“The knife is used to quickly cut the muscle,” Dr. Stroud said, making exaggerated movements diagonally across Jem’s biceps, above the elbow, and Lucy’s stomach flipped over in unison. “Then an amputation knife is used prior to cutting the bone with a saw.” He mimed an exaggerated pulling motion on Jem’s shoulder area, as if to pull the muscle upward. Grabbing a long, sharp knife, Dr. Stroud held it up.
Lucy sucked in a sharp breath against her teeth. There were spots in her vision and she swallowed hard. Jem’s fingers squeezed hers tightly and she focused on their hands. She turned her head slightly, not able to see the square saw, with a long row of sharp teeth, near Jem’s skin. Focusing on their intertwined fingers, she clutched his hand close to her. She’d read somewhere that locking your knees can bring on a faint, and she bent her legs a little, forcing herself to stay calm.
Jem’s thumb rubbed against the back of her hand. She could hear her short breaths and hoped she wasn’t hyperventilating. Janessa had once said that Dr. Stroud made her queasy with all his battlefield conversation, and Lucy had rolled her eyes. Now she understood. When it was in the distant past, it was regrettable but necessary. Now, she wanted to throw herself over Jem’s body and refuse to let Dr. Stroud go through with his make-believe amputation.
“A ligature needle is used to pass a thread through the muscle or around an artery during suturing,” Dr. Stroud said. “By now the patient has been unconscious for less than five minutes, but they’ve been brutal and life-changing minutes. He will return home, if he survives the field hospital and recuperation without dying of gangrene, where he will need to adapt to a life without his left arm.”
“At least it wasn’t his right,” a man called from the front row.
“Except that Jem is left-handed,” Lucy responded.
A wave of sympathy sounded through the crowd, and Dr. Stroud glanced at her. “Good point.” He released the tourniquet on Jem’s upper arm and waved a hand. “All done. Thank you for allowing me to show off my battlefield prowess, and I promise if you ever come to the Free Clinic of Tupelo, none of these instruments will be used.”
More laughter echoed in the room before the visitors began to applaud. Jem opened his eyes and sat up. He looked at her, his expression a mix of concern and something else she couldn’t name. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. Really, it was just a little more explicit than I was expecting.”
“You’ve seen these tools before,” Jem said. His eyes were still shadowed with worry.
“Yes, but it’s different when you see them against skin and muscle and . . .” Her voice trailed off. Her hand still gripped his. She let go and shrugged. “Sorry, historians tend to get all wrapped up in the research, and we take everything personally. Plus, it’s been sort of a long day.”
He nodded and opened his mouth as if to say something else, but decided against it. He rolled down his sleeve and buttoned the cuff.
“Thanks to both of you,” Dr. Stroud said, laying the last tool in the red velvet lining and sliding the four tiers of the box together.
“Anytime. You have a gift for public amputation.” Lucy managed a smile. “I thought I was going to have to grab that little vial of ammonia and hold it under my nose.”
He laughed, his white mustache twitching. “I think you’re stronger than you think.”
Theresa arrived at her side. “You did a wonderful job, all of you.”
“Thank you,” Lucy said. “I don’t think I could do this all the time. I felt a little light-headed.”
“That’s why I love Austen. The worst medical emergency is a few falls. Nothing even close to what I just witnessed.” Theresa smiled. “You need an afternoon with a good Regency love story to make it all better.”
“I think you might be right.” Lucy had never thought she had a weak stomach.
Dr. Stroud frowned down at her. “I’m sorry to hear all the medical talk was unnerving. The clinic is growing so fast we can’t keep up, and I was just going to put out a call for volunteers. You’re at the top of our list.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Lucy said. “I don’t have any training.”
“None required. Just wiping down toys, handing out paperwork, maybe answering the phones when Leticia is in another room.” Dr. Stroud leaned forward. “No blood, guts, or gore. None at all.”
“Really, it would be such a help. I’ve got the Ladies’ Auxiliary from the First Methodist Church coming by a few afternoons a week, but we still need more,” Theresa said.
Alda’s words came back to her. I need to take that love and spread it around. What a waste to just keep it tucked inside. Lucy couldn’t stop loving Jem, but she couldn’t keep it wrapped up inside either.
Jem hopped off the table and stood with his hands in his pockets. Against her will, her gaze traveled from his boots to his face. Lucy didn’t want to look to him for direction, was afraid to see the expression on his face. Would he grimace at the thought of her being around the Free Clinic? He was looking out across the folding chairs, watching someone in the back of the room. Nothing showed in his eyes but politeness.
Lucy felt a rush of relief. He probably wouldn’t even be there when she was, or if he was, they wouldn’t be in the same room. “Okay. I can do that. I have Thursday afternoons off, if that works for you.”
Dr. Stroud beamed at her. “Sure does. What do you think, Jem? Miss Lucy is coming to help out at the clinic.”
“Great idea. We need all the help we can get.” There was a smile on his face but it didn’t match the hint of strain in his voice.
Lucy shook off the sharp pain of disappointment. What had she expected—that he would be thrilled to work in the same office with her? She was doing this because of him, but nothing could come out of it except the blessing of spreading that love around.
Her chance to be with Jem was long gone. All that was left was love, and she wasn’t going to let it go to waste.
A persuadable temper might sometimes be as much in favor of happiness, as a very resolute character.
—ANNE ELLIOT
Chapter Sixteen
Lucy stood at the Strouds’ glossy green front door and wondered what she was thinking, spending an afternoon watching a romance movie. As if she didn’t have enough heartache in her own life, she was going to live someone else’s for a few hours. But she’d promised, and it was too late to back out now. She lifted a hand and knocked. Seconds later the door swung open and revealed Theresa Stroud, Regency style. She was wearing a soft, floor-length dress with a little jacket. Her hair was up in a bun, with curls framing her face.
“Come on in, honey,” Theresa called, reaching out her hands to Lucy.
“Was I supposed to dress up?” Lucy asked, suddenly aware of her simple slacks and a sleeveless shirt. She’d made sure not to wear her running shoes, but she hadn’t bothered with makeup, either. She was hoping this movie wasn’t going to be a tearjerker, but just in case she didn’t put on any mascara. It had been two days since she’d held Jem’s hand at the presentation, but she felt his touch almost as warmly now as in that moment. As if her skin had memory, it was holding on to his touch, replaying it over and over. Her heart felt bruised and weary from the constant reminder.
“Oh, no, I just like to get in costume before I watch the show.” Theresa waved her into the living room. “I’ve made us some Austen goodies.”
Lucy had a flash of giant slabs of venison or a whole roasted pig, but the table held just a few china plates and an elegant decanter with lemon slices.
“These are Bath buns from the 1769 recipe by Mrs. Raffald. She didn’t call for salt, but I think they’re bland as dirt without it.” Theresa held up the plate of little brown rolls. “Take one. Tell me what you think.”
Lucy sniffed it, inhaling the scent of caraway seeds. Her first bite was just a nibble, but the flavor was delicious. The second bite confirmed
it. Buttery, sweet, soft and like nothing she’d had before. “These are wonderful. You’ll have to teach me how to make them.”
Theresa clapped her hands together. “An Austen cooking day! Wonderful idea.” She pointed to another plate. “Here we have tiny jam tartlets, Cassandra Austen’s original recipe for baked custard, miniature rum cakes, and, finally, lemon ice is chillin’ in the freezer for right after the movie.”
“It all sounds delicious. You went to a lot of trouble.”
“Not at all. I love these recipes. I don’t want them to be forgotten. Just the other day I tried out a parsnip-and-carrot pudding. Jacob wasn’t thrilled with it but I told him it was a lot healthier than a doughnut.”
Lucy grinned. “I suppose if we can eat carrot cake, carrot pudding might be just as tasty.”
“Exactly.” Theresa pointed to the beverages. “Now, I usually have a perfectly steeped cup of tea with a syllabub dessert, but the weather has been so hot. I thought an orange-and-raspberry shrub would be good for today.” She poured a glass of bright-orange liquid and passed it to Lucy.
The first sip was refreshing, but Lucy blinked. Sweet and strong, it had a kick. “Do you make it fresh?”
“I made it just this morning, but the vinegar will keep the concentrate from going bad for weeks. Sometimes they add rum to four cups of blackberries and then pour it over ice with lemon juice and water.”
Lucy smiled. It wasn’t often that she was faced with so many completely unfamiliar details. Everything that Theresa said took a moment to sink into Lucy’s brain. It felt good to let go of all her work at the center, all her worries over Crawford House and her sisters and all her heartache over Jem and just focus on something new. “The idea of a refreshment consisting of rum-soaked blackberry mash sitting for weeks in the warm weather makes me wonder how the Regency-era ladies got anything done at all.”
“Amazing, isn’t it? But Jacob says that Chatham Artillery Punch has become watered down with every new generation. I guess we just don’t have the hearty constitutions they did.”
“But I think our life spans have grown, though.”
Theresa said, “We’re weak and boring—”
“—but live to a ripe old age,” Lucy added.
They looked at each other and laughed, having had the same idea at the same moment.
“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing, or not.” Lucy set down the glass and pulled out her phone. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to show you this. My friend Rebecca is having a Regency-themed wedding in a few weeks. This is my bridesmaid’s dress.”
Theresa peered at the screen and clapped a hand to her chest. “Oh, honey. You are so lucky. I heard Jem talking about his costume.” She glanced up. “It must be the same wedding. Don’t tell me there are two Austen weddings this summer. This poor old lady would just faint with happiness.”
“No, it’s the same wedding. And this sounds odd, but Rebecca said she wanted more Austen experts there. She planned the wedding so quickly that her Regency-geek friends are almost all otherwise occupied. Would you be able to come?”
“I can’t just invite myself to someone’s wedding, dear,” Theresa said, laughing.
“Of course not, but if you’re willing, I know she’d be glad to have someone shepherding the guests through the dances and answering questions about the food or costumes.”
Theresa seemed to consider it for a moment. “But I don’t know her, or her husband-to-be.”
“Her fiancé seems to be a great guy, but he’s more into football.”
Theresa grimaced. “Football. Never understood the attraction. Huge, grunting men chasing each other all over the place and then crushing each other to the ground.”
“Hmm, maybe I shouldn’t tell you that I’m a die-hard Bulldogs fan. Just wait for the season to start and you’ll never hear the end of it.” Lucy laughed at the expression on Theresa’s face. “I’ll call her tonight and tell her I’ve found someone who will know how to wear her gown and curtsy just the right way.”
Theresa shook her head a little, but she was smiling. “I would never give up the chance to support another Jane fan, and I’d certainly never give up the chance to go to a Regency party. I went with Jacob to an Austen dance last year out in the old Wrigley barn right off the highway. It was the best time we’d ever had at a party together.” Her eyes were soft with the memory. “They had a wonderful band of folk musicians, and the dances were just magical. I can’t imagine how many couples fell in love that night.”
Lucy felt her heart contract at the words. There wouldn’t be any falling in love for her at Rebecca’s wedding. She was more likely to be doing her best to avoid Jem. The idea of watching him dance with girls dressed in beautiful Regency dresses made her stomach ache.
Theresa reached for a plate, choosing a Bath bun and a tart. “We better get on the stick or we’ll never watch the movie. I’m partial to the older version, with Ciarán Hinds, but my niece says this is her favorite. The movie is real long since it was a BBC miniseries, so we might only watch the first part or two today.” She glanced up. “You don’t mind coming back, do you?”
“Not at all. I’m so happy to be here. You’ve given me something to look forward to all week.” Lucy followed Theresa and settled near her on the couch.
“Oh, I can never figure out this channel changer. The other day I couldn’t get it to show anything other than a blue screen, and I was madder than a wet hen in a tote sack,” Theresa grumbled. “If we were like Jane, we’d just read to each other.”
“That sounds wonderful.” Jem was the only person who’d ever read to her. She loved the cadence of his voice, the way he gave just the right amount of weight to each word. When he’d asked her to read to him, she’d been embarrassed at first, but soon she lost herself in the words. It wasn’t anything like reading to herself.
Theresa pushed a button and the TV flashed to life. “Most people start with Pride and Prejudice. Miss Elizabeth and her sassy self are just a kick. Even Emma has a lot of humor in it, when she’s sparring with her Mr. Knightley. But Persuasion is my favorite. Not a lot of humor, for sure, but the best story.”
“Why is that? Is the plot very complicated?”
“Oh, not at all. It’s very simple, really. But the way she brings these two back together is really a work of art.” Theresa glanced at her. “There’s no cliff-hanger or suspense or mystery at the end. We know they’re going to get back together, of course.”
“Just like a romance.” Lucy cleared her throat. “I have to confess I don’t really read romances. Or watch them. I like nonfiction. And poetry. And football.”
Theresa let out a long laugh. “Girl, I just love everything about you.”
Lucy felt her face go warm. Was Theresa serious, or was this that backhanded compliment that Southern women did so well?
“No one can call you boring with that list,” Theresa said. “And I’m going to wager that you do love a good romantic story. You just don’t know it yet.”
Lucy thought to her bookshelves. Hundreds of books couldn’t be wrong. “Could be true. Maybe I’ll be a romance junkie by the time you see me next. I’ll be trolling the supermarket aisles, looking for my next bodice ripper.”
Theresa cocked her head. “Maybe we’re misunderstandin’ what I mean by romance.” She thought for a moment. “What poetry do you like?”
“Short list? In no particular order?”
“Right. Give me some names.”
Lucy stared at the tin ceiling. “Sara Teasdale, Byron, W. H. Auden, Thoreau, Langston Hughes . . .”
“Good. Now give me your favorite poem from one. Any of them, or maybe just that first one.” Theresa had a smug look on her face, little wrinkles creasing at the corners of her eyes as if she were trying not to laugh.
“That’s really hard,” Lucy said, but words were already running through her mind. “
For Sara Teasdale I think it’s ‘But Not to Me.’ ” She glanced at Theresa and started to laugh. “You want me to recite it?”
“Sure do.” Theresa settled back against the cushions and waited expectantly.
“Okay. Well . . .” Lucy took a breath. She hadn’t recited poetry for years. Not since Jem. “The April night is still and sweet with flowers on every tree. Peace comes to them on quiet feet, but not to me. My peace is hidden in his breast where I shall never be. Love comes tonight to all the rest, but not to me.” Her voice was husky by the end.
Theresa said nothing for a moment. The laughter was gone from her eyes. “I was going to use that poem against you to show how you’re a romantic at heart. But I think you already know that.”
Lucy opened her mouth but Theresa went on, “In Persuasion, an admiral’s wife says that no woman expects to be in smooth waters all her life. What she meant was that women are tough and we know that hard times will come. You are right in the middle of the stormy sea.”
“True. Crawford House has been in danger of—”
“Not the house. I was thinking of Jem.”
Lucy sucked in a breath. “Who told you?”
“No one. I have eyes.” Theresa sighed. “I look old with all this gray hair, but I remember being young and in love.”
“But I’m not, we’re not.” Lucy rubbed her temples. “Not now, anyway. It was a long time ago.”
“I thought it might be something like that.” Theresa sighed. “He’s such a friendly guy, laughing and telling jokes. My husband loves havin’ him around, and I’ve enjoyed his company, too. But when he’s near you, he’s quiet as the grave.”
Lucy frowned. She wanted to point out that Jem had done just fine at the Strouds’ party. He’d danced with Regan and flirted with a group of pretty girls. At the dinner, he’d laughed over a blue martini and complimented Regan on her hair. “He probably feels uncomfortable around me. It didn’t end well.”
Persuasion, Captain Wentworth and Cracklin' Cornbread Page 20