A Heart Most Certain

by Melissa Jagears

  “What do you plan to do with them?”

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets and kicked at a rock on the sidewalk. “They’re definitely not ready for school, but it’s not like I have a nanny. And I’m sure no nanny or tutor I’ve ever met would put up with Pepper’s disrespect. The maids are trying their best, though.”

  “Do you think I could help in any way?”

  He shook his head. “Thanks, but the maids are socially closer to them and likely have the best chance at reaching Pepper.”

  “What about Robbie? Has he talked any?”

  “Unfortunately, he seems more withdrawn every day.”

  As they crossed the street by the Methodist church, a movement in the shadows made her heart jump. A dark form rose from the steps.

  “I need help,” a slurred female voice called. The figure stumbled but caught herself on the banister. The woman swayed forward, awash in the pale lavender and magenta light of sunset.

  Lydia gasped.

  The woman’s eyes lit with recognition at the same time. She lifted an unsteady hand to point at her. “You.”

  Nicholas’s hand clamped around Lydia’s arm. A good thing too, or she might have bolted like a ninny.

  No lady of the night should address a decent woman in town. Ever. And only during a crusade would Mrs. Little or any other moral woman dare to engage such a woman.

  “This isn’t your church, is it?” The streetwalker nodded over her shoulder at the stone stairs she’d just vacated.

  Nicholas took a step closer to her. “We attend Freewill—”

  “Good.” She cut him off with a sneer. She eyed his clothing and took an unsteady step right of forward. “Her and that holier-than-thou group can go to—” The woman stumbled and cursed at the flask she dropped.

  Lydia tugged on his sleeve, hoping he’d get the hint to put some space between them and move before things got worse.

  And though Nicholas was a member of Freewill, he was definitely not of her group. He would actually attempt to help a streetwalker in the middle of town. Except this woman was not only drunk at the moment, but also incensed.

  “This woman threw a bottle at me,” Lydia whispered. “I think we’d better not engage her.”

  “Go on with you! Go home to your warm beds and families.” The lady flung out her arm, winced, and dropped her flask again. “Pray God keeps you safe since you deserve it.”

  “No one deserves what God wants to give each and every one of us.” Nicholas leaned over, picked her flask up, and surreptitiously dumped the contents. “I don’t deserve the forgiveness He gave me for the blackest of my sins.” He handed the shiny metal container back to the woman.

  “What do you know of sin?” She spat. “You’re lily white compared to me.” She dragged her torpid gaze off Nicholas and lifted a weak, unsteady arm to point at Lydia. “And what about you? Done nothing wrong in your life, have you?” She narrowed her eyes, as if she could see into Lydia’s soul. “Liar!”

  Lydia’s body turned leaden and cold.

  Nicholas stepped between them, shielding her from the woman’s accusations—accusations he might have thrown at Lydia himself if he weren’t a gentleman.

  “You said you needed help.” Nicholas held out his arms, palms forward as if showing the woman he was unarmed. “What kind of help?”

  Oh, couldn’t he be sensible just once and walk past? The streetwalker probably wanted more liquor, and if she found out Nicholas had dumped what she had left, they could be in danger if she had a weapon.

  But . . . if Nicholas didn’t help, she’d be disappointed in the man who lived out his convictions no matter the repercussions.

  Unlike her.

  “My arm.” The rabid expression in the thin woman’s eyes dissolved and her face suddenly slacked. She pulled at her sleeve, the left one, which dangled in shreds and was darkened with a shiny stain. “Some john cut me.”

  Lydia gasped, feeling as if her shoulders had sunk all the way down into her toes. A bloody bandage peeked out from beneath the woman’s ragged sleeve. The woman had been bleeding this whole time and she’d not noticed?

  She would’ve walked right past this fire-breathing, bruised, and broken woman had it not been for Nicholas.

  He eyed the woman’s arm from where he stood. “Why didn’t you go to Dr. Hiller?”

  “Dr. Hiller?” Her eyes grew wider and a little less frightened. “You know Dr. Hiller?”

  “Yes. Did you go to him?”

  “He’s busy with Busty Bess—pumping her stomach. I didn’t want to wait.”

  Lydia’s insides churned. Had Bess poisoned herself or been poisoned?

  “I’ll take you to Dr. Lindon, then.”

  Lydia snatched his sleeve. “You can’t be seen escorting her uptown. What would happen to your reputation? Your business contacts?”

  “She’s stumbling all over the place and shouldn’t walk alone. You could come with us if you’re worried.”

  “I can’t be seen with her either!” Her hands trembled. Had she not made that clear the other day? If she walked side by side with this woman, she’d be dragged down to the level of a streetwalker in the eyes of so many that she might as well give up any and all good society.

  Nicholas looked down at her, his mouth a hard line.

  Maybe not all of society.

  She couldn’t keep his gaze. She’d said Queenie could come borrow books from the library without any fuss—wasn’t that enough?

  The streetwalker lowered herself back onto the step, cradling her arm and muttering to herself.

  “This lady needs a doctor, and she’s too inebriated to understand directions. She might just lie down in an alley and bleed out overnight.”

  Why was she hesitating when what he said was true? She wasn’t this hard-hearted toward her father when he was hurt, and he’d actually ill-used her.

  Nicholas clasped her shoulders and bent to look in her eyes. “Look, if I’m seen with her, no one will care.” He let out a breath, his hands tightening. “There are men of high social standing, supposedly of good morals, who frequent the red-light district, who don’t bother with disguise, who’ve visited this woman in full view of others, and no one cares much. It’s the woman’s name, reputation, and life that’s dragged through the mud, not the man’s. So don’t worry about me. It likely won’t matter much if they assume the worst.”

  Frowning, she couldn’t keep her eyes steady with his. He might be right. His life probably wouldn’t be ruined by walking through town with a prostitute—but no one would believe he’d simply escorted her to the doctor either. And he didn’t deserve that.

  He reached out and anchored a finger or two in a strand of her hair and slipped it behind her ear. “However, I’d like you to come with us. It’s almost dark, and I’d like to make sure you get home.”

  Of course he’d been worried about her safety instead of his reputation.

  She looked at the last orange vestiges of sunlight reaching out from below the low-lying clouds. Then to the streets that hardly anyone occupied, considering the cold that had blown in this afternoon.

  If she helped this woman for the right reason, being seen with her shouldn’t matter. God knew what they were doing. She lifted her chin and sucked in a fortifying breath. “All right.”

  Nicholas nodded solemnly and went to help the lady up.

  Though knowing God knew why and where they were escorting the prostitute, she’d still pray no one saw them.

  23

  Hobbling up Dr. Lindon’s stairs, Nicholas clamped his arms around the waist of the lady of the night as she struggled to step up to the porch. He helped her over to the swing and breathed a sigh of relief once he released her. She’d been more intoxicated than he’d thought, and her unsteady weight and erratic pace had made for quite the trudge uptown.

  He knocked on the door and then turned to give Lydia a reassuring smile. “I’ll get her inside. The porch has a great view of the sunset while you wait.” He ti
lted his head toward the horizon just visible past the granary, where the sun’s fiery orange was encapsulated by a frosty light blue.

  “Too cold to sit outside. Besides, I’ll see if the doctor wants my help.”

  He pursed his lips. “Are you sure?”

  She looked over at the prostitute slumped in the swing as she drew closer to him. “If a doctor isn’t looked down upon for his clientele,” she whispered, “then why should I be if he needs a nurse?”

  “You don’t have to.”

  The thumping of someone descending the stairs sounded behind the door.

  “But she obviously needs help. . . . I just never thought that help was needed from me.” She looked up at him with deep, wide eyes. “As you’ve said before, if no one else will help, then why not us?”

  “Right. Us.” He swallowed against his tight throat. He knew that us was simply a grammatical term for him and her, but his heart was both elated . . . and disappointed by the word.

  Only a small sliver of time remained when us would mean the two of them doing anything together. Once she married Sebastian that us would fade into the past. As it should.

  The bolt slid with a thunk, and Dr. Lindon swung the door open wide. “Mr. Lowe, what’s wrong?”

  “This lady . . .” He cringed at how little he knew of the woman on the swing. How would she believe he truly cared if he didn’t even bother to learn a thing about her? He walked over, grabbed her hand, and tilted her lolled head up to look at him. “What’s your name, miss?”

  “Raspy Rachel.”

  “No, your real one.”

  “Still Rachel.”

  “All right, let’s get you up and inside.” He grabbed her under her good arm, slung his around her back, and steered her around to the door. “Rachel has a large laceration on her upper left arm. I’ve tied some cloth around it, but it needs stitches.”

  The doctor stepped aside, and they hobbled in.

  “Follow me.” He led them into a small room and grabbed a lamp.

  “I can light those so you can get prepared,” Lydia said as she stepped into the room.

  The doctor turned, his eyebrow cocked. “Miss King?”

  “Yes.” She swallowed but held out her hands for the matches.

  The doctor didn’t move, just stared at Lydia’s palms.

  Nicholas cleared his throat. “I was escorting Miss King home from her job when we happened upon Rachel. Miss King didn’t want to leave her to suffer just so she could get home on time.”

  Lydia paused for a second to frown at him before taking the doctor’s matches.

  He helped Rachel onto the padded table, and she moaned as she rolled toward the middle. Her ashen face was worrisome, but hopefully she’d look better once Lydia lit a few lamps. “Do you want her sitting up?”

  “She’s fine however.” Dr. Lindon waved his hand back behind his shoulder as he gathered utensils on a tray.

  Rachel rolled her head toward the doctor. “I need whiskey.”

  The doctor barely glanced at her. “I think you’ve had plenty.”

  “You’ll be all right.” Lydia finished lighting a third lamp and set it on the table beside the bed.

  “Not without whiskey.” Rachel’s eyes widened when the doctor turned around holding a huge pair of scissors. “He gonna cut me?” She jerked back, wincing immediately.

  Dr. Lindon harrumphed. “Just the bandage Mr. Lowe put on you. Perhaps your sleeve as well.”

  “Here.” Lydia came around the table and took the hand of Rachel’s uninjured arm. “You squeeze my hand as much as you need to.”

  Nicholas backed away, strangely feeling unneeded.

  Rachel gave Lydia a look that bespoke distrust, but she didn’t yank her hand from hers.

  “So, Rachel.” Lydia took a quick glance at the doctor before turning back to the patient. “Um, what . . . no . . .” She pulled her bottom lip in and scrunched her brows.

  Nicholas pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. Lydia was clearly at a loss for talking points. But what could a lady and a prostitute converse about?

  “So . . . where did you grow up?” Lydia gently turned Rachel’s face away from the doctor and toward her.

  Rachel didn’t seem thrilled at being thwarted from watching the doctor’s ministrations. “Louisiana.”

  “You still have family there?”

  “Might.”

  The doctor swabbed something onto Rachel’s arm, and she flinched and cursed.

  Lydia didn’t so much as narrow her eyes at the woman’s use of profanity. “Squeeze my hand, remember?”

  Rachel screeched with the doctor’s first stab of the needle.

  Dr. Lindon growled. “You have enough alcohol in you, this shouldn’t hurt that much. If you can’t hold still, I’ll have Lowe hold you down.”

  “We don’t need that to happen, right?” Lydia swiped the hair back from Rachel’s eyes and looked straight at her. “Just grit your teeth and breathe,” she commanded.

  Seemed Lydia was a natural nurse.

  She stared into Rachel’s eyes. “Now, why don’t you tell me how you ended up in Teaville?”

  Even the doctor glanced up at Lydia with the same quizzical look Rachel wore.

  Nicholas couldn’t help his smile.

  Rachel grunted as if trying to scare Lydia away.

  But Lydia kept her gaze on the woman without a flinch. “Go on, tell me. It’ll keep your mind off things.”

  With another jab of the needle, Rachel tensed. “James . . . He and I were together—been that way ever since we met catching frogs in the creek.” She cringed with another needle poke. “I told him he’d done gotten me with child.” She hissed again. “He was better than me though. Richer. High-society folk. He was about to take over some older man’s business, a Mr. Sandoval.” She winced again. “And the old coot wouldn’t have looked too kindly on me being swollen with James’s child.” Rachel started a curse word but didn’t finish it as she finally took Lydia’s offer and squeezed the hand that hadn’t left hers. “Sandoval’s daughter was our age, and hang it if she weren’t prettier than me.”

  “There.” The doctor made a quick knot and clipped off his last stitch. “Won’t be pretty, but it should heal as long as we keep it from infection.”

  Rachel opened her eyes to look at Lydia.

  Lydia frowned. “I’m so sorry.”

  The prostitute closed her eyes and shrugged.

  The lump in Nicholas’s throat edged upward, and he swallowed against it. Simply taking Lydia to the red-light district hadn’t made her the kind of woman who would allow a lady of the night to squeeze her hand so hard she left fingernail divots in Lydia’s flesh.

  But would she have ever willingly accompanied a soiled dove to the doctor if he hadn’t taken her there first?

  Nicholas moved over to the table to help Rachel sit up.

  “Take her to the room across the hall.” Dr. Lindon was washing his hands in a shallow basin. “I doubt I’ll have more patients tonight, and I’m concerned about how much she’s had to drink. I’d like to check on her in the morning.”

  “All right.” At least that answered one of his dilemmas.

  But the thought of granting Lydia’s next wish niggled at him. How would Lydia take it? As well as she did the library coach?

  He should’ve talked to her, given her time to see things as he did, as she claimed she would with time . . . but he’d already arranged everything. The date was set.

  Rachel passed out after the first step, and he had to carry her across the hall.

  Lydia ran in front of them to open the door, then turned down the blankets on the small cot in the corner.

  “Thank you.” He rolled Rachel onto the bed, and Lydia immediately started unbuttoning the woman’s shoes, so he slipped out of the room.

  Leaning his head against the door, he stared at the ceiling. He couldn’t change his plans. He’d already given his word to the pastor. And Lydia would get over any disappointment
he’d cause and buck up to the task just as she had with Rachel.

  After settling with the doctor, Nicholas found Lydia outside, leaning against the porch railing, staring at the first pinpricks of stars in the beginnings of the night sky.

  They’d better get going before they couldn’t see enough to walk—they’d spent far too long at Dr. Lindon’s. Hopefully Lydia wouldn’t think about how he’d get back home. He looked around for the moon and located it to the east. At least it wasn’t cloudy tonight. He stepped forward and lightly touched her arm.

  She gave him a slight smile and slipped her arm around his.

  Together.

  Together, they could do plenty of good.

  He shook away the thought and walked her down the steps. Just like he’d do for any lady at church.

  Though he kept a brisk pace on the way to the King residence, he wasn’t walking fast enough to stifle conversation, yet Lydia remained quiet, her brow furrowing occasionally, and sometimes she’d let out a frustrated sigh.

  Clearly she was struggling to think through things.

  And he was glad of it.

  For if she easily gave in to others’ wishes, beliefs, or goals, she wouldn’t be the stalwart woman he was beginning to admire. She had convictions. And right or wrong, she didn’t toss them aside lightly.

  Maybe us wasn’t such a dream after all. What if she began to believe in what he was doing? What if she wanted to help?

  Her house appeared, and though the vestiges of the sun would disappear within minutes, he had to know. . . . “What are you thinking?”

  “I was wondering how best to help women like Rachel.”

  He couldn’t suppress the smile that bubbled up. Maybe they would be doing more together.

  “You and Queenie both mentioned it was near impossible to leave prostitution, so I thought keeping a woman from entering the profession would be easier than taking one out.”

  “Prevention would be easier. An ounce of that is better than a pound of cure, as Franklin said.”

  “And if Rachel had known somewhere safe to go with her baby, maybe she would’ve chosen a different life.”