not capable. You're a wonderful daughter to have taken such good care of your papa."
Felicity tried to pull away, but he wouldn't release her hand. "Could you have managed Durwin's operation?" she asked.
"Not with Dr. Price's skill, but that would have had nothing to do with my having had a glass of whiskey. I don't have much experience with that kind of operation. It's time you started thinking of yourself, of your future. Staying here cooking for me, helping me in the office, watching to see that I don't treat anybody when I'm unfit--that's not what you ought to be doing with your life."
"It's my life, and I'll be the one to decide what to do with it."
"Why don't you marry one of Durwin's brothers? They've been after you for years."
Felicity took her hand away to bring her father his coffee. "I wouldn't marry Darcy. He's handsome and sweet, but he's nearly as stupid as Durwin. And while Dermot is smarter and more dependable than his brothers, I can't stand his repeating everything he says because he thinks women are too stupid to understand the first time."
"Okay, the Sealy boys aren't ideal, but there's no point in ignoring this man. I'm not saying you should marry him. Neither of us knows him very well yet. I am saying you shouldn't get your back up every time a man says something you don't like. You're going to make me sorry I brought you up to be so independent."
"I like being independent."
"I know. I'm just afraid you're going to be independent right up to your grave."
Felicity thought of all the men who'd shown her attention. In addition to the
Sealy brothers, she'd been approached by a barber with bad teeth and ill-fitting clothes, a farmer who thought she'd make a good mother for the six sons he intended to father, a couple of men working for hourly wages--one on the docks and another as a clerk in a feed store--one land speculator she wouldn't trust not to lie to God, and a handsome young wastrel who thought it would be wonderful to live in her house and be supported by her father while she catered to his every want. There were a few more who would probably have shown interest if she hadn't convinced them almost immediately it was useless.
"Unless I have different choices from what I've had already, I'd prefer to go to my grave an old maid."
"Felicity, you can't--"
"Maybe I'll marry a cowboy and take to doctoring cows," she said. The thought that followed those unthinking words brought a flush to her face. The only cowboy she knew was Holt. "Eat your dinner and stop teasing me. I'll marry if the right man comes along. Otherwise, I'll plague you the rest of your life."
Her father reached for her hand once more. "You're not a plague. You're a blessing and you know it. Sometimes you look so much like your mother, I think she's sitting with me again." He laughed without humor. "It's a good thing she's not sitting where you are. She wouldn't recognize the sad wreck I've become."
Felicity cherished a daguerreotype of her mother and father taken shortly after their wedding. They had been a handsome couple, her mother beautiful, slim, and round-cheeked, her father tall, thin, and sporting a full head of nearly unmanageable hair. Now the little hair he had was white--Felicity didn't remember it being any other color--and he had gained considerable weight through the middle. His posture was bent, his body slumped forward as though weighed down by the burden of life.
"Mother would be proud of what you've done," Felicity said, squeezing her father's hand. "Not many men would give up the comfortable life of a wealthy planter to doctor people who pay in barter more frequently than money."
"And she'd be very proud of a daughter who stood over her foolish old papa, protecting him from himself."
"And from people like Dr. Price," Felicity added.
"Why should you have to protect me from him?"
"Because he's one of those rigid moralists who never does anything wrong and doesn't allow anybody else latitude to make mistakes."
"You're too hard on him."
"No, I'm not. You didn't have to sit with him while he preached about how a doctor owed it to his patients and his profession to be in the best possible condition to deal with sickness or injury at every hour of the day."
"He's right."
"Within reason. Nobody expects you to deny yourself pleasure and recreation, not to mention indulging a man's ordinary appetites, just because you're a doctor. That's almost as bad as saying that if I were a doctor, I couldn't have a baby because someone might need me while I was in labor."
"Now you're being ridiculous."
"I know that's an extreme situation, but that's what I'm trying to tell you. Your marvelous Dr. Price believes in extremes. He doesn't allow any room for extenuating circumstances. I don't know who this woman is he's trying to find, but I wonder if she ran away because she knew she'd have to be a paragon to live with him."
"That's unkind, Felicity. You don't know this young woman. There could be many reasons why she hasn't found him again."
"Mainly because she's afraid."
"That's a possibility, but it's more likely she doesn't know where to find him. Why are you so set against him?"
"Because I don't trust him not to hurt you."
"He only wants the best for patients."
"And he doesn't think you can deliver it."
"I couldn't have done the operation on Durwin. I said as much."
"Now you've invited him to stay here to look after Durwin. I can't throw him out, but until he leaves you're not to swallow a single drop of whiskey."
"Felicity, you're putting yourself in a bother for nothing."
"I hope so, but we can't afford to take the chance. We can't have anybody broadcasting it about that you're too drunk to take care of your patients."
She didn't tell him--she hoped he wouldn't know--but people already whispered behind his back about his drinking. The men didn't seem to think it mattered, but some women had started to go to other doctors. It was hard to hold her head up when she knew that people pitied her, but she was proud of her father, too proud to let anyone suspect she felt even one moment of shame.
"My patients are loyal."
"I hope so, but Dr. Price is very good. He's also a zealot. That's a combination I don't trust."
The opening of the kitchen door interrupted their conversation. Holt stuck his head in. "Durwin is awake and demanding to go home."
Chapter Four
"I thought you said he was awake," Felicity said. Durwin was unconscious.
"He was. I gave him some laudanum," Holt said. "He's in no condition to be moved, much less go home."
"I don't like giving my patients opium in any form," Dr. Moore said. "It sometimes masks symptoms I need to see to treat them properly."
"I don't like it either," Holt said, "but he showed signs of becoming unmanageable. I thought sedating him was the best thing to do for the time being."
Holt was already wishing he hadn't agreed to stay with the Moores or look after Durwin. The war had deprived him of his innocence and a large part of his sympathetic responsiveness. He'd had to harden himself to what he was doing, force himself to forget that the bodies he operated on belonged to people just like him, or he wouldn't have been able to endure.
And Felicity Moore's attitude heightened his desire to leave.
She looked at him like he was a Judas just waiting for an opportunity to betray her. He wasn't fool enough to think no doctor ever drank, but he distrusted anyone who drank in the morning. Because of his own father, his stance on drunkenness was uncompromising, but he had great sympathy for anyone who suffered from the horrors of the war. He'd been troubled by nightmares himself.
"You should have called my father," Felicity said. "Durwin would have listened to him."
"I considered it, but by then he was struggling so hard, I was worried he'd tear something loose."
Even though she knew a great deal more about medicine than he'd supposed at first, he didn't understand why Felicity tried to second-guess him at every turn.
"Laudanum might slow his breathing and heartbeat," Felicity said.
"I didn't give him much. I prefer to administer a few small doses rather than one large one."
"Did you use it a lot during the war?" Dr. Moore asked.
"What little we had was exhausted at Bull Run. After that, we could never get more than occasional small amounts. Most of the poor devils had to suffer their pain with nothing to dull it."
He didn't tell them that many doctors didn't believe in giving anything for pain. They took it for granted that patients would suffer until they became unconscious, got well, or died.
"How long do you think we'll have to keep Durwin immobilized?"
"At least two days."
"How long could he be in danger?"
"A week."
"Will you stay that long?"
It was on the tip of Holt's tongue to say that he wouldn't stay beyond the two days, but he hesitated. This was the first time he'd operated since the war. Though he didn't want to remain in medicine, he wanted to be the one to monitor Durwin's recovery.
And he felt a kinship with Dr. Moore. He meant to be ruthless if he found the doctor treating patients when drunk, but he could sympathize with the old man's condition. People said doctors had had it easy during the war--all they had to do was cut on people who were going to die anyway--but Holt knew better. Every doctor he knew had been scarred for life by what he'd seen and had to do.
Then there was Felicity. He couldn't decide whether he hesitated because he was attracted to her or because he was angry at her misinterpretation of his intentions and wanted a chance to p
rove her wrong. He didn't usually pay much attention to what people thought of him. He'd developed a thick skin growing up, but Felicity had managed to get under it.
"I can't promise," Holt said, "but I won't disappear without warning. I've got some decisions to make about my future. Working with you for a few days will give me some time to think about my choices."
"I thought you had dedicated your life to taking care of the sick and infirm," Felicity said, not without a note of sarcasm in her voice.
"I thought I had, too, but that was before the war."
"You can't give up medicine," Dr. Moore said. "You're a brilliant surgeon."
"Your daughter tells me you had a difficult time getting over your experiences during the war. I have, too. I've spent the last two years working as a cowhand so I could put medicine behind me."
"You didn't hesitate with Durwin."
"I guess I was like a horse suddenly back in harness. There he was in desperate need, and I couldn't find a single excuse not to help."
"What else are you considering?" Felicity asked.
Holt had no idea. He'd never enjoyed being a merchant, but it didn't matter, because his father has lost their store. Holt had quickly discovered he had no desire to be a farmer. The war had spoiled medicine, and he wasn't cut out to be a cowboy. He felt restless, unsettled, unable to concentrate.
"I've got nothing particular in mind at the moment."
He'd fallen in love with a Southern aristocrat who'd married someone else, then disappeared, leaving him a letter saying she'd always love him. Holt was determined to find her. He'd also come to Galveston looking for Laveau diViere. He had an old score to settle.
"I'd say you have a lot of deciding to do," Dr. Moore said. "I can't think of a better place to do it than right here. You can help me while you look for this young woman, and I won't charge you room and board."
"Don't be putting pressure on him, Papa," Felicity said. "He might not need to save money or want to help you with patients."
"He's not pressuring me," Holt said. "I think it's a very good solution. I'm just not sure it's the solution for me. Could you give me a day to think about it?"
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