The blood in her veins heated as if she herself had the fever, only with no ill effects. “Then what about you, Dr. Tallery?” The question came out before she could catch it. “Why is it you’ve never married?”
Chapter Thirteen
Cal looked at Miss Van de Klerk, indeed had no trouble staring into her charming eyes. But between them in the close confines of this carriage was a crumbling wall. Brick by brick toppled with each passing moment, leaving him entirely exposed. How had this happened in the course of a few short days of working beside her? He must explore that at a future date. But it was irrefutably true, and likely irreversible. Perhaps he hadn’t erected that wall as effectively as he had thought.
And she with her happiness secure! A marriage in the not-too-distant future. All he could be was her friend, but even that was more than he should allow, particularly in view of how easily he’d taken to working with her father. Cal had promised to keep to himself after he lost his family. Then he’d been adopted, so to speak, by Charles—only to lose him, too. And so he’d rebuilt that wall. But hadn’t affection for Bulldog somehow grown on that voyage? And once back home in New York, hadn’t Early reminded him how easy it was to care for another human being, in spite of any wish not to?
Perhaps the biggest chink in the wall occurred when he’d first set eyes on Abigail Van de Klerk all those weeks ago; she might not have been in his presence often since then, but the strike against the barrier must have been so strategically placed as to have rendered it weak ever since.
“Haven’t you guessed why I’m unmarried, Miss Van de Klerk? Like you, I’ve dedicated my time to medicine. But unlike you, at least what I’ve seen while you’ve been working at the hospital, I’ve done my duty by technique and not heart. A doctor’s goal, as you’ve claimed, is to alleviate suffering. Sometimes that’s nothing more than standing at the bedside, offering comfort the way you did with those patients tonight. With cheerful conversation, your smile, your hope for tomorrow. I’m a bit surprised you haven’t had a patient propose marriage to you already. I, on the other hand, would stir no such interest from my female patients because I offer medicine only in the form of technique. Without a heart.”
She eyed him as if skeptical. “I wonder how a doctor can be without a heart. Not when the goal is to help others. I’ve seen you working tirelessly these past few days. That’s certainly more than technique.”
He shrugged, tearing his gaze from hers to look out the window. The moment this conversation had begun he’d sensed it taking him in a direction he wasn’t prepared to follow. Yes, she was beautiful. He’d recognized that from the moment he saw her. Now that he knew she wasn’t as shallow as a butterfly, he was all the more susceptible to her charms. He still wanted to fight it, to resist, to remind himself death always lurked every time he came to care for someone.
But it was no use. He couldn’t deny his heart still beat inside, that the breath he breathed was given to him by God, who the Bible claimed was the very embodiment of love. He’d created people to love, hadn’t He? Cal had spent so much time shaking his fist at God he’d forgotten there were other elements of life than death. There was love, or at least the possibility of it. That made all the rest bearable.
Yet with her about to marry someone else, all he could owe her was gratitude for reminding him he might be able to care for someone, after all.
“Let’s just say,” he whispered, “that I’ve kept my compassion to a minimum.”
“My father has always said a doctor’s heart must be made of India gum—soft, serviceable, but able to erase what it must to go on and help the next patient. Keeping what we learn along the way, erasing what we can of the losses.”
He caught her gaze. “Does India gum not have the tendency to crumble, though?”
She held her own eyes steady with his. “Only when overused, not under.”
Cal couldn’t have looked away from her even if he’d commanded himself to do so. Whatever was left of that crumbling wall had just been swept away.
Chapter Fourteen
Abigail was ready to set off from home for another day at the hospital, but she lingered in her father’s company after they’d breakfasted. She had so little opportunity to spend time with him these days. Even so, she was quiet as she sipped her coffee, wishing she could share her strange mix of reluctance and eagerness for the duties ahead.
Somehow, even with its horrors, the hospital had transformed to a place Abigail wanted to be—not only because she felt so useful, but because she could work at Dr. Tallery’s side. He served fever patients tirelessly, but if he was called to assist cases in other wards, he never complained. Those who worked with him spoke only of his knowledge, and few complained about his lack of warmth. They were too grateful for his experience.
“I’m going to the health commissioner’s office this morning,” Father said, pulling her attention back to the present. “Do you know they still haven’t issued a warning for the public to clean out their yards, to empty damp cellars? They must make sure the city scavengers are more diligent about sweeping the streets.”
“I’ve been so isolated at the hospital I haven’t been reading the papers lately,” she admitted. “But I noticed there was little being written about the fevers.”
“That’s true,” he said with a heavy sigh. “So far they’ve been more effective at ignoring so many cases than warning people away from the sinks and damp. They hope to avoid panic—yes, I understand. They don’t want everyone who has somewhere else to go to abandon the city. But economic reasons over health? It’s shameful.”
“Father, you go every day to the areas you’re warning people about. Won’t you stay up here instead? In the medicine room, or even go to the hospital?”
He stood, tugging his waistcoat down over what had once been a more rounded middle. She was sure he was losing weight. “Now, darling, you’re not to worry. I’m seldom in one place for very long. Oh, and I’ve forgotten to speak to you about something that’s rather important. Bromley tells me Reverend Ordell has left his calling card at the house three times this week, but you have yet to see him.”
A wave of guilt washed over her. “Yes, I must speak to him, but I’ve been so busy.”
“I’m still looking forward to meeting the man who’s stirred your interest. He must be quite extraordinary.”
She averted her gaze, afraid of what his sharp eye might detect. The truth was she hadn’t thought of Ordell in the last few days, except once in the carriage with Dr. Tallery.
She stood and would have led the way from the dining room, but her father’s voice detained her. “Abigail?”
The single word confirmed he’d guessed anyway what she’d tried hiding. Still, she couldn’t very well talk about her confusion concerning Ordell. She needed to speak to Ordell first, to see if he’d considered their last conversation and what conclusions he might have drawn.
“You haven’t plunged yourself so thoroughly back into work that you’re forgetting the future again, have you?”
“No, Father.”
He drew her close with one arm about her shoulders. “I can see something is on your mind, and I won’t press you if you’re not ready to confide in me. I’m just a foolish old man wanting to see my daughter happy and not left alone after I’m gone. You can forgive me of that, can’t you?”
She patted his chest. “You still have plenty of time to see my future secured.”
After a kiss to her forehead, he chuckled. “May God be willing, my dear.”
As he walked beside her out of the dining room, she couldn’t help but notice his gait was slower, his shoulders more rounded. She wasn’t accustomed to seeing his age, but somehow he was growing old in spite of her wish otherwise. He should be slowing down. She considered sending for one of her brothers, but even if their country circuits had no fever victims, they were still likely busy. That was the one surety in life: wherever there were people, sickness would abound.
When Abigail arrived
at the hospital a short time later, her gaze naturally sought Dr. Tallery. But when she found him, she drew in a sharp breath. He was at Bulldog’s bedside, who was back among the weakest of the fever patients.
Cal wiped the blood from the corner of Bulldog’s mouth. The sailor was in the last stages of the disease, with yellow skin and eyes, blood oozing from his nose and mouth. He now vomited black blood over a tongue that was brown and dry. Worse, his pulse seemed to grow weaker by the minute even as he alternated between complete coherence and delirium.
He hadn’t wanted to restrain the man, but the fever madness had him thrashing with far more strength than Cal thought Bulldog possessed. One of the straps had loosened, and Cal bent to retie it.
“Oh, Mr. Bulldog.”
The greeting came from a source Cal both welcomed and wished away. It was difficult not to worry over Abigail Van de Klerk, despite her competency. It was easy to catch the back of a hand or worse from a patient in the throes of the fever, and he feared for her safety.
Even as he dreaded losing Bulldog, Cal tried to rationalize his concern for her. The hospital couldn’t spare anyone willing to work these days. It was, however, growing sillier by the day to refuse admitting the truth. He suspected she might be right about his India gum heart being overused, because it was certainly involved whenever he thought of her.
“He’s exhausted,” Cal said to her as she approached the other side of the cot. He let her stay there, only because he was sure the binding on that side was secure. “Sleep is what he needs most.”
“Don’t want to,” came the surprisingly clear response from the patient himself. “Been waiting for you to get here, miss.”
“Me, Mr. Bulldog?” Abigail prompted.
Bulldog nodded, looking from one to the other. He tried to move, and Cal stiffened to see the man’s amber eyes widen. But Bulldog let his arms fall back to his side as he tried sitting up, looking for something. “My bag,” he said. “Where is it?”
“It’s here,” said Abigail, and she pulled up the seabag that had been stored beneath the bedside table.
“There’s a bottle—”
Cal wouldn’t protest if Bulldog wanted a strong drink, though he wondered what Abigail would do. She was, by all accounts, not only a woman of faith, but recently of the fruit-punch circle in polite society.
“If you’re thirsty, I can find a glass for you,” she offered, leaving Cal wondering if she’d fill that glass with whatever was in Bulldog’s bottle, or water.
“No, it’s…not that kind of bottle,” Bulldog said. “It may be worth nothin’ but what the bronze could be melted for. Still, it’s priceless to me. I’d like to see it again.”
Abigail offered the bag to him, evidently forgetting for the moment that Bulldog was still bound to the bed frame. Cal hoped Bulldog wouldn’t ask her to free him, regardless of his present state of cognizance.
“It’s tucked along the side.”
One of her hands disappeared inside the seabag. He’d admired her hands before today, how slender and yet strong they were, graceful yet competent. In a moment she pulled the thing out. It was old and likely worthless, Bulldog was right about that. The dark bronze cask was dented here and there, with more than a few scratches. The cap was tightly sealed with some kind of wax. But even with all its wear, an elegant engraving graced its neck: a design or letters. It was hard to tell at first glance.
Bulldog lifted his head to better see it then lay back on the pillow with a smile of satisfaction on his leathery face, as if reunited with a long-lost friend. “Do you see it? What’s written there, on the neck?”
The old, battered bottle was curved but not thick, shaped almost like a flask. Abigail held it high, aiming toward the light from the window. “Letters,” Abigail said. “A word. Let’s see…. An S is clear, along with a P… Oh! It’s S-P-E-R-O. That’s Latin, isn’t it? For ‘hope’?”
Bulldog’s serene smile deepened. “It is. Do you know, I always thought I might want to have a look inside that bottle at a time such as this.”
“I can open it for you if you like,” Abigail offered.
“It—it already gave me what I needed.” He seemed to bask in whatever notions the bottle conjured for him, staring ahead as if neither Cal nor Abigail were there. But then he came out of it, looking at Cal. “I want you to have the bottle. A young man needs something like this, some reminder that we oughtn’t lose hope. I kept waiting for the moment I thought I’d need to look inside for more than just that word. But the reminder was always enough. Like it is now. I wouldn’t hold it against ya if you want to know the contents, but maybe all you need is what’s written there.”
He coughed again, and this time Abigail was quicker with a cloth. It was just as well; the cotton Cal carried was nearly soaked through.
“You decide whether or not to open it, Bulldog,” Cal said. “It’s your bottle.”
“Maybe after you’ve rested we can open it,” Abigail suggested.
Bulldog didn’t seem to hear her. “It’s paper in there—I guessed from the flutter when I used to shake it. Maybe a parchment from a king. A love letter? Orders from a general. A note from a shipwrecked sailor. Or a banknote.” He closed his eyes. “I could have been owner of a fortune, but my imagination was likely more real. That word—hope—was reminder enough from God Himself.”
“You need to rest now,” said Cal. “I’ve seen cases like yours recover, so you have every right to claim the hope you’ve just been reminded about.”
Bulldog opened his eyes again, looking at Cal. “No, sir. I’m ready to go on. But one more thing, and then I’ll go to sleep and I hope never to wake up, not on this earth, anyway. I’m giving that bottle to you on one condition.” Then he shifted his gaze to Abigail. “I waited for you as witness. The time will come when this doctor should be reminded of hope. You will do that for him, miss, won’t you? You can even tell him to look inside if he wants. There’s no crime in it. And then if he wants to someday, he can pass it along to give someone else hope, the way it’s done for me.”
Cal looked instantly to Abigail, saw her blush. No matter how generous of Bulldog, how thoughtful, it was the most inappropriate sort of gift. It tied a woman about to be married to someone else to an unmarried man when their only association should be in their profession. But when she caught his eye, he couldn’t have been more pleased when she nodded.
“I will, Bulldog. I’ll remind him.”
Chapter Fifteen
Abigail wasn’t sure why she didn’t leave that night, although as usual there were plenty of patients to tend. But she kept her eye on Bulldog. She’d seen death far too many times, and not just from a fever that killed half its victims. Though Bulldog was certainly among her most pleasant patients, she stayed because she didn’t want to leave Dr. Tallery—who wouldn’t leave Bulldog.
He was at Bulldog’s side when the old sailor died. Afterward, the doctor revealed no outward sign of grief: he filled out the appropriate form for the hospital and health commission and stood by as the body was collected. The only difference came when he directed the ward assistant to send the body to a funeral director Abigail recognized: one who tended to the needs of the best families in New York.
“That was good of you, Doctor,” Abigail said as she approached his side while two attendants took Bulldog out on a stretcher. “To stay with him, and now to pay for a proper burial.”
It was certainly more than any other sailor far from his own home port would have received. She wasn’t even sure Bulldog had a home.
Dr. Tallery’s gaze followed Bulldog all the way to the door. “He was kind to me when I didn’t deserve it.” Then, Bulldog gone, he pulled out his pocket watch. “It’s past midnight, Miss Van de Klerk. We both ought to go home.”
She nodded. “Yes, you’re right. I’m surprised my father didn’t stop in on his way home. He said he might, if only to drag me along.”
“Then I’ll see you home, to vouch for your dedication. Although,”
he added, “I’m sure your father doesn’t need anyone speaking on your behalf.”
She averted her gaze and murmured a thank-you then went about the normal procedure to let the staff know she would be leaving at last and would return later than usual in the morning. When she found Dr. Tallery still at the hospital doors, she was too tired to either explain or fight her delight over the notion that he’d been true to his word and waited.
But seeing his empty hands, she looked back at the ward. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Doctor?”
He looked at her, obviously perplexed.
“The bottle. I was assigned to make sure you took proper ownership of it, and to remind you of it now and then.”
A slow smile formed on his face, but one that quickly turned grim. “I’m not sure he ought to have given it to me.”
“I think he knew exactly what he was doing, particularly if you need reminding. I’ll get it.”
She found the seabag just where she’d left it, beneath the bedside table that had belonged to Bulldog only a little while ago. She’d already stripped the sheets, and the bed now awaited Bulldog’s replacement.
There was proper procedure for personal items brought in by patients without family, and so Abigail retraced her steps to the nursing office. She stayed only long enough to remove the bottle, to report she was taking it to Dr. Tallery who had been bequeathed the item in her presence. They would record it and any other items in the bag that would likely be given to the only heir Bulldog had named: Dr. Tallery.
As she approached him once again, she held out the bottle. His hand brushed hers as he accepted the item, and once again she hadn’t the energy to quell her reaction. For Ordell’s sake, she ought to see herself home and not spend a moment longer than necessary in the company of a man whose mere touch could spin her heart. But she simply couldn’t resist his company.
The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection Page 30