“By spring the contagion seemed past, but by then I knew that my calling was to stay here and practice with my grandfather who was getting old and not in the best of health. Jenny joined me then and we moved in with the family, intending to eventually build a small house of our own.”
Her attention focused on him, she didn’t try to interrupt but simply waited for him to continue.
“The next winter Eddie was born. I couldn’t have been happier, but Jenny had little interest in the baby and she couldn’t seem to get back on her feet. She’d never really liked it here so with some reluctance I offered to move back to live near her parents. She refused. She didn’t want me or the baby. She left Eddie to my mother’s care and left, saying she wouldn’t be coming back and I should consider myself free of her.”
“Postpartum depression,” Cynthia said knowingly. “But I had the impression she’d died.”
He shook his head. “I knew she’d never be back, but as the second winter came around, we began to see the influenza popping up again. Most of us had it the winter before, but of those who were getting it this time, we saw heavy death rates. Healthy young people were dying and nothing we could do would save them. My own mother was among the victims.”
“We know now that flu can mutate,” she said. “I don’t know much about it, but it can become more serious.”
He thought about that. “That’s what Grandpa theorized. You have to understand that he was better trained by far than most doctors out here. He’d studied in Europe with the best and he was also . . .” He hesitated, trying to think how to explain about Grandpa. Impossible! You couldn’t put him into words. “There was a special, unexplainable element to him as well. He said it was tradition and a bit of something extra handed down from ancient Irish ancestors.” He smiled at the memory.
“One late evening he came to me and told me he thought we’d about seen the last of the deaths. He said almost everybody who could catch it had, but he was worried about outsiders.”
“Outsiders?” she asked, not comprehending.
“It was a good distance to the next town and Grandpa had insisted on keeping everybody as close as possible.”
“He isolated you? He must have guessed from the first that this was going to be bad.”
Again Evan closed his eyes, not wanting to see her face. “He said if this virulent form of disease spread past our community, thousands might die, that it could quickly over run the state and beyond. At his urging we called a meeting of the community and he offered them the option. He could close us down, lock us off in our own place and time so that we didn’t send our illness out to others.”
They sat in silence for long moments. “Several people have mentioned voting to me. They voted for the lockdown.”
He nodded. “Everybody agreed to abide by the majority vote.” That night Grandpa did whatever he did; he wouldn’t let me help. He only lived a few months after that, it was as what he’d accomplished that night sapped all the vitality out of him. He was never the same again.”
That was pretty much it. Right now he didn’t know what else to say. He waited, his eyes on her.
“When the first Europeans came here, they brought disease to the native Americans. People died of common childhood illnesses because they had no immunity built up. Is that why they’re afraid of us here? They’re afraid we’re bringing in new dangers?”
“The Indians and the newcomers had an ocean between them and no common heritage,” he protested.
“We have over a hundred years between us.”
“And much common heritage,” he reminded her. “The truth is, Cynthia, I’m more afraid for you and Betsy. We kept that influenza strain closed in here behind our barrier and now you’ve come inside.”
She stared at him. “Betsy?” she asked in disbelief.
He nodded. “It’s been years, my dear,” he said gently. “The risk cannot be very high, but for the next few weeks I’d prefer that the two of you remain in isolation.”
She seemed to sway slightly. “Betsy,” she said again, and he guessed she wasn’t even thinking of her own danger. “And that first night, we walked right up there to where the whole town was gathered.”
“It was outside in the open air and . . .”
She reached out to cover his mouth with her hand. “We will do whatever you say, Dr. Stephens. For however long you suggest, we will stay to ourselves.”
To Evan’s dismay, Cynthia insisted on going further than he thought necessary to insure the safety of townspeople and her daughter. She learned from his father that a rental property he owned was currently unoccupied and moved herself and Betsy into the modest cottage on Lavender’s less affluent east side. Forrest Stephens, who heartily approved of the move, arranged for the delivery of food and other necessities, and had the newly ordered clothing left on the front steps. Evan refused to cooperate in what he saw as way too much in the way of caution.
Cynthia locked her doors on him and when he knocked loudly refused to answer. Even the gate to the back yard where she allowed Betsy to get out and play in the fresh air had was locked. Of course, he could have easily climbed over the fence and entered, but that seemed an offense against her clearly announced wishes so all he could do was carry on shouted conversations from outside the fence.
“Two weeks will be enough,” he yelled one afternoon.
“Six,” she shouted back firmly, digging fiercely at the flower garden she was working up in preparation for planting.
“Cynthia Burden,” he yelled. “You are one stubborn woman.”
“Thanks, I take pride in that fact,” she shouted back.
He couldn’t help laughing. Surely they would be all right, Cynthia and Betsy. He prayed to God that they would come through this unscathed.
Chapter Fourteen
It was only the water closet and Betsy’s pleadings that made Cynthia even considering moving back to the house on Crockett Street once the six weeks were up.
She hated that outdoor toilet in the backyard with all the passion of a woman accustomed since childhood to modern plumbing. Besides Betsy, who assumed that living in the cottage was only a temporary interlude, talked incessantly those last few days about getting back to her cooking sessions with Mrs. Myers. Poor child, even though Cynthia had worked hard at keeping her occupied with lessons, reading, gardening and everything else of which she could think, she’d been bored to death with the isolation her mother had determined to be essential to her wellbeing.
In the six weeks they’d been in the little westside house, spring had turned into hot Texas summer and school released until fall. The cottage with its small windows and low ceilings was so hot at night that Cynthia couldn’t sleep and even Betsy tossed and turned so when Forrest Stephens himself came with a wagon to take them and their belongings back ‘home,’ just as though that had been planned all along, she didn’t argue too hard.
This time she and Betsy were given separate rooms on the second floor while Mrs. Myers, who announced that propriety required she move in as chaperone, occupied their old room across the hall.
A special dinner of roast chicken, mashed turnips, beets and juicy sliced tomatoes fresh from the garden was served in the big dining room as a celebration and by the time the dessert of honey cakes was placed on the table even Eddie was chatting to Betsy about plans for the months of summer freedom.
Evan had to leave halfway through dinner when called to an emergency out in the countryside. Cynthia washed the dishes while Eddie and Betsy dried. She intended to do all she could to earn their keep while they were staying here, but she’d already considered and rejected half a dozen plans for independence before she finally fell asleep that night.
She woke the next morning to be reminded that it was Sunday and though she’d occasionally visited a little country church with her brother and his wife, regular attendance had never been a part of the life she and Betsy shared in California. This morning made it quickly apparent, however, that no other
plan existed for this Victorian household.
Most of the preparations for the noon meal had been made the night before with a roast and vegetables keeping warm in the oven and breakfast made up of cold ham with boiled eggs and bread baked earlier in the week. “Not supposed to work on the Sabbath,” Mrs. Myers explained, “at least no more than to get the ox out of the ditch.”
Amused, she didn’t ask for an explanation of the remark even though she couldn’t quite see the connection between oxen and a cold Sunday breakfast. It was up to her to fit in here, not to try to bring them the light of more modern times. Somehow instinctively she felt it would be wrong to import too much knowledge of the hundred plus years of the future into Mrs. Myer’s understanding.
She didn’t want to change Lavender at an unnaturally fast pace. After all, she’d chosen to reject that future time and come back here for reasons of her own and somehow a gracious universe had allowed this sanctuary.
Wearing a dark blue cotton dress made on more elegant lines than her ordinary garments, she put on a stylish hat adorned with a speckled guinea feather and went to see how Betsy was coming along.
She met the two girls on the stairs, amused to see them in lookalike dresses of pink gingham, auburn hair and blonde plaited into similar braids, though Betsy’s curls kept creeping out of order. She guessed that Mrs. Myers was responsible for the twin dressings, though two girls could hardly have looked more dissimilar with Eddie tall and lanky in her pink dress while the much shorter Betsy was a cuddly pink doll. Both girls were going to grow into attractive women, Cynthia guessed, though in very different styles.
Mrs. Myers, standing at the foot of the stairs, scolded them for misbehaving, telling them that they should get along like sisters or cousins and treat each other better.
From the looks they cast in each other’s direction, Cynthia was fairly certain that wouldn’t be happening soon. Though from what she’d read even near-age siblings usually got along like cats and dogs.
The six of them walked together to the church which was only three blocks away. Built of white stone, the building was simple though with the classic touches of stained glass windows in the front and a blocky tower. Cynthia guessed it had been built well before the ‘80s when the town had retreated into itself.
The interior was equally simple and just as beautiful with a huge cross made from a dark, highly polished wood hung on the wall just above the choir. Most of the pews were already filled and Cynthia, her heart in her throat, could only hope that they wouldn’t stampede out at the sight of the newcomers. Evan had assured her that he had spread word of the lengthy isolation period she and Betsy had endured, insuring everyone’s safety. Still she held her breath as she walked between Forrest and Mrs. Myers to the pew near the front, one of the few left unoccupied so she had to assume it was customarily for the use of the Stephens’ family members.
Even as she seated herself between her two protectors, Eddie and Betsy with Mrs. Myers next to Eddie and Evan on one end and Forrest on the other, she was conscious of being watched closely, though no one overtly stared.
She was glad when the choir began to sing, almost as if cued as they took their places, focusing her attention ahead, barely taking in the words of the song or the sermon until they were halfway through. Only then did she allow herself the luxury of a look around. Mrs. Myers seemed stiff and a little anxious and Cynthia who wasn’t too sure what the housekeeper thought of her, knew she adored both little girls and that she was probably worried about someone being unkind to Betsy.
Forrest was almost scowling as though defying anyone to challenge him as to whom he could have as guests in his house. He was a fierce old man and could show a rough tongue even to his son and, more rarely, to his granddaughter, but she had a feeling he was one of those who felt he could criticize family members, but nobody else better!
Her gaze slid over Betsy and then Eddie, who was behaving with unaccustomed propriety, her eyes meeting those of Dr. Evan Stephens.
He winked at her. Right there in church, he winked at her. Obviously Betsy saw because she gave a little giggle that earned her a severe look from Mrs. Myers.
When the final benediction was spoken and they began to edge from the pews, they were greeted by those closest to them and nodded at by those more distantly positioned. She let out a breath of relief. They had received some degree of acceptance at least, no doubt due to the escort of the Stephens family.
Eddie and Betsy led the way from the church, beginning to chatter as soon as they cleared the crowd. Eddie was telling the other girl about the various boys and girls in attendance, a largely critical analysis until Mrs. Myers made a pointed remark about not going to church just to indulge in unchristian gossip the minute you stepped out.
That was enough to subdue Betsy, but Cynthia noticed that a minute later Eddie was whispering in the other girl’s ear.
She could only think that it was good they were confiding in each other. They might never become best friends, but maybe they would at least learn to tolerate each other.
After a noontime dinner of food prepared on the previous day, the afternoon was a quiet one. Betsy, who had taken piano lessons for several years, was allowed to play and sing with Eddie, but the only allowable tunes were hymns. Play was expected to be quiet and respectful. Games were not acceptable and only religious reading material allowed.
Cynthia had heard of Victorian observance of the Sabbath, but for this first one at least, she wasn’t bored but enjoyed the conversation she had in the living room with Evan while Mrs. Myers in one comfortable chair and Forrest in another ‘rested their eyes’ so successfully that she heard soft little snores coming from each direction.
But even the expectations of Sunday observances didn’t keep the doctor inside when a small boy came by to report that his mama was “flat on the kitchen floor.”
He departed with his black bag and Cynthia was left to entertain Betsy and a visibly restless Eddie. She suspected the active little girl had found the quiet afternoon excessively trying and offered to take the two of them for a walk. She managed to keep them at a reasonably slow pace while they were still in town and occasionally met other strollers. Passersby greeted them politely enough and a few were even downright friendly. Cynthia couldn’t help being pleased at this new level of acceptance, though she did notice that there were a few who still hung back.
Once they moved past town and into the open farm country beyond, Eddie broke into a run. She was like a young colt pinned up too long and even Betsy tried her best, unsuccessfully, to keep up with her.
Cynthia laughed aloud. Though she had jogged regularly at home, she knew she’d probably stumble all over the place if she’d tried to run in her long skirts. The girls were lucky. Their hems only came down to their ankles.
She watched them both slow as they came to an open gate where a girl who looked to be in her mid-teens gestured them to a stop. They were still talking when her brisk walk brought her up to them.
“Good day, Mrs. Burden,” the straw-haired teen greeted her. “Mom saw you all coming and sent me to ask you in for a cold glass of buttermilk.”
Thirsty as she was, buttermilk didn’t sound exactly inviting, but she wasn’t about to turn down the friendly offer. She smiled at the girl. “Please call me Cynthia,” she returned. “And we’d be happy to accept your offer of refreshment.”
Dimples showed in the rounded cheeks when the girl smiled. “I’m Maggie,” she said, “Maggie Clark.”
The Clarks were an older couple with half a dozen grownup children. Maggie was their youngest and the only one still left at home.
Home baked molasses cookies were served with the buttermilk. The cookies were delicious and Cynthia managed to choke down sips of the cold buttermilk without revealing how revolting she found it. Eddie drank it as though it was a favored drink and Betsy, after a frown or two, followed the other girl’s example.
Mrs. Clark seemed pleased to have visitors and dominated the conve
rsation with her cheerful talk of her daughters and sons and the various people they had married. Obviously her grandchildren were her greatest interest in life, though her husband complained in his deep voice, “All moved off and got places of their own. Not a one of ‘em stuck with dairying.”
“Well, Papa,” he wife reminded him, “It’s a hard life.”
“Good enough for us,” he said argumentatively, “Now we’ve only got Maggie left and no doubt she’d be off too as soon as she finishes school.”
“You need to hire somebody to help, Papa,” Maggie said.
“They’d rather work in town, or even on the crops. Nobody wants to work in a dairy.”
Cynthia suppressed a smile. Mr. Clark reminded her of a mournful old hound that belonged to a neighbor of Moss and Lynne’s. He was bound to see matters in a negative way.
But wait! “I need a job,” she said. “Is there some kind of work I could do?”
Mrs. Clark looked shocked, but Maggie was the one who spoke up, “Oh, no, Mrs. Burden. Not a lady like you.”
Cynthia couldn’t help grinning. “When Betsy and I came here we left everything we owned behind. I’m not kidding when I say I need a job.”
“Well, of course,” Mrs. Clark started to say, but Mr. Clark stepped in.
“Ever milk a cow?”
“Only once or twice at my brother’s ranch. A neighbor keeps milk cows. Holsteins.”
He frowned. “We have Jerseys. They be gentle cows, though the bulls can be mean. “Can you run a separator, make butter and cheese. And we need someone to sometimes fill in delivering milk in town once school starts again.”
Disappointed Cynthia shook her head. To be truthful, she couldn’t claim much practical knowledge of everyday skills. She’d been a pampered princess surrounded by servants since she was a child. She was well educated for her time, but not for the 1890s.
Letters From Another Town: A Time Travel Romance (Lavender, Texas Series Book 2) Page 10