“If they understand you’re to be my wife, it will be perfectly acceptable.”
“But, Ordell, I would no more expect you to be at the side of the patients I tend—at least unless they were near death—than I would expect to be at your side when you’re carrying out your duties.”
His lips pursed. “I’d hoped you wouldn’t compare my duties to yours, Abigail, that you’d come to the same conclusion I have.” He glanced to the ceiling, as if seeing her father. “Besides, once he’s…Well, after he’s gone, even if he fully recovers this very day, you won’t have a circuit the way he does, or run a medicine room without a doctor. Your future is likely to be very different once your father is no longer with you.”
“How can you even speak of—even hint that he might die? You haven’t seen him. I have every reason to believe he has only a slight case and will make a full recovery.”
“Of course!” He took her hand, patting it. “I didn’t mean—I spoke without thought.”
She pulled her hand from his. “I realize no one lives forever, and I haven’t forgotten my father’s age. However, there are a great number of people who have trusted me because they know my father has trained me well. Besides, this house will be mine. My brothers don’t want to live here. I do. I see no reason why I wouldn’t continue to operate the medicine room myself.”
“You? Alone?”
“Is that such a shock?”
“I thought that was the reason your father was taking on a partner? To take over…Well, as you say, your father is older and must plan to leave his medicine room to Dr. Tallery.”
Pure anger filled her, half at Ordell’s assumptions and half at her own fear that he might be right. Surely her father had been entirely honest when he’d said he only wanted her to marry because he feared for her future? That he’d considered working with Dr. Tallery because the opportunity presented itself, not because he’d planned for Dr. Tallery to take over?
She stood, her mind awhirl. “Ordell,” she began, keeping her back to him. Words failed her, so she took in a deep breath. “I think we both fear the same thing—that we cannot continue.” She spun around, certain she would recognize on his face what she felt inside. Sorrow, certainly. But relief, too? “Isn’t it best to realize our mistake before anyone else knows we’ve made it?”
Instead of agreement he looked confused. He stood, searching her face now, too, perhaps hoping she didn’t mean what seemed obvious. “It isn’t a mistake. I’ve prayed ceaselessly about it. Our marriage still makes sense to me.”
She held his gaze. “But it doesn’t to me. I’m sorry.”
Chapter Eighteen
Before going to the hospital, Cal stopped at home to freshen and change clothes. He even ate a small lunch, though his stomach simultaneously yearned and turned at the thought of food. Fortunately, it wasn’t the kind of stomach ailment that came with the fever.
Although he forced himself to focus on each task at hand, his mind returned to the Van de Klerks. How was the doctor faring? How was Abigail coping? Such thoughts were like a rope, pulling Cal from the hospital and to their home.
By six in the evening, he could ignore it no longer. He must go back, no matter how much he tried to resist. It was too late not to suffer if Daniel Van de Klerk succumbed to the fever—if not on Abigail’s behalf and the undeniable love he knew he held for her, but for the respect and admiration her father had earned from him even before Cal had come back to New York. He must do all he could to prevent such a loss, or offer whatever commiseration he could if the feeble attempts of medicine failed.
Abigail collapsed into the chair at her father’s bedside, heart still pounding from the ordeal she and Bromley had just suffered. Even now, tears welled in her eyes to see the bindings she and the butler had been forced to apply to her father’s surprisingly strong limbs: evidence that the fever held him in a deeper grip than she wanted to believe.
She hadn’t wanted to restrain him, but she still felt the sting along her jaw from where the back of her father’s hand had caught her. He hadn’t meant to do it. If he were coherent, as he was surely bound to be any moment now, he would be horrified. As soon as she regained control of herself, she must go to the mirror and make sure there was no evidence of the strike. She should apply a cold cloth—a challenge considering the summer’s heat had melted the last bit of ice they’d stored in the yard’s ice pit—then go to the medicine room for some comfrey for a warm compress.
She collected herself, taking her gaze from Father only to glance once again at the bottle. Hope.
Bromley stood by, no longer wearing his usual coat. Considering the indignity brought to her father by his illness, any sort of protocol seemed downright silly. As grateful as she was for the faithful servant, she’d never felt so alone just then. Her father had forced her to deepen her friendship with Mindia, but Mindia was safely in the country. Without Father himself to lean on, Abigail had no one.
With Father asleep again, it was easy to escape the room in an attempt to abandon her thoughts as well. Unfortunately but not unexpectedly, an image of Cal followed. She wished, not for the first time, that he was here with her. His absence might be a roundabout compliment, evidence he thought her entirely competent to give her father the best care. Nonetheless, she couldn’t help feeling abandoned when she and her father needed him most.
The clock in the foyer chimed half past six just as she reached the bottom step. She’d miss another meal, although Marta was no doubt preparing something anyway in between her constant scrubbing. She suspected the cook’s loyalty had been tested since Father came home with the contagion, but so far loyalty was winning.
Just then, Abigail saw a shadow pass the window near the door. She’d sent a messenger to her brothers, asking them both to come home, but it was too soon for either to have traveled all the way here. Curious, she opened the door before whoever was there had a chance to knock.
Cal stood before her, a grim yet reassuring look on his face. For a moment she wished she could cast aside protocol here, too, and throw herself into his arms out of sheer gratitude and relief. Caution held her back. He might be polite enough to make a house call, but that didn’t mean he’d come to support her. Besides, a new germ of resentment hovered in her mind. He might be her father’s replacement, a role she’d always envisioned for herself.
“How is he?”
The lack of greeting neither surprised nor upset her. Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped inside. As he passed her she heard his breathing stop, and one of his hands rose to her face, tilting it so he could better peer at the very spot she’d intended to treat.
“Do you have any parsley?” he asked.
She was glad he hadn’t made an issue of the bruise. A doctor like Dawson might have castigated her for not binding a fever patient before it came to that. “I was just going for a cool cloth, though we don’t have any ice left.”
“Not many places do this summer.”
He was fully inside now, closing the door when she forgot.
“Which would you like me to do?” he asked. “See about your bruise, or go straight to your father? I’ve let the hospital know I’m here to relieve you and won’t return until your father is on the mend.”
“You’ll stay?” she asked, nearly breathless with hope and fear.
“If you’ll let me, after having run away this morning. That is,” he added, “if your reverend won’t mind having someone working at your side who holds you in far greater regard than any mere colleague should.”
Abigail nearly cried with happy relief, a stark contrast to the horror of the past few hours. Before she could sort her thoughts, Cal put a hand on each of her shoulders.
“Abigail, this isn’t the time for me to clutter your mind with my confessions, but you ought to know your intended isn’t the only man in love with you. Let me stay, no matter how you feel about me. I know you’re fully capable of giving your father the best care, but I can relieve you. Will you let me?�
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She nearly fell against him and was grateful when he took her into his arms. “Yes, Cal, absolutely yes.”
Chapter Nineteen
Dr. Van de Klerk’s fever fell but rose again in defiance of Cal’s best efforts. Despite his presence, Abigail never left. She sat but did not sleep, even after sending Bromley for much-needed rest.
Night came again, and neither spoke of what had happened downstairs. Cal didn’t regret his confession, especially when his gaze occasionally met Abigail’s. He saw nothing there to dissuade his love for her.
But that could be because she was filled with gratitude for his help. He knew this night would see resolution: either her father’s fever would break, or it would be the end of him. Cal found himself praying more than once, knowing Abigail did, too.
Although there was another chair, the one Bromley had used while he’d helped care for the doctor, Cal rarely used it. Instead he sat on the edge of the bed, if only to prevent Abigail from doing so. He held the bowl for the blackened vomit, wiped at the doctor’s chin, administered all the aid they knew to give. For the last hour her father appeared too worn even to vomit.
Not for the first time, Cal’s tired gaze fell on Abigail. She was awake but was looking at neither her father nor Cal. Instead, she stared at the bottle.
“Open it,” he said, low. “We can all use what it claims to hold.”
To his relief, her brows rose with interest. She’d looked so downhearted he was convinced she was losing confidence, even the pretense of it. At least this, if only an exercise, would occupy her mind for a while.
Slowly but without hesitation, she picked up the bottle. The seal was waxen, ancient, partly cracked but still intact. It took little more than a pinch to break what wax remained, but the stopper beneath was sunk deep. She stood, going to a medical bag that probably belonged to her father and pulling out a surgical knife—long and sleek. But her hand trembled, so he offered his. She gave the bottle to him.
In a moment he flipped it open, but rather than emptying it, he returned it to Abigail. She turned it upside down, and a small scroll tumbled out, tightly bound so not to catch at the narrow mouth.
Abigail looked at Cal, as if for his permission to read it. He nodded, at the same time turning up the wick on the bedside lamp.
The scroll was old but not brittle, not even faded since no light had touched it in some time.
“Oh, Cal,” she whispered, and he knew for certain his heart wasn’t dead because it leaped at his name on her lips. “It’s from the Bible. I know some of these verses.”
Instead of reading from the scroll, she handed it to Cal so her hands were free to search a shelf beneath the bedside table. In a moment she brought a Bible to light.
“From Isaiah…‘Sing…and be joyful…. The Lord hath comforted his people….’ And John”—she turned the pages again—“about the many mansions He’s preparing for us, so where He is, we can be.”
Cal looked at the list, neatly written in bold, masculine English scrawl. “Matthew 22:31 and 32.”
She rifled the pages again, reading aloud with a quavering voice about God not being the God of the dead, but of the living. Next on the list was from Revelation, promising no more death nor sorrow nor crying or pain, the former things having passed away.
“You said when Bulldog died that he went to paradise,” Cal reminded her. “That even if he could he wouldn’t want to come back. All of these verses say it’s true.”
Tears sparkled in her lovely blue eyes. “Is it selfish of me to want to keep my father here a bit longer?”
Cal shook his head then looked at the last verse on the list. This handwriting was different from the rest. Softly feminine, practiced, and as elegant as the engraving on the bottle’s exterior. “This last one from the thirtieth Psalm is likely filled with praise. There is hope in praise, Abigail.”
She smiled in spite of her tears. “So the bottle does offer what it claims?”
“Indeed.”
Abigail read the last of the verses aloud, of turning mourning into dancing, being girded with gladness. She looked at her father as she spoke the final words, torn between faith and need. She knew in her heart his life was in God’s hands, but even as she ended the quote she burst into tears, pleading God’s mercy would extend to her in her weakness over the thought of going on without him.
“Now, now. None of that.”
Abigail didn’t know why she was weeping, whether from gratitude over the bottle’s reminder or fear that such verses were meant to usher her father into heaven with God’s promises still echoing in his ears. But the words stopped her. Had they been spoken aloud, or only in her mind? Because surely the voice was not Cal’s.
Cal’s surprised gaze met hers, confirming he’d heard it, too. She fell to her knees at the bedside, where her hand met Cal’s at her father’s forehead.
Cool!
As if to fortify Abigail’s hopes, her father opened his eyes. “I believe I’ve had enough rest, my dear.”
“Oh! Father!”
Then she wept again, hugging him, feeling his hand reach feebly to pat her hair.
Abigail was almost afraid to leave him but knew Bromley would fetch her if anything changed. She went downstairs with Cal to the parlor, where the air was a trifle cooler.
“No fever for eight hours,” Cal whispered, as if reading her mind. “He kept the barley water down, too. He’ll be fine.”
How had Cal known those were the words she needed to hear, in spite of telling herself the same thing? Whether it was pure exhaustion or that she was finished fighting any resistance to him, Abigail let herself fall against Cal. He accepted her into his embrace.
“I ought not take advantage of your weariness,” Cal whispered, holding her close, “but I don’t want to let go.”
“Perhaps I’m taking advantage of you.” She pulled away just far enough to look into his eyes, smiling. “Since I clearly demanded you hold me.”
His gaze was steady. “And what of your reverend?”
“He’s not mine,” she admitted, suddenly feeling more invigorated than she had in days. “We weren’t well suited, and I told him so.”
Cal’s brows rose in what she hoped was delight. “Then…I may kiss you without stealing another man’s bride-to-be?”
“You may kiss me,” she said, nearly adding she hoped she might still be a bride-to-be. Someday.
He bent his head, but before completing the kiss, he held back with a grin. “In fact, I prefer kissing a bride-to-be. My own, if you’ll have me.”
“Thank you for reading my mind, Calvin Tallery. I’m sure my father would say I should allow a kiss only if it’s accompanied by the best of intentions.”
Then his mouth came down on hers, and Abigail’s hope for the future was complete.
Chapter Twenty
Abigail reveled in the chilly weather. After such a hot, horrendous summer, she vowed not to complain about the cold this winter. Frosts stopped the spread of fevers, and this fall was no exception. This morning as she waited in the parlor, she took a moment to praise God, knowing He always put a limit on suffering, even if those limits were tested.
It had been several weeks since the last fever victim had come to the hospital, two weeks since she’d returned to her father’s medicine room. Father was still weak, despite his excellent recovery, and asked Cal to help Abigail with his patient circuit. It had always been too much for just one doctor, and because of that, they all knew Abigail wouldn’t be able to easily take it over on her own.
She was surprisingly grateful for Cal’s aid on the circuit. Besides her work, it was a consuming endeavor to plan not a single but a double wedding. Ever since Mrs. Pipperday had seen Early Goodwin’s talent as an artist when he painted Mindia’s portrait, she’d not only launched his reputation into the best circles of the city, but welcomed him into the family.
Abigail waited for Cal, looking forward to the day they would be united in marriage and live under this
same roof. Now that Early had the promise of a steadier income, he’d offered to buy Cal’s home as soon as he was able. Cal had asked Abigail if she had a preference as to where they should live, and she’d confessed she’d always wanted to live in her own home, where their patients were used to coming. So with Father no longer traveling farther than the medicine room itself, Cal and Abigail traveled the neighborhood on the days they weren’t working in the office or at the hospital.
Father had asked about the bottle he’d found at his bedside, and Abigail told him how it delivered exactly what it promised when she’d needed it most. Cal had made a gift of it to her, and she’d accepted only because she knew it would be his again after they married. The bottle held a prominent place on the parlor mantel, where it reminded her often of the meaning of real hope.
Each and every time Abigail’s gaze fell upon the bottle, as now, she longed for her wedding day, only weeks away at last. Just the evening before, Mindia had arrived with a copy of the invitations requesting guests for the joyous occasion of joining in matrimony not only Miss Mindia Pipperday to Mr. Early Goodwin but also Miss Abigail Van de Klerk to Dr. Calvin Tallery. It promised to be New York’s social event of the blessedly welcome new season.
Abigail caught a glimpse of Cal’s shadow as he made his way to the front door. They’d made a habit of greeting each other in the foyer every morning, a far more private place to begin the day—and so many more to come—with a kiss.
Abigail hurried to open the door.
Maureen Lang writes stories inspired by a love of history and romance. An avid reader herself, she’s figured out a way to write the stories she feels like reading. Maureen’s inspirationals have earned various writing distinctions including the Inspirational Reader’s Choice Contest, a HOLT Medallion, and the Selah Award, as well as being a finalist for the Rita, Christy, and Carol Awards. In addition to investigating various eras in history (such as Victorian England, First World War, and America’s Gilded Age), Maureen loves taking research trips to get a feel for the settings of her novels. She lives in the Chicago area with her family and has been blessed to be the primary caregiver to her adult disabled son.
The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection Page 32