The Infamous Miss Ilsa

by Laine Ferndale

  She knew that if she looked up, she would want to kiss him. Do not kiss him, she lectured herself. Don’t you dare kiss him.

  He took one of her hands in his, very lightly. A chorus of voices in the back of her head—her parents, the sisters at the orphanage, the town gossips—all chanted “pull away, pull away.” He stroked her palm with the pad of his thumb once, and then again.

  What the hell. Life was short.

  She grazed her lips across his, like the brush of fingertips across silk. He inhaled sharply, holding himself perfectly still against the gentle friction of her kiss. She tasted the corner of his lips, just a quick little flick with the tip of her tongue, and he let out his breath in a low groan. His arms tightened around her.

  When they’d kissed last week, their tempers had both been flaring. They’d embraced with a passion, an intensity, that she would never have predicted from the sweet, sensitive boy of her memories. His touch now was different, too. Not a racing fire, but a soft, inescapable warmth—like sliding into the hot springs themselves.

  She settled herself more confidently into his lap and felt his hard length pressing against her thighs. He wanted this. Wanted her. The knowledge was almost as intoxicating as the slide of his lips on hers, the taste of his skin under her tongue.

  He angled his head to deepen the kiss, and she followed his lead eagerly. Then his spectacles banged against her nose, and they pulled apart, grinning.

  “I should go.” She sighed.

  “Don’t.” He raised her hand to his lips. The old-fashioned gesture melted what little was left of her common sense and left her strangely embarrassed in a way that their kissing hadn’t.

  “When did you become so charming?” Flustered, she hid her face into the crook of his neck.

  “Medical school,” he replied, smiling. “They offered a class on seducing beautiful women, right before pharmacology.” She giggled at the terrible joke. His skin between the edge of his starched collar and the stubble of his chin was so soft. She pressed a kiss just there, and then another, along his jawline and up to the shell of his ear.

  He made a low, throaty noise and shifted uncomfortably beneath her. She pulled back. “Am I too heavy? Your leg—”

  “My damned leg isn’t the problem. If you keep teasing like that, we’re going to need to change positions. Dramatically.”

  She gave a provoking little wriggle. “So Dr. Whitacre isn’t made of stone after all.”

  “Debatable.” He unhooked his spectacles from around his ears and set them down carefully next to the microscope. “If you’re going to kiss me, do it properly.”

  He didn’t even realize how much fire he was playing with. She bit her bottom lip to suppress her grin, and slid off his lap and the bench.

  “Wait! I didn’t mean to—” His apology was cut short when she hiked her skirts and petticoat up to her mid-thigh and straddled him, face to face, with her knees on either side of his hips. He gaped at her like a hooked fish.

  “You did say ‘dramatically.’” And she took his face between her hands and kissed him with all the hunger and frustration of weeks—years—of false starts and disappointments. Tongues tangled, hands grasped and clutched and pulled. He tugged her hair loose from its pins, and it tumbled down around both their shoulders. He rocked his hips beneath her, helplessly trying to increase the pressure, the friction. She rolled with him, urging him on with gasps and murmurs of pleasure.

  He took one of her earlobes between his teeth, nipping hard enough to make her gasp. “God. Ilsa,” he ground out, his whispered words caressing her ear. “You feel so good. I—”

  A loud metallic clanging startled them apart like rabbits. Ilsa thought her heart would explode. “Jesus!”

  “It’s just the boilers. Or a pump. Something.” Theo sounded as startled and breathless as she felt. He moved to pull her back onto his lap, but she held his hands at arm’s length.

  “It’s like the clock at Cinderella’s ball. I really have to get home now, or I’ll turn back into a pumpkin.”

  “I don’t think that’s what happens in that story,” he objected. But he smiled back at her and released his hold. “Would you like me to walk back with you?”

  She shook her head, tucking her hair haphazardly back into its pins. “It’s fine. There’s nobody out at this hour.”

  He gave her a concerned look but nodded. “I’ll just see you off, then.” When he put his spectacles back on, the mischievous glint in his green eyes magnified. “If nothing else, the cold air should help me compose myself before I have to take a stroll across the lobby.”

  The late autumn wind whipped down from the mountain, creating little eddies of mist around her feet as she hurried down the boardwalk. Every time she turned around, she saw Theo watching her loyally from his place by one of the columns of the St. Alice. She wanted to wave but didn’t, in case anyone was watching from a window.

  Wilson’s Bathhouse was quiet as she snuck inside. She made it to her bedroom without encountering Jo or any of the other girls in the hallway. Things really had changed. Normally, Jo had the hearing of an owl and would have been waiting on the landing as soon as she heard the door creak open. But Jo was tired and distracted these days, and Ilsa knew she should be glad for the privacy.

  She changed into her nightgown, gave her hair a quick comb, and braided it in a single plait over her shoulder. Better to keep this to herself. Her recklessness would only worry Jo. Entering Theo’s room in broad daylight was one thing, but jumping on top of him in a public place was entirely another.

  What was it about Theo that made her stick her neck out? Was it simply the thrill of reclaiming something she’d lost years ago? Or maybe this wasn’t about Theo at all. She was planning to leave Fraser Springs and start a life of her own. Maybe she was drawn to him because he wasn’t planning to stay here, either. Even if he never went to Paris, Theo wouldn’t tie her down here. She couldn’t afford to fall in love and get married, not for a long time yet. It would throw the brakes on years of planning; her savings would become her husband’s savings, and that was unacceptable.

  Theo’s family would never allow him to marry someone like her, and she had no illusions about his willingness to choose her over them. Look how long their childish pledges to be together forever had lasted: a few months. He’d changed, she reflected as she slipped under her covers, but people didn’t change that much. He might claim to not want a high-brow wife now, but he’d feel differently when he needed a well-bred hostess to help advance his career. Or maybe he’d want a wife with a college education of her own, someone he could really talk to about his interests.

  No, they were both bored and a little lonely, just as they had been the last time. Theo was the perfect man for her life at the moment, really. Handsome, attentive, and temporary.

  Chapter 11

  As usual, five in the morning arrived entirely too early. Her first impulse was to turn over and go back to sleep. It was still dark. The faintest trace of frost hazed over her window, and even though she doubted it had snowed overnight, the air smelled like it was going to. It took all her willpower to slide her legs from beneath the down comforter’s warmth. She dressed, scrubbed her face in the cold water at the washstand, and quickly twisted her hair up in a simple knot.

  She opened her door to find Owen standing there: half-dressed, with his shirt untucked and his whiskers unshaved. That wasn’t all that unusual for him, really, especially when he had a writing deadline. What froze Ilsa in her tracks was the half-wild expression on his face.

  “The baby’s coming,” he blurted out.

  That brought her fully awake. “It can’t. It’s too early.” That just made Owen look like he was trying to swallow a caterpillar, so she took a deep breath. She was clearly going to have to be the calm one today. “Okay. If it’s time, it’s time, and that’s all there is to it. When did the pains start?”

  “On and off all yesterday, but she just woke me up and told me about it now.”


  Ilsa suppressed the urge to go and shake her best friend until her teeth rattled. How very like Jo to suffer in silence. “Go tell Annie she’s in charge of breakfast, and then light a fire in the stove. I’ll sit with Jo.” Owen looked relieved at her bossiness and hurried down the stairs.

  She found Jo in her bedroom, curled up on her side on top of the covers.

  “Owen told me it’s time,” Ilsa said.

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” Jo whispered.

  Ilsa sat down at the foot of the bed and squeezed Jo’s ankle reassuringly. “Of course you can. You’re Josephine Sterling. Didn’t you run your own business after your husband passed away and the entire staff deserted you?” Jo nodded. “And didn’t you make a success of that business while seducing Vancouver’s most eligible bachelor?” Jo managed a weak smile at that one. “Then you can do this. Besides, if Mrs. McSheen can do it three times, you can do it once.”

  Jo grimaced. “If you make me start admiring Mrs. McSheen, I will never forgive you.”

  “I’m just telling you the truth. Women do this every day, and you are an extraordinary woman. I’m not worried a bit.”

  Jo stifled a moan as a fresh wave of pain rolled over her. Ilsa held her friend’s hand, and Jo gripped it hard enough to whiten both their knuckles. “It’s okay to make some noise. You won’t shock anyone in this henhouse. Breathe through it.”

  When the contraction passed, Ilsa went downstairs to get water for Jo, spent fifteen minutes doing the scolding that Owen seemed unable to do, and returned upstairs. Then it was back down again for towels, hot water, a check with Annie to make sure her clients had been taken over by other masseuses, finding busy work that would get Owen out from under everybody’s feet (Go find the midwife! Go look for Nils!), then back upstairs to check on her friend. When Owen returned, he had no good news to report. Nils had definitely packed his gear and left town for the season, and the midwife was up the mountain attending another birth.

  By evening, the whole of Wilson’s Bathhouse practically vibrated with nervous energy. Jo’s pains came regularly, but they’d been stuck at three-minute intervals since noon. Jo’s labour seemed to have stalled, leaving her weeping and exhausted after a day and a half of pain. Ilsa had helped her walk circuits around the room, had sung silly songs with her, stroked her hair, rubbed her back through the contractions. She had seen her fair share of births, and the ugly fact was that this one was going badly.

  “Where are you going?” Jo asked weakly when Ilsa entered the bedroom with her coat on. Jo was usually so calm and self-controlled, but now her voice wavered and cracked.

  “Annie is coming up to sit with you. I’m going to get the doctor.”

  Jo nodded. Her face was sweaty and haggard with fatigue. Ilsa hustled back down the stairs, dragged Annie out of the kitchen, and then broke into a run down the boardwalk. The temperature had dropped and ice slicked the planks, but she moved as quickly as she could. The hotel doctors didn’t prioritize outside patients, but if Dr. Greyson wouldn’t come, she knew another doctor who owed her a massive favour.

  • • •

  Even the routine practice of writing patient notes was hell with Dr. Greyson looking over his shoulder. He insisted that Theo write them in his presence so that he could provide his usual “guidance.” It was past dinnertime. If only the water samples had turned up something important. Then he’d be the one doing the lecturing.

  Still, it was hard to be in a bad mood when events had taken such a positive turn with Ilsa. He kept thinking about the little grin on her face as she wiggled against him, teasing him—

  “What have you written up for Mrs. DeMonte?” Dr. Greyson delivered the question with his feet up on a settee and one of his cigars just inches from his lips. A haze of smoke filled the room.

  “Patient presented with red, fluid-filled pustules located on the upper chest.”

  Dr. Greyson waved the cigar. “Now ‘pustules’ is an ugly word, don’t you think? I associate it with adolescent spots. Mrs. DeMonte is one of the New York DeMontes, so surely there’s a better term.”

  Theo suppressed a sigh. Someone should have told him earlier that the wealthy were not afflicted by acne; it would have made his adolescent years much more pleasant. “Pustule is an accurate description, is it not?”

  “I find that ‘blain’ is a much better word. A softer word.”

  “Does blain not imply that the lesion was a blister? When really, what we’re looking at is common acne.”

  Dr. Greyson’s expression soured. He puffed away in punitive silence, looking out the window.

  “Would you like me to change it to blain?” Theo asked after many long minutes.

  Dr. Greyson let the smoke exhale slowly and deliberately. “The last time I checked, I was the senior physician, and this was not a debate club.”

  “Understood,” he said, crossing out “pustule” and replacing it with “blain.”

  “No one likes sloppy notes, Teddy. Sloppy notes are a sign of a sloppy practitioner. You’ll have to rewrite the entire page.”

  Mercifully, a knock on the door prevented Theo from responding.

  “Come in,” he called.

  Even more mercifully, the door opened to reveal Ilsa Pedersen. With her pink cheeks and blond hair askew, she looked like an angel.

  “Good evening, Miss Pedersen,” he said. He took his time setting his pen back into its well so that Dr. Greyson couldn’t see the heat he suspected had risen in his cheeks. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s Jo. The baby is coming, and the midwife is nowhere to be found and it’s . . . it’s not going well.”

  Dr. Greyson looked sceptical. “When did her labour pains start?”

  “Yesterday. But now she’s . . . she’s stuck.”

  “Ah. Well, it’s a first baby, isn’t it?” Ilsa nodded. “They do take time. When Mrs. Sterling is ready, I’m sure Mrs. Parsons will have turned up.” With that pronouncement, he settled contentedly back into his chair and set his hands on his belly. There was no happiness to compare to a doctor learning that he didn’t have to go on a house call in cold weather.

  Ilsa took another step into the room. “I’ve seen births before, and this one is taking too long. And the midwife has taken off to Lord knows where, and we have no one to help.” She looked towards Theo.

  He tried to sound casual. “I don’t mind taking a glance. We were just finishing up here anyway.” In truth, his limbs were buzzing. He had never delivered a baby by himself before.

  Dr. Greyson snorted. “Waste of time, but it’s your time to waste. Have you checked over at Doc Stryker’s for your missing midwife? Seems a likely place to find a tradeswoman.”

  Theo ignored him, grabbing his doctor’s kit in one hand and his cane in the other. If only he could take a moment to review the obstetrical chapter in his reference book. Then again, it certainly wouldn’t soothe Ilsa’s nerves to see him frantically flipping through pages. No, at this point, he either knew it or he didn’t.

  As they made their way down the boardwalk, Theo tried to keep pace with her. She kept striding ahead, then stopping and waiting for him to catch up. She didn’t say anything, but her whole body radiated impatience. He went as fast as he could, the doctor’s kit banging against his leg.

  Finally, they reached the bathhouse. When he’d walked into Wilson’s before, he’d been greeted by the busy sounds of staff and clients bantering or enjoying a meal. But today, it was silent except for a low keening that came from upstairs. He didn’t see Mr. Sterling, which was too bad because he doubted that he and Ilsa alone could move Mrs. Sterling, if that became necessary. But a husband attending his wife’s birth would be very strange indeed.

  “She’s upstairs.”

  “I’ll need to wash up: hot water, carbolic soap, and clean towels.” It felt strange to boss Ilsa around, but someone would have to be his nurse.

  Ilsa nodded and he followed her into the kitchen, where two huge pots of water were boiling on the s
tove. She poured some into an enamel basin and set the soap beside it. Theo shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, carefully scrubbing his hands with the soap, plunging them in and out of the scalding water. This part of the ritual soothed him: forearms, hands, fingers, then fingernails, counting to twenty for each. He had practiced it hundreds of times during his training. As he scrubbed, Mrs. Sterling’s moans drifted down the stairs.

  “Do you have to scour your skin clean off?” Ilsa asked. A stray curl hung by her eyes, and she blew it away with an impatient huff.

  “This is the most important step. Even one germ could cause a fatal infection. We’ll need more hot water and clean towels upstairs. Your turn. Everyone assisting has to wash up.”

  Ilsa sighed and plunged her hands into the basin. “Ow! It’s hot.”

  “Don’t be a baby.” Her only response was a narrow glare, and she began wringing the bar of soap in her hands with an exaggerated motion. After a few seconds, her shoulders dropped and she looked back at Theo. “I’m sorry. I’m just worried. Thank you for being here.”

  “I’m happy to help.” He did not mention that he was also happy for the opportunity to attend a potentially complicated birth. “Now, make sure to dry thoroughly, even under your fingernails.”

  Ilsa sighed but obeyed. “Yes, doctor.”

  “And I’ll have none of your sass, Nurse.” That won him a wan smile and a smack across the arm with her towel.

  That done, they headed upstairs. The moaning grew louder. As he walked through the bedroom door, he squared his shoulders. Whenever he entered an operating theatre, he pretended that he was walking onto a stage. He transformed into someone entirely different: Dr. Whitacre, a man who stood a little straighter, who always knew what to do, who projected calm competence at every turn.

  “How are you doing, Jo?” Ilsa asked. Jo Sterling was propped in bed with her knees up. Her face was red and sweaty, and she was breathing heavily.

  Mrs. Sterling turned to Ilsa. “I thought you were getting Dr. Greyson. Has this one even done this before?”