Embers of Love

by Tracie Peterson

  He laughed and shook his head. “I doubt anything could harm it more than Mrs. Foster’s warnings.”

  –––––––

  Margaret Foster was raising a ruckus when Deborah entered the store a short time later. The rain had let up and folks had started to come out again. The store was the most common gathering spot; even the men would come after their shifts to hear the latest gossip and news.

  “He ain’t got no right to be forcing a doctor on this town. I’ve been doctoring folks for thirty years,” Mrs. Foster railed. “A good many of those right here.”

  Deborah spotted Sissy and made her way across the store. Deborah could only hope the supplies were paid for and Sissy was ready to go. The last thing she wanted was to get into a confrontation with Mrs. Foster herself. The woman had never approved of Deborah.

  “She been like this since I got here,” Sissy whispered.“ Been tellin’ the world – leastwise, the part that will listen – that Perkinsville got no need of no doctor.”

  Deborah watched Mrs. Foster corner Helen Greeley and Olivia Huebner. “That book-learned man ain’t gonna know how to treat the ailments we got here in Texas. He ain’t even from Texas.”

  Leaning toward Sissy, Deborah asked, “Are you finished with the shopping?”

  “Shore ’nuf. I got myself over here soon as the storm passed. Everything’s sittin’ on the porch, waitin’ to be loaded. Mr. Greeley said he’d come put it in the wagon.”

  “Maybe we could just do that ourselves. He seems busy with – ”

  “Deborah Vandermark! What sort of rudeness did you learn back East that you stand over there whisperin’?”

  She forced a smile. “Why hello, Mrs. Foster. How are you?”

  The woman scowled as she made her way across the room. She pointed a crooked finger at Deborah. “I heard tell you was there when that man commenced to cuttin’ on poor John Stevens’ hand.”

  “I was, indeed,” Deborah replied, nodding. Mrs. Huebner and Mrs. Greeley made themselves scarce as they hurried into the back room. “The hand was horribly infected.”

  “It were healin’,” Mrs. Foster countered. “It didn’t need to be cut open.”

  “It was swollen to twice the normal size.”

  “ ’Course it were. The poisons were gatherin’. They woulda burst out and drained if it’d been left alone.”

  “Nevertheless, it was hurting him, and the doctor did a fine job of cleaning out the infection. I hear that John is able to use it again.”

  The older woman screwed up her face. “Ain’t ’cause of that doctor. You’d do well to steer clear of him. He’s gonna be nothin’ but trouble, and them that keeps company with him ain’t gonna have nothin’ but bad luck.”

  “I don’t believe in luck, bad or good, Mrs. Foster. I only count on the Lord for my well-being. He’s more than able to see me through.” With that, Deborah took hold of Sissy’s arm. “We’d best get the purchases back to Mama. She’ll be waiting for us.”

  CHAPTER 9

  To everyone’s delight, the fierce heat of summer cooled a bit, making the days much more bearable. Lizzie adjusted easily to life in Texas. The world of logging yellow pine fascinated her. It wasn’t long before she was identifying a variety of trees and vegetation, not to mention snakes and insects. She would have happily done without the latter, but the Vandermarks assured her she’d be better off for knowing what was poisonous and what wasn’t.

  The days seemed to pass quickly as Lizzie immersed herself in household chores. She liked learning to work with her hands and was becoming a fair cook. She found baking to be her favorite. The men in the family particularly seemed to enjoy those treats, so she supposed the attention she got added to her pleasure in the task. How very different this family was from the one she’d grown up with. Here, folks didn’t mind teasing or being challenged on habits or thoughts. The Vandermarks seemed quite open, in fact, to discussing most anything. In Lizzie’s experience, families rarely spoke about anything except the causes of the day. She had vague recollections of conversations with her father, but the years and distance between them had faded the memories.

  There was still no word from her father and that discouraged her. Lizzie just told herself he would write when he could. At least she hoped he would. He had told her that he’d hated not being a part of her life.

  “If you hated it so much,” she had asked him the night before her wedding, “then why didn’t you come back?”

  He had looked so troubled by her question that Lizzie immediately wanted to take her words back. But she didn’t. His response was a feeble attempt to rectify the matter.

  “I didn’t want to make life more difficult for you,” he had replied.

  He needn’t have worried. Her mother made it difficult enough for all of them. Lizzie had felt like a burden – a strange but unique possession that had to be maintained but wasn’t really desired. It wasn’t until she got older that her mother actually began to see some value in her. She had great plans for Lizzie to get an education and show the world that women could accomplish important things. Lizzie, however, had little interest in school. She had barely passed her classes at the university.

  Lizzie found her true calling being with the Vandermarks and learning how to run a household. This is how life should have been, she thought. She bent over the washtub and began scrubbing at one of Euphanel’s blouses. Perhaps if she’d had siblings and parents who’d remained together, it might have been this way for her. Instead, there had been nothing but fighting and misery in her youth. Her mother had left Lizzie to an indifferent upbringing by nannies while she went out to save the world. At night, she would return to rant and regale Lizzie and her father with a list of injustices that women were forced to suffer. Lizzie had followed her father’s example and learned to say little in response.

  A dull ache in her neck caused Lizzie to abandon the wash for a moment. She stretched and tried to work out the knot in her tired muscles. She wasn’t having much luck when, to her surprise, G. W. appeared.

  “Can I help with that?” He didn’t wait for her response, but brushed her hands aside and began to massage her shoulders.

  Lizzie didn’t know what to think for a moment. The warmth of his hands seemed to permeate the thin cotton of her blouse. Ordinarily, she would never have allowed a man to touch her so intimately.

  “Is this helping?” he asked softly.

  She gave the slightest nod, certain that if she opened her mouth to speak she would make a fool of herself. Lizzie felt mesmerized by the rhythmic kneading of his hands on her shoulders and neck. She felt her stomach do a flip and her pulse quicken as the strokes softened to a gentle rub.

  She pulled away rather abruptly and turned to face him. “Thank you. What are you doing home at this hour?”

  He stared at her for a moment, and Lizzie almost felt as if she couldn’t breathe. What was happening to her? Maybe she was working too hard and the heat was worse than she thought.

  “I had to come pick up another ax. We broke two today.”

  She could see that for some odd reason, he was perplexed. Maybe touching her had also affected him. The idea rather pleased her, and she didn’t want to say anything to change the feeling of the moment.

  “I want to tell you that I’ve been thinkin’ on what you said the day of the church social. About Pa knowin’ the risks and takin’ ’em anyway. I know you’re right, ’cause like you said, I do the same.” He shook his head and looked toward the sky. “I reckon I couldn’t have stopped the accident – not if God said it was Pa’s time to go home.”

  Lizzie nodded. “No one could.”

  “And a single man couldn’t very well hold back a log that size – not with the chain broke and all.”

  “I’m glad you can see the truth of it,” she whispered.

  He cast his gaze back on her face. “You’re a right smart gal, Miss Lizzie. I think maybe now I can start puttin’ Pa’s death behind me.”

  She smiled and
without thinking, reached out to touch his arm. “I do hope so. I know your family has been very concerned for you. I’ve been concerned, as well.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes.”

  He put his hand on top of hers and held it in place for a moment. Lizzie’s knees trembled, and when G. W. brought her hand up to his lips, she thought she might well faint. “Thank you for caring about me.”

  She could only nod. As he released her and turned to head off toward the barn, Lizzie let out the breath she hadn’t even known she’d been holding. For a moment she felt as if the blood rushed to her head as she gulped in another breath. She wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened, but there was little doubt that it was important.

  –––––––

  Later that evening after supper, G. W. sought Lizzie out once again. She was alone in the dining room, repositioning the tablecloth and lamps, when he found her. He couldn’t begin to understand the way she made him feel. He’d been sweet on girls before, but this was the first time he’d actually thought about spending the rest of his life with someone.

  “I was wonderin’ if you’d like to sit with me on the porch before it gets too dark.”

  Lizzie seemed startled by his question. Her blue eyes seemed to grow the size of saucers and her mouth was open, but no words were coming out.

  “I suppose that was a little bit forward of me,” he said, trying to think of how to smooth the awkwardness over.

  She shook her head and put aside the lamp. “I’d like it very much.”

  G. W. couldn’t help but grin. “I would, too.”

  They made their way out to the porch. G. W. had no idea where the others had gone. Sissy had returned to her home just before supper, and he knew Uncle Arjan had gone back to his cabin. Otherwise, there was no telling. No one was here on the porch at the moment, and that was really all he cared about.

  Taking a seat in one of the rockers, Lizzie appeared a picture of the prim and proper lady. In the soft twilight, G. W. thought she looked almost angelic, with her pretty blond hair fixed just so atop her head.

  For a moment he stood rather nervously, not knowing what to do. Finally, he cleared his throat and took a seat beside her. “I thought . . . well, that is . . . I was hopin’ you might tell me about yourself.”

  Lizzie focused on her folded hands. “There really isn’t a lot to tell. I’m an only child, and my parents divorced when I was eleven.”

  “That must have been really hard,” he said, trying hard to weigh each word before he spoke.

  “It was,” she said in a wistful manner. “My parents’ relationship had always been strained, but to see them divided . . . well, it was heartbreaking for me. I used to cry myself to sleep every night.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, almost regretting that he’d brought up the subject. “I shouldn’t have asked about something so unpleasant.”

  She looked at him and a slight smile touched her lips. “I believe I could tell you most anything, Mr. Vandermark.”

  “G. W. Please call me G. W.”

  “What does that stand for?”

  It was his turn to be uncomfortable. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

  “I would never laugh at a person’s name.”

  “My people are from Holland. I got named traditional-like. As a firstborn son, I was named for my father’s father. His name was Gijsbert Willem Vandermark. Folks called him Gijs.”

  “Keys?”

  “It’s spelled with a G. I didn’t like it much, so I made folks call me G. W.”

  “I think it’s a fine name, and quite wonderful that you were named after your grandfather,” she assured him. “I was named after one of my mother’s women’s suffrage heroines. Elizabeth Cady Stanton. I actually hate the name – hence the use of Lizzie.”

  “I like Lizzie better,” he agreed. “So why did your folks divorce?”

  She grew thoughtful, and for a moment, G. W. worried that she wouldn’t answer him. Had he asked too intimate a question? Maybe she never spoke to anyone about such matters. He’d never thought to ask Deborah.

  “My mother was always swayed by causes. She loved the temperance movement and it just seemed to flow naturally into women’s suffrage. I seldom saw her, but I loved her fiercely. Maybe I loved her more because she was so absent in my life. I could pretend she was the mother I wanted her to be, even if she wasn’t present. I was raised by a long list of nannies who would endure Mother’s rantings for only so long, then leave the job. Eventually, she arranged for me to attend boarding school – but that was after the divorce.”

  “What about your pa?”

  “When I was little, my father would come to see me every evening after I’d been given supper. He would read me a story and ask me about my day. Sometimes he would even dance with me.” She smiled sadly. “I cherish the memories – what few I have. Until the day before the wedding, I hadn’t seen him for nearly a decade.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mother. She became so obsessed with her cause, she felt he corrupted her by marrying her. Funny . . . most women would have felt just the opposite. After a great deal of fighting, he finally left. I didn’t see him again because my mother refused to allow him to visit. Once I asked if I might go see him, as he and his new wife had moved to another state by that time. She was livid and accused me of being a traitor to her. Her anger kept me from ever mentioning it again.”

  “I’m sure sorry for what you went through.”

  Lizzie glanced back at her hands. “I’m sorry that you had to witness my shameful attempt to get back at her. I didn’t really want to marry Stuart, as much as I wanted to prove to my mother that I could make my own decisions. It was terrible of me, and I can only hope he will forgive me.”

  “So you really didn’t love him?” G. W. knew this was what Deborah had said, but he was never quite certain of Lizzie’s feelings.

  “No, I didn’t love him. He was everything I knew my mother would hate. He was overbearing and particular about what I could do and where I should go. He was quite opinionated about politics and deeply resented the women’s movement. Oh, he was charming, but I knew he only wanted to marry me because of my appearance and what it would mean to his political career.”

  G. W. shook his head. “Seems like he owns as much shame for that weddin’ as you.”

  “I suppose so. But my own guilt keeps me from thinking about his responsibility in the matter.”

  “A man ought not act in such a way.”

  “Neither should a woman.” Lizzie looked up rather hesitantly. “I let the wounds of the past keep me from good judgment. I don’t intend to make that mistake again.”

  He was about to comment when Rob came flying out the front door calling his name.

  “I’m right here. You don’t have to be yellin’.” He got to his feet. “What’s wrong?”

  Rob turned abruptly, nearly falling off the porch. “Well, I didn’t see you there. Nothin’ wrong. Uncle Arjan sent me to fetch you. He wants to go over some plans for tomorra.”

  Lizzie stood. “I should go inside anyway. I’m afraid the mosquitoes are having quite a feast on me.”

  G. W. nodded, regretful that their conversation should end so soon. “Thank you for speakin’ with me.”

  She smiled, then turned to head into the house. “Any time, G. W.”

  He felt awash in pure joy at the sound of his name on her lips. Feeling just a little taller, he punched Rob on the arm and grinned. “You heard her. Any time.”

  CHAPTER 10

  AUGUST 1885

  After being in Perkinsville for almost two months, strolling among the houses and people as he was doing just now, Christopher Clayton had come to an understanding of why the community had lost so many women to childbed fever. The answer was quite simple: Margaret Foster. The woman was the driving force behind healing and medicinal treatments, yet she had no use for soap and water or any other means of fighting bacteria. She went from patient to patient witho
ut ever washing her hands, much less her instruments. She was passionate about her cures and tonics, but again, he doubted they were prepared with cleanliness in mind.

  He had tried to approach the woman, hoping to explain and offer at least some small bit of advice to combat the dangerous situation. “You know, they are making great strides in medicine,” Christopher said one morning after coming face-to-face with the midwife at the commissary. “With the discovery of various bacteria and how they cause illness, we’ve learned that keeping our hands and instruments clean is of the utmost importance.”

  Margaret Foster’s lips curled into what could only be described as a snarl to reply, “I ain’t got no use for city medicine.”

  “But it’s not just useful for the city,” he countered with a smile. It was hard to maintain a civil attitude with such hatred staring him in the face, but Christopher put his best skills to work. “Mrs. Foster, I respect what you have been able to do for the community. But the truth is, it’s been documented that childbed fever decreases considerably with proper cleaning techniques. I would be happy to discuss the matter with you, as a colleague.”

  “I ain’t no colleague,” she nearly growled. “Whatever that is. I don’t need your book learnin’ to heal folks around here. You’d do well to leave this town before someone – like me – puts a curse on you.”

  It was there that Christopher did the wrong thing. He laughed. Apparently no one had ever laughed at Margaret Foster’s threat of a curse. “Madam, I do not believe in curses.”

  “You’ll believe it soon enough,” she said. She muttered a string of words so quickly that Christopher had to strain to make sense of them. It was something to do with bad luck following him like a wounded hound or some such nonsense. She stormed off then, leaving him to wonder why she held him in such contempt. He wondered still.