It was such an odd hour, the normal hack wasn’t at the corner. Another soon appeared, and Dr. Tallery helped her inside.
Perhaps they were both too tired; perhaps it was the sadness over losing Bulldog. Neither spoke as the carriage rambled along, horse’s hooves clattering to break the silence. She wondered if he was thinking about the bottle, wondering where it had been and what was inside, the way his thumb went over the single word etched near its opening.
“Will you open it?” she asked at last.
“I don’t care what’s inside. That bottle didn’t do Bulldog any good against the fever, did it?” He offered the bottle to her. “Would you like it?”
She gasped. “Oh, no! He meant for it to be yours, Dr. Tallery, at least longer than an hour. How could you even think to give it away so soon?”
He looked at it again, brows sinking as if somewhat abashed. “It’s because of that word.”
He spoke so quietly she wasn’t sure she’d heard him. Perhaps he hadn’t meant for her to hear. “Hope?”
He nodded. “I’ve forgotten how.”
Abigail was tempted to abandon her seat to squeeze herself beside him, to draw him into her arms and assure him there must always be hope. What else had Christ come for, but that? This time, however, even in her fatigue she pushed away the idea of being so close to him. She couldn’t be so bold, whether or not Ordell would object. Instead, she whispered, “I think that’s exactly why Bulldog wanted you to have the bottle. To help you remember.”
The silence between them resumed, and after a few moments she wondered if the exchange had even happened. There was something undeniably intimate about the words he’d shared, as if baring part of his soul. Perhaps she’d fallen asleep right inside this carriage and had dreamed it. In a way, she almost hoped she had, and it had nothing to do with guilt over sharing a meaningful moment with another man who was not Ordell. She could only feel as if she’d failed to encourage him. Dr. Tallery was likely every bit as exhausted as she, which was probably why the grief that hadn’t shown earlier at the hospital was now absolutely clear.
“Bulldog was right to give it to you,” she said at last, knowing the carriage would soon stop at her home and she must leave him. She couldn’t do so without offering what little more she could. “And right now, he is in paradise. He wouldn’t come back even if he could.”
Then the carriage did stop, just as she’d expected. She remained still, though she would have to go inside now, claim much-needed rest. Perhaps rest was what he needed, too, every bit as much as a reminder of hope.
Dr. Tallery pulled open the carriage door, alighting to assist her before the coachman could.
But to her surprise, before she could even say good night, she heard the rapid tap of shoes against the stones leading from her house. Bromley stopped a few feet from them, a look of utter horror on his old, familiar face.
“It’s your father, miss.”
Chapter Sixteen
Abigail scrambled from the coach, at first not aware that Dr. Tallery followed. But as she rushed inside and up the stairs, she was more than a little relieved to hear not only Bromley’s steps echoing hers, but Dr. Tallery’s, as well.
“What happened?” She called the question over her shoulder.
“He collapsed when he got home,” Bromley said, his words coming in spurts between gasps for air. “He came in just a short time ago—but then I didn’t hear footsteps on the stairs. So I came to check and found him inside the door.”
Myriad thoughts clamored in Abigail’s brain as she tiptoed into the room nearest the top of the stairs. It was dim, just one lamp lit beside the bed. The windows were open, but no breeze stirred the curtains. She stopped at her father’s bedside, where Bromley had already supplied a bowl for her father’s sickness—something he’d already been using.
“Oh! Father!”
Bromley and Dr. Tallery went to the opposite side of the bed. She made no objection when Dr. Tallery set aside the bronze bottle he’d carried then touched her father’s forehead just as she checked his neck to assess just how high the fever might be.
“Now, now.” She’d thought Father sleeping, but his grumbled voice was clear and coherent.
Vaguely, she heard Dr. Tallery giving orders to Bromley. Cool drinks of barley water interchanged with apple water to bring down the fever. Red wine with laudanum to help him sleep. A good supply of damp cloths to minister to face and hands and arms. Everything she might have said had she not been gripped with tears and fear.
“How long have you been ill?”
“I’m not so sick,” Father said, but then his body denied the words as he retched again into the bowl. Abigail went to the washstand in the corner of the room, returning with a dampened towel to wipe his face and hands.
“I’ll stay with you until you’re better,” she promised. “But now you must sleep.”
“I’ll sleep if you do, daughter,” he said, his eyes fluttering.
She offered a cheerless smile. “Yes, Father. I will, right here.”
There was a padded chair in Father’s room, which Dr. Tallery was already shoving closer to the bedside. One of the pillows hung unused near the edge of the mattress, and he grabbed that, too, then stood by as if inviting Abigail to the spot.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“I’ll stay,” he said, two words that increased the tears in her eyes.
But she couldn’t accept. “No, Doctor. You need rest, too.”
“Bromley will be back with the barley water soon. I can help you with that.”
“I’ll manage.”
If he was offended by her rejection, Abigail couldn’t tell. But how could she accept, knowing he’d been awake as long or longer than she had? Nonetheless, he stayed until Bromley entered a few minutes later with the broth then quietly slipped from the room.
Her gaze fell on the bottle at her father’s bedside table, and she nearly called to remind him about it. But she caught her own words.
She guessed Dr. Tallery had purposely left the bottle with the single word facing her:
Hope.
Cal went no farther than down the stairs. He could sleep here as easily as he could at his own home—empty now since Early had left for the Pipperday country house.
Even as Cal removed his shoes and loosened the cravat at his throat to settle upon the long, padded couch in the Van de Klerk parlor, he called himself a fool. He’d vowed not to befriend these people. But even during the time he’d worked with Dr. Van de Klerk, the older man had charmed him as easily as he obviously charmed his patients. He was kindness and calmness and wisdom and experience all in one, and anyone within the radius of his voice rarely wanted to leave it.
How could Cal not care? His heart would surely have to be as dead as he’d hoped it to be. The only foolish notion had been believing it was.
He had little trouble falling asleep but woke before feeling rested. He looked out the window: still dark. Perhaps his unusual surroundings were to blame for his fitfulness, although it was true he’d learned to snatch sleep wherever and whenever he could.
Then he heard something from the hall. Someone was coming down the stairs. Cal sat up. With moonlight filtering in from the high windows above the front door, he could easily see the staircase through the wide archway leading from parlor to vestibule. It was Abigail, bowl in hand.
Cal left the couch, calling softly so as not to startle her. “How is he?”
She must have been accustomed to the dark, since even though he’d removed his shoes and had walked soundlessly to the archway, she had little trouble directing her gaze his way.
“No worse,” she said. “But no better.”
He approached her at the foot of the stairs. “I’ve slept. Why don’t you let me watch over him for a while so you can rest?”
She shook her head, though he saw the hint of a grateful smile. “I slept a little, too. Chairs can be comfortable enough.”
“Yes, I know.”
<
br /> She nodded again, eying him. “Thank you for staying, Doctor. Though you needn’t. I’m sure you’ll want to go back to the hospital in the morning. Will you explain for me that I won’t be there until my father is better?”
He wondered if she believed he would recover. Cal saw in a moment her confidence was false. The dim light wasn’t enough to hide a quiver to her lips, the sag to her shoulders. He stepped closer, taking the bowl from her hands and setting it on a stair behind them.
“Abigail,” he whispered, and for a moment he was unsure what to say next. How could he offer hope when he knew it to be a cruel friend? So he said nothing, only took her into his arms.
She sobbed then, tears mixing with words he soon recognized as a prayer. For the first time in longer than he could remember, Cal added his own prayers to hers.
He wasn’t sure how long they stood like that, praying softly together. The embrace was too natural, too needed to be wrong or unexpected. But eventually he knew he must let go. He retrieved the bowl, walked to what he assumed was the way to the kitchen where she must have been headed. There, he directed her to a chair while he went to the pump at the sink. He washed out the bowl, rinsed the rags. Looked through drawers before she directed him to one with more linens, then supplied what she needed before escorting her back to the stairs.
He was half-tempted to go up with her but didn’t. He wasn’t needed. He did hope he’d given her some comfort—enough to see her through the rest of the night.
But rather than going home, he returned to the Van de Klerk parlor.
This time a persistent tapping woke him. Cal opened his eyes, for a moment wondering where he was. Dreams of the islands haunted him, reliving his bedside vigil next to Charles so that now, almost awake, he was deeply aware of a sense of dread.
Then he remembered where he was, and why. He stood, intending to check on Daniel Van de Klerk even as another dream came to mind, of comforting a crying Abigail. More wondrous than that, praying with her. Was it a dream? Repeated tapping interrupted the vivid recollection. Someone was at the front door.
Cal was barely aware of his own disheveled appearance as he pulled on the door handle, but upon seeing a gentleman impeccably dressed—white collar in stark contrast to his black frock coat—the difference between their attire couldn’t have been more obvious.
“Isn’t this…that is, I am at the Van de Klerk’s?”
Cal knew immediately who the man must be: Abigail’s soon-to-be-announced fiancé. Guilt erupted, accusing him of taking advantage of Abigail during the midnight hours when she’d been distraught. He shouldn’t have held her so close; he could have let her pass the parlor for the kitchen without even letting her know he was there.
The other man looked confused enough to turn away, but his eye caught the medicine room sign identifying the correct address, so he faced Cal again.
“My apologies,” Cal said. “The household is in some distress this morning, which must include the staff. Come in.”
He stepped aside, and the man entered, looking around as if more evidence was needed that he’d arrived at the right place.
“I know it’s early, barely eleven, but is Abigail Van de Klerk at home?”
“Yes, she’s upstairs with her father. He’s taken ill.” It occurred to Cal that he ought to explain his presence, but he decided to let the man assume the truth: that he’d stayed out of concern for the patient. That was mostly the case.
He was about to invite him to wait when Bromley appeared at the top of the stairs. He was fully dressed, though his usually impeccable jacket was rumpled and his vest askew. Hurrying down the stairs, he apologized as he approached.
“My apologies, Reverend Lebsock. I’m terribly sorry I wasn’t here to open the door.”
Cal perused the new arrival. He’d witnessed the sad observation that too few priests or pastors came to the hospital recently, either to comfort the sick or to be at the side of a dying parishioner. He ought not hope for cowardice in this man but found himself looking for fault anyway, at least enough to pronounce him unworthy of Abigail.
“I don’t wish to intrude if her father wishes privacy, but please let Miss Van de Klerk know I’m here if either she—or her father—would like me to visit with them.”
“Right away,” said Bromley then retraced his steps up the stairs.
The reverend had removed his white summer straw hat but twirled it awkwardly through his fingertips. His gaze first avoided then settled on Cal.
“I’m Dr. Tallery,” Cal said.
“Ah, the doctor from the islands? Dr. Van de Klerk’s new partner?”
It sounded so simple from his lips, so innocent. Cal nodded.
“Abigail—that is, Miss Van de Klerk, has wanted me to meet her father for some time now. I never envisioned it in such a way, with him possibly on his death—” He cut himself off. “You’ve been tending him, I suppose. How is he?”
“Abigail—Miss Van de Klerk—stayed with him through the night. I haven’t yet seen him this morning. But last night he appeared to have all the signs of yellow fever.”
The man closed his eyes as if he’d received a blow, until Cal realized he was praying. As hard as he’d hoped, Cal couldn’t find fault with him so far. Besides, even Cal himself had succumbed in a moment of confused weakness to praying for the man. He was tempted to announce it would do no good, that he had all the evidence he needed against prayer saving anyone. His brothers; his father; his mother; Charles; Bulldog. And now, he feared, Dr. Van de Klerk, too.
In that moment, assessing the man surely worthy of Abigail, Cal told himself again that caring led to loss. He could tend the sick at the hospital, those strangers whose loss was great only in number. He mustn’t stay here, not where he wasn’t needed and where, if he stayed, it threatened to make him care. Abigail’s future was clearly secure. Daniel Van de Klerk, if he survived, didn’t need Cal, and Cal didn’t need him.
So he politely excused himself, retrieved his coat, put on his shoes, and found his way out.
Chapter Seventeen
Abigail woke to Bromley’s voice.
“Reverend Lebsock has arrived, miss. He offered to visit with your father if you like.”
Ordell! Here, now? Only a moment ago—in her dreams?—she’d been with Calvin Tallery. She glanced at the window, seeing the sun was high.
Thankfully, Bromley’s hushed tone hadn’t wakened her father. The laudanum-laced wine was clearly working, and she clung to hope her father would make a full recovery. It had been hours since he’d last vomited; his forehead was cooler, his pulse strong.
“I hadn’t anticipated Ordell meeting Father in such a way,” she said. “I’m not sure Father will appreciate it, once he’s more himself. Will you ask Dr. Tallery to come up instead? I’ll see Ordell in a moment.”
Alone again with her sleeping father, Abigail couldn’t stop her thoughts from straying to Dr. Tallery. Calvin. Cal, she’d heard Early Goodwin call him. Was that how he referred to himself? Cal…
She was vastly more interested in seeing Dr. Tallery than seeing Ordell, and wondered at her lack of shame. Clearly her heart wasn’t cooperating in the plans she’d made for her future. Perhaps having Ordell arrive now was the opportunity she needed to let him know she was having second thoughts.
Even with such serious pondering, she couldn’t help but smile. Perhaps she could still have the future her father wanted for her. Remembering Calvin’s arms about her last night—and more importantly, the soft cadence of his voice as he’d prayed—her hopes deepened. They multiplied when her gaze fell again on the bronze bottle he’d left for her and her father.
Hope!
In a moment, the door opened and she caught back her breath, but she was disappointed to see Bromley.
“I’m afraid Dr. Tallery has left, miss.”
“Left?” Without a word? Without checking on Father?
“Likely returned to the hospital, if he’s anything like you and your father.”
> Abigail nodded automatically, even as her heart sank.
Bromley neared the bedside as if to take over the vigil. “I’ll come for you if he wakes.”
“Hmm? Oh, yes.” She checked her father’s forehead once again, relieved at its coolness. “I’ll see the reverend now.”
Then she made her way downstairs, without even bothering to check her appearance in Father’s mirror.
Ordell offered all the right words. He promised prayers for her father’s quick recovery, for her strength in caring for him. He spoke of admiration that she was so well equipped to supply what her father needed. But she only half listened. On the floor between the parlor and the foyer, she spotted a dropped handkerchief, as if its owner had left in a hurry.
While listening to Ordell tell of yet another funeral he was helping to plan—she was sick nearly to death of death itself—she left her chair to retrieve the abandoned item. Sure enough, she spotted the initials CT embroidered in purple. She tucked it in a pocket, wondering when she would have the opportunity to return it and if she wanted to. Why had he left? It was forgivable that he’d gone without a word to her—he might, after all, regret having taken a woman into his arms under the intimacy of the night when she’d told him she belonged to another. But to leave without asking after her father was something else altogether.
“And so I was hoping you might attend the service, even though you didn’t know the deceased. It’ll help you to get used to my work, because once I have my own church, where I’m preaching every Sunday, you’ll be every bit my helpmate.”
“Attend the funeral? Of…someone I don’t know? Won’t the family think me—well, unnecessary at best, an intruder at worst?”
With the strain to keep her attention on Ordell came the blatant, definite realization she lacked devotion to him; she barely thought of him when they were apart. She’d been wrong to believe they would make a compatible, effective team.
The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection Page 31