by Debra Diaz
“Hello, Genny.” The deep timbre of his voice created a strange fluttering in her stomach. She could see in the dimness that he watched her intently.
“Hello, Dr. Carey.”
“Is anything wrong?”
She shook her head. Finally, she asked, “Was it a nice funeral? Valerie said Jefferson Davis would probably be there. Was he?”
Ethan smiled a little. “Yes, he was there.”
“I’m sorry — I didn’t realize how much General Forrest meant to you.”
Ethan waited, as if choosing his words. “He was misunderstood by a lot of people — but there will never be anyone like him.”
Her voice was almost a whisper. “I’m glad you’re back.”
Several seconds passed, and then he said, “Genny — ”
The door opened and Valerie stepped out onto the porch. “Genny, supper is — oh, Ethan! Welcome home. How was your trip?”
“Hello, Valerie. Thank you — it’s good to be home.”
“Well, I was just coming out to tell Genny that supper’s ready.” Valerie waited a moment in indecision and then went back inside.
Ethan almost seemed to hesitate before turning to Genny, then as he stepped close she could see his eyes, gray as a stormy sea, and unreadable. “Shall we go in?” he said quietly.
She turned as he held the door open for her, and failed to see that his free hand fell just short of settling upon her back, where it felt naturally inclined to be.
* * * *
Philbert Romayne carefully read again the report lying before him on his desk. A pensive look crossed his face and in his eyes burned a peculiar combination of regret, anxiety and annoyance.
The detective he’d hired had finally traced his daughter to Nashville, after wasting several months pursuing a nonexistent trail up North. Using her photograph, he had also learned that she had left the Nashville depot with an unidentified elderly lady. The problem now was to find the old lady, for there was no record of her name. In a city filled with both rich and impoverished war widows and spinsters, the task seemed hopeless. But Philbert Romayne was not accustomed to being beaten. He would find Genny if it was the last thing he ever did.
At first he’d been merely dismayed when he learned that Genny had eloped. But when several days passed and he received no communication from her, he began to be alarmed. He hired a detective, Mr. Pfeiffer. The man’s fee would cost him a small fortune, but Genny must be found — his eldest daughter, his bright and lovely daughter, for whom he had had such high hopes. If only she’d married Lloyd Grayson, who had decided to enter the political arena — she might have someday been wife to the governor!
Someone tapped on the door, and at his call Gwendolyn swept into the room. She had lost weight in the past few months — he had gained. Her black dress made her look thinner than ever, and the hairpiece of tight curls attached to the back of her head was the ugliest thing he’d ever seen. But he made no comment, not desiring to have her go off into a crying jag, as she did so often since Genny’s disappearance.
He caught a whiff of brandy as she came to stand before him, and grew more displeased, but still he said nothing. He didn’t know just when she’d started drinking, but she had ceased being careful about it and he noticed her several times weaving about the house in a state of near drunkenness. He had been truly frightened. But he was at a loss as to how to cope with this new problem. First he would find Genny, then he would deal with his wife.
“Is there anything new?” Gwendolyn asked, in a steady voice.
He sighed. “Pfeiffer is looking for a woman who might know where Genny went after she reached Nashville.”
“Does he think she’s still there?”
Philbert shrugged and rubbed his aching forehead. “I don’t know. He doesn’t spend as much time on it as I’d like. He has other cases. I blame myself for this. I shouldn’t have been so harsh with her.”
“She’s dead,” Gwendolyn said flatly. “I know she’s dead. Something has happened to her.”
Her husband’s fist came down on the desk with an oath as he exclaimed, “Don’t ever say that, Gwendolyn — don’t even think it in my presence! Virginia is not dead. And I’m weary of seeing you mope about in those ridiculous mourning clothes. She is alive and I’m going to find her!”
“Oh, dear.” Gwendolyn began to wring her hands. “I just don’t understand her. I don’t understand her at all.”
“No,” Philbert answered, getting somewhat ponderously to his feet. “Neither of us knew Virginia, as a person. We viewed her as a commodity, but our worst mistake was in letting her know it. I fear, Gwendolyn, that our foolishness has cost us our daughter’s love.”
CHAPTER TEN
Genny energetically began arranging her desk before the office opened that morning, neatly piling up papers and setting out her pens and ink. Ethan paused in the connecting doorway. She seemed unconscious of the picture she made, framed against the white curtains in her blue and white plaid, with a lace-trimmed blue velvet fichu at her throat. Her hair was pulled back into a chignon and adorned with a blue ribbon.
He stepped into the room and she glanced up.
“Who’s the first patient?”
She consulted the list. “Mrs. Miller.”
“Oh, yes. You will probably need to schedule her for surgery. I’ll let you know later today.”
“What kind of surgery?”
“Hysterectomy,” he said, looking across her at the list of patients.
“A what?”
His eyes lifted to hers. He sat on the edge of her desk, folded his arms and regarded her with pity. “It occurs to me, dear Genny, that you are possessed of an appalling ignorance of your own body.”
She bristled. “And I suppose you think you know more about my body than I do!”
“I daresay I do. Can you tell me where your — esophagus is located?”
She blinked.
“Your gall bladder? No? I think, as my assistant, you should have at least a scant knowledge of the human anatomy. I have some books that might help you. Not that they’re any substitute for a real teacher.”
Genny raised an eyebrow. “Thank you very much, but I’m sure the books will prove quite satisfactory.”
“I doubt it. No, don’t go into one of your sulks, please. I’m telling you for your own good. What did they teach you at that fancy school you went to, anyway? Probably how to draw a seascape at twilight.”
“Are you saying that young ladies should learn about — about bodies, at school?”
“About sexuality, you mean?”
She blushed. She had never heard that word but had an idea as to its meaning. “You are rude,” she said severely. “And vulgar.”
“There’s nothing rude or vulgar about it,” Ethan said. “It’s all in the mind. And your mind, I can see, is as bereft of useful information as most other women’s.”
“How dare you! You are the most — ”
“Oh, it isn’t your fault. The fault lies in the silly notion that women must be protected from the odious and ‘sinful’ reality of — ”
“Please stop!”
He asked impatiently, “Did your mother ever tell you where babies come from?”
Genny didn’t answer. Actually, Gwendolyn, when her daughter turned thirteen, had given her a book to read that Genny found all but incomprehensible.
“Come, Genny, you’re swelling up like a frog and it isn’t becoming. No, I don’t think it should be taught in school. It’s a private thing, but it should at least be discussed at home and not treated as if it were the height of indecency.”
“Well,” she said. “I think this conversation has gone far enough.”
He grinned at the pained look on her face. “Sorry,” he replied. “Sometimes I forget not to talk like a doctor. Anyway, I didn’t intend to quarrel with you, Genny. I’m riding up into the hills tomorrow to see a patient, and thought you might like to come along. We’ll be back well before dark.”
&nb
sp; “Well, I — ”
“I promise not to offend your delicate sensibilities. We’ll take Finney and Agnes with us.”
She couldn’t restrain a smile. “Well, all right. If you can stand the company of such an ignoramus as myself.”
Early the next morning she went outside to see that he had procured a narrow wagon that could pass easily through the woods. Into the back Finney had loaded a sack of flour and several wrapped packages — she supposed they were foodstuffs for the patient. Myrtle Mae had packed a picnic basket, into which Genny put a few articles of her own. The weather was unseasonably warm and she wore a light summer dress, carrying a shawl in case it got cooler in the evening. Ethan, in black trousers and white shirt, tossed his coat into the back and helped her up, then climbed into the driver’s seat.
Agnes had a cold and didn’t feel up to going after all. Finney would ride on horseback alongside them.
She enjoyed the ride as they left the vacant lot beside Ethan’s house, winding upward through the wooded hills. In answer to her questions, Ethan began to tell her about his patient.
“Her name is Mrs. Burchfield. One of her distant cousins rode through town one day about six months ago and found me at the hospital — asked me to see her and told me how to get there. Her husband was a trapper. He’s dead now. I’ve never been able to convince her to come and live in town, so I agreed to go see her whenever I can.”
“Is she very ill?”
He paused. “She’s dying. She has a tumor, inoperable — there’s nothing I can do for her except to see that she’s comfortable. She lives alone. There was some sort of family feud, and after her husband died she rarely gets visits from her children. She has eight, by the way.”
Genny made no comment. She was hardly in a position to criticize. For the first time it occurred to her that something might happen to her parents, or one of her brothers or sisters, and she would never know it. It was a disquieting thought.
She asked, “How much further is it?”
“We should get there before noon. We’ll have lunch with Mrs. Burchfield and leave right away, so we’ll be back by dark.”
She watched Ethan covertly, noticing the skilled way he controlled the horse, how relaxed and at ease he was, his long legs stretched out and his sleeves rolled up. It was strangely exciting, being with him out in this wooded wilderness.
The higher they climbed, the more dazzling became the scenery. Sunlight slanted through the trees and fell on the ground, making streaks of light and shadow. Beyond the trees she could see another mountain with a huge outcropping of stone, and from it gushed a glistening white waterfall. The woods were alive with scurryings and rustlings in the dead leaves.
At length they came to a small cabin, nestled so closely among the trees it looked as if it had grown there. There were several chairs on the wide front porch.
Ethan frowned. “She’s usually sitting on the porch.”
The wagon creaked to a stop. Ethan set the brake and jumped down, then as he was holding up his arms to help her down, she saw him stiffen and turn back toward the cabin. He dropped his arms and stood perfectly still. Then Genny knew, too, for the smell of death was all around them.
“Wait here,” he said, without looking at her. He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and, placing it over his nose and mouth, went up the porch steps, opened the front door, and disappeared inside.
Genny sat motionless with horror. The smell made her sick at her stomach. Finney rode up, looking inquisitive, and she saw the instant he realized what had happened. He was a short man, with thin strips of hair clinging stubbornly to an otherwise bald head, and blue eyes. Like Agnes, he had a kind way about him, but unlike his wife, he was quiet and reserved.
“The doctor’s in the house?” Finney asked, his brow furrowed.
Just as Genny nodded, Ethan came back outside and walked toward them. “She’s been dead for a week, at least,” he said. His voice was carefully controlled, but she detected something in it, something almost like anger.
“What — what happened?”
“She died in bed. Probably in a lot of pain.” He cursed suddenly. “I should have made her go to the hospital whether she wanted to or not. At least she wouldn’t have been alone.”
Genny didn’t know what to say.
Ethan looked back toward the cabin and ran his hand over his hair. “I didn’t expect it to happen this soon. I was wrong.”
“Nothing to do about it now,” Finney said calmly. “No use accusing yourself, Dr. Carey. Ye did the best ye could.”
“We have to bury her. It will delay us a while. We may have to camp somewhere, overnight.”
There was a question in his statement, as if he were asking Genny if that was acceptable. She didn’t see that they had any choice.
“Do you — need my help?”
He looked, at last, into her eyes. “Thanks, but no. I’ve handled my share of dead bodies. Finney can help me dig. I’m sorry, Genny. If I’d had any idea…I never would have asked you to come.”
“I know. I’m terribly sorry.”
“She didn’t deserve this,” he said, and walked away from her, going into the nearby barn. He came out carrying a shovel. “Not much in there. She had a cow — it must have wandered off or someone stole it. Finney, if you want to help me you’ll need to look around for another shovel.”
Finney dismounted and went behind the cabin, then back into the barn. He came out saying, “Couldn’t find anything, Dr. Carey. We’ll take turns. Shall I go wrap the body up?”
“I’ve already done it. Why not see if you can tear some boards and nails off the barn and make a coffin… I saw a hammer in there.” Ethan was already digging, quickly, efficiently, with a determined and still somehow angry expression on his face.
Finney went back to the barn. Genny followed him, but he didn’t seem to require any assistance so she ambled through the woods, found some wildflowers and picked them, took them back to the wagon, and sat. The sun stopped climbing and began its slow descent. The air grew cooler and she slipped her shawl over her shoulders.
She had no idea how much time went by. The pile of dirt grew larger and Ethan began to disappear into the hole. Finney dragged out a long, rectangular box he’d made by nailing together weathered planks from the barn.
Finally she got down from the wagon, picked up a cup and the heavy jug of water from the back, and went to the gravesite. “Let Finney dig for a while,” she said. “It looks about finished, anyway. Here’s some water.”
He looked up at her, almost as if he’d forgotten she was there, as though his mind had retreated to some distant place. He paused, then threw the shovel out and climbed out of the hole. He reached for the cup of water.
“Oh, Ethan — your hands!” It was, she thought vaguely, the first time she’d called him Ethan.
His hands were blistered and bloody. Sweat mixed with dirt streamed down his face and made his shirt cling to his body. He sat down in the shade as Finney took up the shovel and began to dig.
“No gloves,” he said, and drank for a long time. Genny gathered her skirts and sat down beside him.
“We won’t make it back by dark, Genny. I hope you won’t mind too much.”
“It couldn’t be helped.”
They sat in silence, watching Finney, who dug with considerably less purpose and energy. Finally, Ethan looked up at the sky and said, “I don’t like the way those clouds are banking up. Finney, why don’t you start out with Genny — I’ll finish here and catch up with you. You need to get as far as possible tonight before you have to stop.”
“I have to help you bring out the poor woman,” Finney answered, drawing a hand across his wet forehead and leaving a dirty streak. “And ye can start out with Mrs. Stuart. I’ll stay here and cover up the grave. Ye’ve done enough diggin’ for one day, Dr. Carey.”
Ethan walked over and put out his hand, helping Finney climb out of the hole. The two men took out their handkerchiefs and tied t
hem over their noses and mouths, picked up the wooden coffin, and disappeared into the house. About five minutes later they came out, made their way down the steps and over to the grave, and laid the coffin in the ground. They removed the handkerchiefs, and at Ethan’s bidding, threw them down into the hole.
Genny stood up and said, “We ought to say a prayer.”
Ethan answered, “Looks to me like it’s too late for praying.”
Genny had been taken to church all her life. She suspected it might have been for social reasons rather than spiritual ones, but nevertheless, her early training insisted that some sort of Christian service be held for this unfortunate soul who had died alone.
“You could at least say the Twenty-third Psalm.”
“You say it. We wouldn’t want fire to come down from heaven and consume us.”
She glared at him in disapproval, but he folded his hands and bowed his head. Finney did the same. She clasped her own hands and began, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” She had to pause now and then to search her memory, for she hadn’t read that particular psalm for some time, but her pauses seemed to give added meaning to the words. She finished, “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
Ethan raised his head and she thought he looked at her rather strangely, but all he said was, “Amen.”
* * * *
There was another jug of water in the wagon, so they left one for Finney. Ethan helped her onto the seat and took up the reins with his raw and bleeding hands. She saw the flowers she’d picked, now drooping, and cried, “Wait!”
She jumped back down and carried the flowers to Finney, who was shoveling dirt on top of the makeshift coffin. “Please, Finney, put these on top of the grave when you’re finished.”
“Yes, Mrs. Stuart. I’ll make a nice cross to go over it, too. There’s a lantern and kerosene in the barn in case it gets dark before I’m through.”