by Jo Goodman
“It’s all right,” Ellie said, laying a hand on Ridley’s shoulder. “He’s lying to you. He told me it was his idea.”
“It was a good one, and I didn’t have an objection.”
Ellie sighed. “No one ever does, not that it would matter to him. Wears a body down with nothing but silence.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Ben set the tray on the nightstand. “I’m leaving now so you can talk about me behind my back. I prefer it that way. Besides, I have undergarments to launder.” On that parting shot, he disappeared into the hallway.
“He’s lying about that, too,” said Ellie. “He brought them over to the hotel so I could take care of them. They’re clean and drying in the kitchen.”
“I must have fallen asleep. I didn’t think there could have been enough time for so much to be done.”
“And that’s how it should be. Now let me look at the damage.” She waited for Ridley to roll back the covers and then gently lifted her nightdress. She peeked under the fresh bandage that Ridley had wrapped around herself after she had cleaned the wound. “Not so bad, is it?”
“I told him that.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“I was going to fix it myself.”
“Uh-huh. I heard.” She patted Ridley’s hand. “I have every confidence that you could have done so, but can’t think of a single reason as to why you should.” She reached for a teaspoon and the small amber bottle on the tray. “Here, I’m going to give you some laudanum and then give it some time to work. I’m going to make the repairs and hope you’ll show more respect for my work in the future.”
“Yes, ma’am. As long as I don’t have to attend another viewing.”
Ellie smiled. “Understood. Open up.”
Ridley lifted her head and accepted the spoon that Ellie aimed at her mouth. She licked it clean, which earned her Ellie’s approval.
Ellie hitched her hip to the side of the bed. “How is Louella? I was at the home early on. The hotel staff brought refreshments and I paid my respects, but I couldn’t stay as long as I would have liked. It seemed as if there’d be no lack of visitors, but I still hated to go.”
“Mrs. Fuller is . . . was . . . deep in grief when I sat with her. She hardly spoke. I didn’t expect anything else.”
“Nothing changed, then.”
“No, probably not. Probably not for a long time.”
“She still has the boys to look after. There’s no crawling into a hole and living there.”
It sounded harsh to Ridley’s ears, but she did not doubt that it was true.
Ellie asked, “Was Amanda Springer there?”
“Ben didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“Hmm. Mrs. Springer and I exchanged words.”
“I hope you mean to tell me more than that.”
“I thought I could avoid her. You know about the rumor, don’t you, that I supposedly said that Mr. Salt had some responsibility for what happened to the Fullers?”
“I heard.”
“As best as I can tell, that rumor was Mrs. Springer’s invention. Maybe Frankie said something to her and she misunderstood. That’s as gracious as I’m prepared to be. Ben might know more but we haven’t spoken about it. He was going to ask around this morning.”
“Then I’m sure he did.”
Ridley nodded. “There was no reason for Mrs. Springer to corner me in the kitchen, but that’s what happened. I naively thought she was going to apologize or at least offer an explanation for speaking out of turn as she did, but she expressed concerns that I was the one who spoke disparagingly of Mr. Salt’s work. It was the oddest thing, but she almost convinced me that I had done exactly that. I had a difficult time keeping my feet under me and not because of my injury. She twisted my head right around. I can’t recall if I talked to her last night. I’m not sure any longer if I knew she was there.”
“Then you’ve finally, truly, met Amanda Springer. She has no shame, but that is because she believes what she says. There is no lying with intent to deceive. Her truth is as she sees it.”
“So there is no unraveling it.”
“Unlikely to happen, but most folks eventually come to an opinion on their own. She has her acolytes, of course. You probably know who they are by now.”
“Hmm.” Ridley’s eyelids felt heavy. She could feel that the medicine was beginning to take hold. It was a struggle to keep her eyes open. “Mary Cherry,” she whispered.
“On the fringes of that group of followers.”
“She doesn’t like me.”
“She was devoted to Doc.”
“Mm-hmm.” Ridley yawned abruptly. Her eyes closed. “Think I’m ready now.”
Ellie smiled. “Let’s get this done.”
* * *
• • •
Ellie found Ben sitting in one corner of the wide sofa with his boots propped on the trunk that was being used as a coffee table—and now apparently as a footstool. “Down,” she said, looking pointedly at his boots.
Ben’s feet hit the floor and he sat up. He did not admonish her in turn for speaking to him as if he were a misbehaving puppy. “How is she?”
“Fine. Sleeping. I doubt I’ll be the one removing the stitches. She can manage that on her own and it’s safe to say that she would prefer it that way.”
He nodded. “There’s tea brewing. Can you stay and have a cup?”
“No, I have to get back to the hotel. I expect there will be a steady flow through the dining room as people leave the Fullers’.” Her brow pulled together as she regarded him curiously. “And since when did you start drinking tea?”
Ben rubbed the spot behind his ear with a forefinger. “I guess maybe around the time Dr. Woodhouse came to town. I don’t mind it so much. She has particular instructions for Mrs. Mangold on how to make the exact blend she wants. It’s just chemistry, she says. I think it’s alchemy.”
Ellie chuckled low in her throat. “You like her, don’t you?”
“Sure.”
“No, I mean you like her.”
“I know what you mean. My answer’s the same.”
“I swear, Ben, sometimes you are such an aggravation to me that I have to light a candle in church.”
“Are you Catholic now? I thought they light candles.”
“Aggravating,” she said under her breath.
He stood, walked over to her, and kissed the cheek she proffered out of habit. “Thanks, Ma. I appreciate the help.”
She nodded. “Just see that you do right by her. I like her just fine, and don’t think I won’t choose her over you if it comes to that. Always thought I might like a daughter.”
“Good to know.”
“I’m serious, Ben. Don’t test me.”
“Uh-huh.”
She cuffed him on the back of the head and he helped her on with her coat, thus reestablishing the order they favored.
Chapter Twenty-one
Ridley healed without incident over the next week. There was no infection, no fever. She was able to see patients who came to her as they trickled in. Mrs. Washburn, the bank manager’s wife, had a raised rash across her back, buttocks, and belly that was causing her great distress. Ridley suggested a stronger dose of calamine lotion, oatmeal baths twice a day, and having her husband remove all traces of wool from her clothes cupboard.
Mrs. Washburn was delighted with the result—and a doctor’s recommendation that she purchase new clothes. Doc Dunlop was not likely to have suggested that.
Ridley treated several patients for frostbite. George Hotchkiss was one who returned, this time with two blackened toes on his right foot. She wished he were back to have his nose reset and his shoulder realigned. There was no choice but to amputate the toes to save the foot. His livelihood was cutting and hauling wood; he needed to be able to walk to be
able to work.
There were patients with head colds and coughs deep enough to rattle their bones. She took her time with everyone who came through the surgery and chafed at the restrictions the sutures continued to present.
It was on the evening of the ninth day following her injury that she decided it was time to remove the stitches. Early on she had chosen not to keep the wound bandaged. In the hospital she had observed that covering the site of an injury might protect it from outside influences, most all of which were invisible to the naked eye, but that keeping it uncovered also had healing properties. Wounds did not seep and pucker; the sutures stayed in good condition, kept the skin closed, and were easier to remove.
Ridley examined her skin. Pressed gently along the line and did not find it particularly tender. She had been fortunate when she sliced herself through her robe and nightdress that she had not forced threads of either garment into the wound, where they would have festered.
Ridley stood at the medicine cabinet, surgical scissors in hand, nightgown rucked up to her waist, while she carefully snipped the sutures, when she heard the front door open. There was only one person who would venture into her home from that direction at night and without knocking.
“Stay away!” she called to him. “I’m operating. Not a step past the kitchen.”
Ben draped his coat over the newel post and set his hat and scarf on top. Using the coat rack just now seemed too damn hard. “I don’t think you have a patient in there,” he said. “But I saw the lamps were burning so I backtracked to your front door.”
“I’m removing the sutures. I’ve confirmed my own good health.”
“Ah.” He wandered through the front room, the dining room, ignored the kettle humming on the stove, and found what he wanted in the drinks cabinet in her office. Ridley kept a limited selection of spirits in her office, but what she had accumulated was better than what Doc Dunlop kept there, or perhaps it was merely better than what old Doc had been willing to share.
Ben removed a tumbler from the cabinet and poured three fingers of fine Kentucky bourbon into it. “You want a drink?”
“I have water on for—oh, you mean alcohol. No, thank you. Are you in my office?”
“I am.”
So much for telling him to go no farther than the kitchen. “I’m almost done.”
“No hurry.” He sat down in the soft leather chair behind her desk and leaned back. There was a small painted footstool under the desk. He nudged it with his toe until he had it situated at the right distance and then set his heels on it. Stretched out, tumbler cupped in his palm, he closed his eyes. He breathed in the faint but familiar scent of Doc’s cigars. The smoky aroma still clung stubbornly to the pores in the leather, but now there was more than a mere hint of lavender occupying the same space. He breathed that scent in, too, and wondered what Doc would have made of it.
It was sometime later that he finally raised the glass to his lips and drank.
Ridley stepped quietly into her office. Ben’s fingers were wrapped loosely around a tumbler that was tipped dangerously close to spilling. She approached and took it out of his hand. He didn’t stir. It frightened her a little, this careworn expression that shadowed his features. Sleep was a restorer, a healer, but in Ben’s face she saw that he slept with heavy sadness.
She sipped from his glass. The bourbon slid warmly down her throat and put a little heat in her belly. She set the tumbler down and padded to the kitchen, where she removed the kettle and steeped a pot of tea. Ben woke abruptly when she returned to her office, but she knew it was not because of any sound that she made. Something else had jerked him out of his sleep.
Ridley elbowed some files and books out of the way so she could put down the tray in her hands. “Do you want some? I only brought the one cup. I thought you—”
“You thought right.” He reached for the tumbler and drew it toward him.
Ridley belted her robe closed. The bloodstain was gone now and the rent in the material had been repaired as neatly as the rent in her flesh. She smoothed the fabric and sat. “What is it?” she asked. “There’s something.”
“Hmm.” Ben pinched the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger and rubbed. He closed his eyes. When his hand dropped away from his face, he drank.
“Ben?”
“Doc’s dead.”
She stared at him. Her lips parted as though she had words at the ready. She did not.
Ben finished his drink and poured another, this one merely a generous splash. He held the tumbler between his palms, rolled it, but didn’t drink. “I probably could have said that better. Eased you into it.”
“No. Sometimes quick is better, even less painful.” She didn’t know if that were true just now. The depth to which she felt this loss stunned her. This was a man who had always been on the periphery of her life. A godfather who remembered her birthday and always had kind words and encouragement for her accomplishments was still an insubstantial presence. Correspondence gave her glimpses into the man he was, his sincere dedication to his profession, his love of Frost Falls, and yet in so many ways she scarcely knew him. He was her father’s dear friend and that, more than anything, was what tethered them.
Ridley spoke quietly. “Did I ever tell you that Doc was in love with my mother?”
“No.”
“Hmm. He was. I overheard my parents arguing about it when I was, oh, five or six, I think. Mother had just thrown a vase at Father’s head. Behind a closed door, of course, but I was standing on the other side of that door and later I saw spilled water and broken glass. I still remember how the roses smelled strewn across the carpet. I gathered them up and took them away, and I thought of how things might be different if Mother had agreed to marry Father’s friend instead of Father.” Ridley looked away, embarrassed by her confession. She laughed shortly, without humor. “Did he ever speak of my mother?”
“No. Not to me.”
“I think she might be the reason he left the city. I’m more confident that she was the reason he returned so few times. Her refusal turned out to be his good fortune. I imagine that troubled him.”
“Why did your mother turn him down? Do you know?”
“I suspect it was because my father looked very fine on her arm. Doc had a more, um, humble countenance.”
“He had a face like a peach pit.”
Ridley shook her head. “That was unkind.”
“That was how he described it to me. The ravages of acne, he said.”
“Yes, well, it would have been important to my mother, probably the deciding factor as both my father and Doc had similar prospects for their practices.” She picked up her teacup and stared at the milky liquid as though it held answers to questions she had never thought to ask. When she looked up, Ben was watching her. She spoke quietly. “How did you know?”
“Know?”
This time she finished the thought. “How did you know that he died? I don’t have a letter or telegram. Nothing from home. How did you learn it?”
“Ellie.”
“Ellie? How is that possible? I thought it might be Mary Cherry, but Ellie? It never crossed my mind.”
Ben shrugged, sipped his drink. “Surprised me as well. She never said a word. I guess that’s the way Doc wanted it. She’s known for a while that he’d been ill.”
“Will there be an announcement? Perhaps something in the paper?”
“Yes. Mother plans to write something. Doc, true to form, provided her with some words.”
She frowned slightly. “I understand that Ellie knew from Doc that he was dying, but how did she learn he had died?”
“Your father.”
“My father? Again, how is that possible?”
“An arrangement Doc made with him. I think it was Doc’s intention that Ellie come to you with the news, but she told me first, and I said I would
do it.”
“Who is going to tell Mary Cherry? Someone should.”
“Ellie is going to fall on her sword.” Ben finished his drink and moved the glass to the desk. “Once Mary knows, word will get around. The obituary in the paper is to keep the record straight.”
Ridley watched him close his eyes again. “Ben?”
“Hmm?”
“Were your mother and Doc . . .”
He raised an eyebrow but did not open his eyes. “I should make you finish that sentence. I did, you know, when I asked my mother.”
“Did she cuff you?”
He gave up a short laugh. “No, but I could tell she was considering it. The answer, by the way, is no. She and Doc were friends. Good friends as it happens, but only that.” There was a pause with a purpose. Ben opened his eyes and found hers. “Like us.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Like us. Ben’s words, spoken so simply, had the depth of still waters. Ridley did not look away. Couldn’t. Her heart thundered against her ribs, and there was no quieting it. She pressed her lips together.
“Nothing?” he asked.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”
Ben dropped his feet to the floor and sat forward in Ridley’s chair. “Truth? I don’t know what I expected.” He shook his head, rubbed his brow. “Doc’s dead. I sat here and I could still smell his tobacco. I never picked up a taste for it, but we’d sit here some evenings, chewing the fat about this and that, and he’d puff smoke rings and I’d clean my gun. I suppose I’ve missed that.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You were more his friend than I ever was. You knew him far better.”
“I wonder. I’m learning that there’s a lot Doc didn’t share with me. I didn’t know how much he valued my mother’s counsel. He never breathed a word about you. He left folks scratching their heads, wondering what kind of burr he’d gotten under his saddle that made him take off the way he did. And Mrs. Cherry? He owed her something more than an abrupt departure.”
“Maybe he felt he had done enough. Maybe he felt as if he was the one who was owed something.”