by Lorin Grace
Tim recognized the boardinghouse from his last trip to Sarah’s.
“Her name is Miss Page?” Tim slowed his horse and stopped near a hitching post.
“Yes, Parmelia Page.” Sarah moved to get down.
Tim raised his hand to stop her. “I’ll only be a moment. You’ll stay warmer if you don’t get out.”
At the door he lifted the brass knocker only once. Movement on the other side kept him from tapping a second time. A stooped woman dressed in black from her cap to her boots opened the door.
“Male visitors are allowed on Tuesdays, Fridays, Saturday evenings, and Sundays after two o’clock. Today, if you have forgotten, is Wednesday.” She started to close the door.
Stopping the door with his hand, Tim spoke through the crack. “My apologies. I am not here to visit but, rather, to return a lost item.” He held out the handkerchief. “I believe this may belong to Miss Page. It was found as we cleaned up after my sister’s wedding.”
The door opened again, and the old woman extended her hand.
“Oh!” A high-pitched squeal sounded from the dim hall behind the woman. “My favorite handkerchief! I worried that I’d lost it on my walk back this afternoon.”
Tim recognized the speaker as one of the women who’d swooned to attract his attention. He doubted she’d lost her handkerchief at all.
“Well, Parmelia, thank him so he can leave.” Judging by the direction of the woman’s wrinkles, her frown was a semipermanent facial feature.”
“Just five minutes, Mrs. Webb. He rode over here just to return it.”
Tim stepped down a step. “Actually, I—”
Mrs. Webb cut him off. “Two minutes. Here at the door.” She retreated into the hallway. Tim wondered if she made use of her dark dress to lurk in the nearest shadows.
“Oh, Dr. Dawes, how kind of you to track me down.” Parmelia stood closer than necessary, her eyelashes fanning an odd little rhythm.
Tim handed her the cotton cloth. “I’m pleased to locate the owner on my first attempt.”
“Oh, you guessed it was mine?” The eyelash fanning increased in speed.
“No, Miss Marden guessed the handkerchief’s origin.”
“Sarah?” Miss Page’s voice squeaked a high, grating note, and the lashes stopped for several beats. “She recognized it?”
“Only guessed.” Tim turned to leave. Two minutes was much too long for this transaction.
A hand on his arm stopped him. “Oh, I do need to thank you properly. Perhaps if you come by Saturday evening. I am cooking, and I could save you a piece of my mince pie. Everyone says it is the best they’ve ever eaten.”
Dislodging her hand, he took another step down the stairs. “There is no need to thank me further. My mother is very jealous of my time when I am home. Good evening, Miss Page.” He turned and descended to the street.
He heard Miss Page following him. “Oh, who is—Why, Sarah, I didn’t realize. Whatever are you doing out so late? Shouldn’t you be caring for Widow Wilson? Everyone says she—”
Tim cut her off before she could finish saying something hurtful. “Miss Marden was good enough to help my mother after Miriam and George departed. We are en route to her home now. If you will pardon us.”
“Oh, you must be unaware of Miss Marden’s duties, or you would never have delayed her.” There was a hard edge to Miss Page’s voice as she spoke.
“Thank you for your concern. I am sure Miss Marden appreciates your diligence on Mrs. Wilson’s behalf.”
Mrs. Wells appeared at the door. “Miss Page! Get back in here at once. Shame on you, Dr. Dawes, for luring one of my girls out of the house after dark!”
Miss Page ducked her head and ran up the stairs. The door slammed.
Back in the carriage, the air was filled with tension. Tim opened his mouth, but Sarah spoke first.
“I should have warned you about Mrs. Webb. She is very protective of her girls. At least she did not have her broom.”
“Her broom? You sound as if you’ve met with the broom before.”
“Mark has. However, I got sweeping duty for a week.” Sarah laughed, a musical sound he wanted to hear again.
“You lived there?”
“My second year at Bradford. Before Emma had her house. Samuel decided it was too far for me to travel each day. It also allowed him to move my nieces into my room while he completed the addition.”
“Your room?”
Sarah smiled. “Yes, Samuel and Lucy always allowed me the privilege, just as Papa had allowed it to Lucy, as I am so much older than their children.”
Tim guided the horse around a mud hole at the corner. “Was it difficult being raised by your sister?”
“Lucy is almost fifteen years older, so she had always mothered me a bit. I won’t lie—there were times I appreciated when Emma stepped in as a grandmother figure, especially as I got older. I think it was hardest on Samuel when I needed to be reprimanded.”
“You needed to be reprimanded?”
The musical laugh again. “Don’t all children?”
“Of course, but I am having a hard time imagining you doing anything untoward.”
“Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no fibs.”
“That’s from a play, isn’t it?”
“Yes, She Stoops to Conquer. The twins memorized the entire script, and they would do the parts in different voices. Joe always wanted me to play Kate.”
The parlor curtain fluttered, and Tim pointed with his chin. “Someone is waiting for you.” He stepped out of the carriage and offered Sarah his hand.
As soon as her feet touched the ground, Sarah slipped her hand out of Tim’s and looked at the window. Parmelia was correct. She should have been home hours ago.
The front door flew open. Sarah recognized the look in Emma’s eyes and braced herself for the confusion sure to come in the next few minutes.
“Mark, is that you? Have you been keeping Sarah out unchaperoned again? How many times have I told you? Now that you are engaged, you must be more circumspect.”
Sarah hurried to the porch in hopes of turning Emma back to the present. Tim followed behind.
“Sarah, do I need to speak with Lucy? Hasn’t she explained to you what could happen?” Emma peered over Sarah’s shoulder at Tim. “You are leaving for this new war in just a few days. Do you want to leave Sarah with a child and no marriage? How would she pay the fine? They won’t let her teach if she is found to be morally deficient!” Emma’s voice rose to a pitch that carried easily in the clear night air.
Heat flooded Sarah’s cheeks. Whatever would Tim think of such a conversation? The ‘Emma sometimes lives in the past’ excuse didn’t cover wild imaginings. This conversation never existed in the past, as far as she knew. She reached for Emma’s hand and guided her back into the house. Tim still followed.
“Emma, this is Dr. Dawes. Do you remember him?”
“You mean little Timmy Dawes who always tried to kiss you? What are you doing with him? What will Mark say?” Emma turned to Tim, whose face grew as red as Sarah assumed hers had. “You should leave now.” Emma waved him away like she did the chickens.
Sarah closed her eyes for a moment, hoping it would all just go away. When she opened them, Tim opened the door, then gave her a little nod before passing through it and shutting it behind him.
Oh, dear Emma! Sarah gathered the woman in her arms and took her to the warmth of the kitchen, wondering how long this lapse in memory would last.
“Come, Emma, let me brush your hair.”
Tim looked back at the house as he guided the carriage around the corner. Sarah’s mortification had been palpable. He had heard of the maladies of old age affecting the memory. Having witnessed Mrs. Wilson lost in some version of the past
twice now, he pondered the implications. No wonder John had been so insistent Sarah return home earlier.
There could be little truth in this memory. Sarah was a teacher, so he dismissed any words impugning her character as the thoughts of a mother worrying over a son. Hadn’t his stepfather given him the same lecture every time he returned from Harvard for a break?
He wondered if there were any cures for the elderly. He had all his copies of the New England Journal of Medicine and Surgery, and the Collateral Branches of Science in his trunk, but he couldn’t recall the malady of dementia being covered. There were articles on the moral approach to the treating of the insane. The ancient Greeks had written about the phenomenon of madness in the elderly, and Dr. Morton may have a book on the subject in his library. Mrs. Wilson was the first instance of the affliction he’d witnessed as a doctor. There had been the old man who’d run out in the snow in his nightshirt when Tim was six or seven, but he didn’t remember the man’s name.
Could he learn anything from talking to Mrs. Wilson or Sarah? Not that he would mind furthering his acquaintance with Sarah. No, he wouldn’t mind one bit.
Eight
“No teacher who is shown to be morally deficient may teach.”
You know this is talking about you.
Stay away from Dr. Dawes, or Preceptor Colburn will know why too.
Sarah turned the paper over. Blank. The poorly formed lettering reminded her of her nephew Benjamin’s. Yet no child could have written the note as all the words were spelled correctly. Sarah took it into the kitchen.
“Anna, dear, so nice of you to visit today. I thought you would be tending your garden. Ours is ever so lovely.”
Sarah looked at the stunted plants in the garden. Lovely? Wherever Emma’s mind resided this morning, she would not be a good person to ask for advice.
Who could have written the note?
Sarah waited until Emma turned her back. Then she dropped the paper into the fire.
Tim meandered through the shop on High Street as he waited for his mother to decide on her purchases. He never understood how picking out a spool of thread could take longer than a few seconds. Wandering past the books, he read the titles. A book of lectures caught his eye, and he thumbed through it before setting it back on the shelf.
“Oh! You should buy that. It is quite the thing. They have been running an advertisement for it in the Intelligencer.”
For a second, Tim considered pretending he had not heard the voice he’d come to know as Miss Page’s. But he turned to her lest his mother cite him for his rudeness. “Miss Page, thank you for the recommendation, but I am not in need of a book at the moment.”
“Oh—” This time the exclamation sounded disappointed.
Did she start every sentence with Oh? Tim would rather not listen to enough conversations to test his theory. “Excuse me. It looks as if my mother has finished.”
“Oh, but … oh, I wanted to make sure you knew of the lecture being given at the Church tonight. Reverend Palmer is hosting a man of science who is going to discuss the sunspots and the red-and-yellow snow and the end of the world. It will be most fascinating.”
“Snow?”
“Oh, haven’t you read in the paper? It fell in Italy just before Christmas. Surely it is a sign, don’t you think?” Miss Page’s eyelashes started beating the annoying rhythm of the other night.
Tim recalled having seen several articles a week past on the phenomena but assumed a logical explanation existed. Not wishing to encourage the woman, Tim stepped around her. “Thank you for telling me. Now, if you will excuse me, my mother awaits.” He hurried across the room faster than necessary.
His mother gave him the slightest of frowns but kept her thoughts to herself until he escorted her outside. “You did not need to cut your conversation short on my account.”
“Do not worry yourself. I did not.”
“Timison, you must start talking to women if you ever intend to marry. According to Miriam, Miss Page is an excellent conversationalist. You could do far worse.” His mother adjusted her shoulders, a sign the lecture had just begun.
Tim cut her off. “I don’t recall it being so cold here this time of year. Is my memory that poor from being away these past four years?”
“There is nothing wrong with your memory. Nor mine. If you think to distract me from—”
Tim took the wooden bridge slightly faster than necessary, the clanking of the wheels drowning out his mother’s voice.
“Timison George Dawes! Your father warned me not to spare the rod when you were younger. How did you ever grow up to be so difficult?” A hint of humor colored her voice.
“Blame it on all the maple sugar candy I took when no one was watching.”
“Oh, I knew it was you. But with Miriam moving so far, I do hope you will settle nearby. I am so jealous of my friends and their grandbabies!”
“If I start or join a practice here, there is no guarantee of grandchildren anytime soon. Without a wife, such a thing is practically impossible. And despite the many women introduced to me since I returned, I have yet to meet one I am inclined to court.” Tim hoped his mother did not catch the lie. Considering he couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t known Sarah, meet wasn’t exactly the right word.
“You mean to tell me not one of your sister’s friends or schoolmates has caught your eye? Why, there were nearly a dozen at the wedding.”
“I am aware of the variety of women you managed to invite to the event. I do not require variety as much as I do quality. That, I am afraid, is in short supply.”
“Timison! How dare you speak of our North Shore girls that way.”
Tim patted his mother’s knee and drove on without a reply.
“Samuel? Whatever are you doing here?” Sarah closed the door and gave her brother-in-law a hug. She so desperately needed the strength it offered today. He held her until she stepped out of the embrace.
“I had a delivery to make and thought I would stop by to see Ma and my favorite little pumpkin.”
“What would your children say if they heard you call me that?”
Samuel rested his hands on Sarah’s shoulders. “We discussed this many times, and my answer is still the same. I love you as if you were my own. How could I not? You’re the one who taught me what fatherhood meant before I figured out how to be a husband. And as you well know, I’ve never called any of the other children pumpkin.”
“Oh, that’s right. You nicknamed us all after different foods. Although I think Lettie is not fond of carrot. What shall this next one be—beets?”
He tipped his head back and laughed. “I could never name a child after a food I hated. There are still two or three choices left in my garden. Where is Ma?”
Sarah pointed to the kitchen. “She wanted to make bread today. As usual, she is making far too much. You will take some home, won’t you?”
“Tell me. Is she getting worse? John is of the opinion she is declining.”
Sarah felt tears forming. “I’m sorry, but he is correct. Have you seen him today? Is that the real reason for your visit?”
“Perhaps we should take a walk after I speak with Ma.” Samuel entered the kitchen. From the greeting he received, Emma seemed to be firmly rooted in the present.
In the corner of the parlor, Sarah returned to her painting. She hadn’t failed to miss Samuel’s evasion of her question. Had John gone to give Samuel an earful directly after the wedding yesterday, or had he taken the opportunity as it had arisen?
“Walk with me down to Swanson’s. If I return home without some peppermints, you know I will have a rebellion on my hands.”
Sarah tied her hat on and followed him out the door.
“John did come to visit me last night. He is of the opinion I should be able to rein
you in. But I pointed out to him that when we moved Ma to the little house so he could take over the old one, we never intended for you to be a nursemaid. We assumed in time you would—” Samuel cleared his throat.
“—marry Mark.” Sarah filled in for him.
“Actually, I thought you were leaning toward Daniel at the time. But I did expect you would be married by now and that one of my other daughters would be living with Ma as she attended Bradford.”
“It was perfectly wonderful to have Maryanna and Lettie here during their schooling, and you know Louisa will be welcome this fall.”
“And Ma will be alone during the day while you teach, which brings us back to John’s concerns. He thinks Ma should not be left alone.”
“And it is my duty to be her constant companion.”
“Something like that.”
Sarah stopped. “He wants to propose again, doesn’t he. Only this time not only will I inherit his children, I will need to look after Emma as well. I can’t do that. You know I harbor no regard for him in that way. Besides, Emma is always so confused after going back to the house. Half the time I need to explain to her that Thomas is dead. That is always so draining. I can’t do it. Last night she mistook Dr. Dawes for Mark, and it took more than an hour to calm her as she relived getting the message of his death.”
Samuel escorted Sarah across the street to the green, where he found them a bench under a tree. “That could not be easy for you either.”
Sarah dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “It was particularly difficult to have Dr. Dawes witness Emma’s”—she waved her hand, not sure what to call it—“a second time.”
“Twice? I had no idea you had been in Tim’s company so often.”
“Only twice, but both times of little consequence.”
“Remind me to ask about him after we discuss Ma. How bad are things?”
Nope, not going to remind you. “Some nights she has tried to go see old patients. So now each night, I lock the door and hide the key so she can’t leave. With the horse gone, she walks, and I am afraid I might not hear her leave.”