by Mary Davis
No wonder Bridget made such a good teacher. She’d had all these books to read. Even if she read only a small portion of them, her knowledge would be vast.
He tilted his head and read the titles on the spines. Shelves and shelves of medical books. He stepped across the room to see what other subjects were there and stopped at a volume on mining. He pulled it out. Interesting. What was a doctor doing with a book on mining? He scanned other titles and noted that there were volumes on various topics.
“What are you doing here?” A gruff voice snapped behind him.
Lindley juggled the book between his hands but ultimately lost control, and it careened to the carpeted floor with a dull thud. “I’m sorry.” He hurriedly retrieved it and shoved it back onto the shelf. Then he turned to see Dr. Grayson glaring at him.
“I forbid you to see Bridget. You may leave now. Orvin will show you out.” The doctor turned to retreat.
“Wait.”
Dr. Grayson swung back around, glaring.
In that moment, Lindley knew why he was really here and swallowed hard. “I wish to speak with you.”
“About my daughter, no doubt.”
Yes. But he sensed it would be more. “I would like to tell you about your daughter. Shall we sit?”
* * *
Lindley strolled back to Fina and Zachariah’s home. He couldn’t believe he’d spent several hours the past three days talking to Bridget’s father. And not once had he asked to see Bridget. He wanted to see her, hoped the doctor would offer, but never asked. Though each conversation started out about Bridget, it always turned to God.
The poor doctor didn’t know the Lord.
Lindley couldn’t imagine going through life’s trials without the solid foundation his faith brought him. How could he have gotten through Dora’s injury, his wife’s dying or hanging on for dear life over a cliff at age twelve? It was his night on the cliff that had made God real to him.
Perhaps Dr. Grayson needed his own cliff experience to see his need for the Lord.
As Lindley climbed the steps of the wide porch of the March mansion, the door opened.
The butler dipped his head. “Good afternoon, sir. Welcome back.”
Lindley stepped inside. He was not used to people waiting on him. But this was the station Bridget came from. Money, servants and grandeur. Maybe she had been relieved to be done with him. She hadn’t said she loved him. But he hoped she did.
Cilla rushed up to him. “Did you talk to her today?”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t the right time to ask.”
“Not the right time? Tomorrow is the last day. We leave the following day.”
“I know. I know.” He handed his hat to the butler. “Thank you.”
Cilla didn’t let up. “Is her father any closer to letting you see her?”
“It’s hard to say. There are times when I’m telling him about God and Jesus that he seems to be really listening and interested. Then it’s like a massive door slams shut between us. He told me not to come back.”
“And what did you say?”
“That I’d see him tomorrow.”
“What if he’s not there?” Cilla asked.
“He’ll be there.” He had to be.
“How do you know?”
“Fear.”
Cilla squinted her face.
“He would be afraid that I’d show up and see Bridget at the house. Or if she wasn’t there, that one of his household staff would have pity on me and tell me where she is.”
“Why don’t you go to the house when he’s not there and see her?”
He shook his head. “It wouldn’t be right to go around him. I need his blessing. He needs to see me as honorable.”
Cilla huffed. “Well, at this rate, dear brother, you’ll be an old man before you see her again.”
“Tomorrow I’m going to ask to see her.”
“And if he refuses?”
“I can’t think that way.” He would see her, one way or another. He had to.
* * *
As Bridget sat on a bench in the rear garden, her father strode out of the house and approached her. “Bridget, why must you wear that dreadful black dress every day?”
“I’m in mourning.” Her father had forbidden her to leave the house or grounds. He’d even put an end to all her visitors. Especially Fina.
“I don’t find that humorous. No one has died.”
She hadn’t meant it as humorous. “My freedom has. It was murdered.”
He scowled.
Now his expression was humorous. She stood to leave.
“Eat supper with me.”
She gritted her teeth and said, “Our agreement didn’t include suppers or polite conversation. Only a perfect son-in-law for you.” She strolled toward the house.
“Don’t walk away from me.”
There was a time, not so long ago, she wouldn’t have dared to defy that order. Now it only caused the slightest hesitation in her step.
He called after her. “Why are this man and his children so important to you?”
That made her stop, but she didn’t turn around right away. When she did, she was slow and deliberate. “I love him and love his children. Something you don’t understand.”
“Eat supper with me and plead your case.”
Supplication from her father? Doubtful. More likely manipulation to get what he wanted.
“That would be a waste of my time and yours.” She strode away knowing that no amount of pleading or crying on her part would change his mind.
As the afternoon pushed toward supper, an annoying prompting to eat with her father kept badgering Bridget. She tried to ignore it. But couldn’t. She didn’t want to sup with the man forcing her into marriage. Wouldn’t. She could be as stubborn as him.
But the Lord poked and prodded her until she was spiritually black-and-blue. So when the supper hour arrived, she found herself descending the staircase. She took a deep breath before braving the threshold into the dining room.
Her father sat at the far end of the long table with several folders spread out around his plate. He didn’t notice her.
The cook’s assistant standing at Father’s elbow cleared her throat. “Sir.”
He looked up, and the servant made a pointed look at Bridget.
Her father stood. “Come sit.” He turned to the woman and indicated the seat adjacent to him. “Bring another place setting.”
The woman scurried out.
Bridget was tempted to seat herself at the far opposite end of the table but sat where she was expected to. Why had she come?
He sat again. “I sent Pinkerton detectives all over the country looking for you.”
Not surprising.
“I feared the worst.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m hale and hearty.”
He scowled at her retort. “I never imagined you would go to the islands. You hate traveling by boat.”
That was why she had chosen the islands. She knew it would be the last place he would look. “Still do.”
He was silent for a few moments before he spoke again. “So you have come to convince me to change my mind. I’m interested in what arguments you will use.”
“No, I haven’t. If I learned one thing living under your roof, it is that once you have made a decision, there is no changing your mind. Even if you are wrong.”
The servant set a plate, silverware, goblet and all the other unnecessary utensils around her plate. What a waste.
“Thank you, Millicent.”
The woman stared at her a moment. The staff wasn’t used to anyone thanking them for the duties they performed daily. Her father certainly never had.
She curtsied and backed away.
Her father waited until the servants had dished up food onto her plate and left before he spoke. “So if you didn’t come to petition for your freedom, why are you here?”
He would love for her to beg, probably prefer it if she got down on her knees. “I
don’t know. I guess I feel sorry for you.” That surprised her. When had she started feeling sorry for him? And for what? He had everything.
He narrowed his eyes. Evidently not approving of her reason.
She took a bite of roast lamb. She hadn’t eaten so elaborately in years. Her palate didn’t much care for it, but she forced the meat down her throat. Or maybe it was the company that disagreed with her. “Have you chosen…someone?” She couldn’t bring herself to say “a husband.”
“I have a few men in mind.” He took a drink of his wine, studying her over the rim of the glass. Looking for a reaction, no doubt.
She would give him none and took a bite of asparagus.
He set his glass down. “So this Mr. Thompson? He’s like you? Pious?”
This she did react to. By staring. Her father never spoke of religion and forbade anyone in his presence to speak of it. “Yes…he believes in God.”
“Is this why you care for him?”
“I guess it’s part of it because loving God makes him the man he is.”
“No one made me the man I am. I have done everything on my own. This God is nothing more than a crutch for weak men.” He took a bite of lamb.
So her father had brought up the subject so he could criticize God. And criticize her for believing in Him.
He swallowed. “You apparently had the life you wanted and could have married this man. Why did you contact me?”
“A little girl’s life was at stake.”
“She would have lived.”
“But Dr. Unger wanted to amputate her leg.”
“She would have learned to get around with an artificial one.”
She couldn’t believe he could be so indifferent.
“So why me, and not some other doctor?”
“The only doctors I know are your colleagues, and they would have run to you and told you where I was. You are the best. Why settle for second best when you would find out anyway? And I had no guarantee any of them would have come posthaste.”
“Still, you could have had everything you wanted in exchange for her leg. A rather small price to pay. So why did you choose her over yourself?”
Of course her father couldn’t understand. “It was the right thing to do. How could I have lived out my life knowing I cost a little girl her leg? Why should Dora pay the price for my freedom?”
“None of them would have known. They would have accepted it as part of life.”
“I would have known.” Her father was unbelievable. She set her napkin on the table. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Running away because you don’t like the way a conversation is going?” There was that soft, docile tone that challenged.
Would she be baited? “Why bother with me, Father? You got what you wanted. Once you marry me off, you’ll be done with me.” She stood.
When she was halfway to the doorway, he spoke. “I am a highly intelligent man. There isn’t anything I can’t learn, comprehend or do. But this is one thing I can’t understand, sacrificing oneself for another.”
Bridget froze at the threshold. Did her father truly desire to understand? Or was he manipulating her? Saying the words he was sure would get her to stay.
If there was even the slightest chance he was genuinely interested, she had to tell him about the love of God.
She returned to her seat.
Chapter 20
Lindley sat in the Marches’ parlor with his children, sister and Fina. Cilla and Fina were devising plans to ensure he would get to talk to Bridget that day. He doubted any of them would work. They didn’t know Dr. Grayson the way he did. They didn’t understand how hard-hearted and unyielding the man was.
The door knocker thudded. A few moments later, the butler entered the parlor. “Mr. Thompson, a gentleman to see you.”
Lindley stared disbelievingly at Dr. Grayson standing beside the butler.
The doctor surveyed the roomful of people. “Mr. Thompson, I have business to discuss with you.”
Lindley stood. On one hand, sitting was disrespectful to his visitor; on the other, the standing man exerted primacy over the sitting. Lindley had no desire to insult Bridget’s father or allow him to dominate any discussion they might have. “What business?” He hoped it would be about Bridget but she wasn’t business. She was personal. At least to Lindley.
Dr. Grayson scowled. “In private.”
Fina spoke from where she sat on the settee with Cilla. “Lindley, would you like the rest of us to leave?”
He knew he should say yes. “You don’t have to.”
Fina turned a triumphant grin on Bridget’s father. “State your business.”
Dora crutched over to Dr. Grayson, stood two inches in front of him and tilted her head back.
Dr. Grayson’s eyebrows twitched. “I—uh— What does this child want?”
Lindley struggled not to smile. For all the doctor’s self-assurance, unshakable beliefs and inflexibility, little Dora had rattled him. “Ask her.”
The doctor scowled and looked down.
“You fixed my leg,” Dora said.
“Yes. Now run along.”
Dora remained in place. “Are you Miss Greene’s papa?”
He took a controlled breath in and let it out. “I am.”
“Then I love you.” Dora let her crutches fall to the floor and gripped the older man around the legs.
Dr. Grayson stiffened. “Please control your child.”
Lindley rather liked seeing the haughty doctor uncomfortable. But before he did or said something to hurt Dora, Lindley stepped across the room and picked up his daughter. “She doesn’t bite.” Well, there was that time when she was two and bit Gabe, but he wouldn’t mention that.
The doctor’s face pulled back as though he’d eaten something rancid. “I put that cast on her leg.”
Why did that bother him? He was the one who had done it.
“Yes.”
Dora swung her injured leg. “It makes my other leg stronger.”
Dr. Grayson scowled. “That backwoods, incompetent doctor. He was supposed to take that off and remove the sutures.” He reached into his inside coat pocket and handed Lindley a card. “Meet me at my office in thirty minutes.” He turned abruptly and left.
Lindley stared after him.
“That was rude,” Fina said.
Cilla added, “He never stated his business.”
Apparently, medicine eclipsed everything else for the proud doctor.
An hour later, Lindley sat next to Dora in the doctor’s office. Dr. Grayson had shown Dora a jar of peppermint candies and told her if she didn’t cause a fuss, she could have one. He had let Dora poke his hand with the blunt-nosed scissors he’d use to cut away her cast so she could see they wouldn’t hurt her. He was far better with patients than people outside his office.
Dora pointed to her leg. “Are those my soochies?”
“Sutures,” the doctor corrected. “Yes. You must keep your leg very still. The bone inside is still fragile. You will feel a little tug as I pull out the sutures. Can you count them?”
Dora nodded.
One by one, the threads were clipped and removed. Dora scrunched up her face as the first few were removed but didn’t cry or fuss. “Eleven,” she declared when the last one was gone. She had a red scar down the side of her calf as well as yellowish bruises.
Lindley held his breath while Dr. Grayson probed where the break was.
Dora sucked in air between clenched teeth, and her head shook, but she didn’t move the rest of her body or fuss. Once a new cast was on her leg and the doctor had told her to sit very still until it dried, she crooked her finger and her whole arm at him.
He stepped closer. “What?”
She continued to curl her finger. “Closer.”
He leaned in.
Dora tossed her arms around his neck and whispered in his ear, “I love you.” At a volume that anyone could hear.
Lindley smiled at her loud whisper, her gre
garious nature and her big heart.
Were those tears in Dr. Grayson’s eyes?
The man’s arms moved slowly…but eventually made their way around Dora in a hug.
* * *
Bridget sat in the window seat in her room, gazing out at the back garden in full summer’s bloom. She ignored the soft knock on her door just as the servants ignored her pleas for them to go away and leave her alone. But they had their orders.
The door opened, and Petunia, her lady’s maid, stepped inside and gave a quick curtsy. “Miss?”
She turned to the young woman, wanting to tell the servant to go, but it wasn’t her fault. Her father had sent her, no doubt.
“Your father wishes to speak with you.”
She shifted her focus back out the window. “Tell him I’m not feeling up to it.” She would never be up to speaking with him again.
His deep voice said, “You seem quite healthy to me.”
Bridget blinked thrice before swinging her gaze to her father. She couldn’t remember him ever entering her room. People came to the great Dr. Grayson; he did not stoop to going to them. This was strange indeed.
“Well, I’m feeling quite peaked.” She wanted to say that with all his education, a seasoned doctor should be able to see that for himself. But that would be impudent. And he could figure out her meaning.
“That dress is ghastly.” He commented every day on the inappropriateness of her dress.
She didn’t care. Her simple black frock had few adornments. The ugliest gown in her wardrobe. “I like it. It suits me.”
“It won’t do to receive your future husband.”
Her insides tightened. So he had finally chosen. She wanted to argue and plead with him but knew it would do no good. Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away.
This was exactly what she would wear to greet her intended. Maybe the man would change his mind when he saw her. She rose from the sill as regal as a queen heading off to her execution.
“Petunia.” Her father flicked his wrist. “Find something suitable in her dressing room. Something with a little color to it.”
The servant darted into the adjoining room.
“Don’t bother, Father. I’ll wear what I have on.”