by BJ Hoff
She had never measured up to her older sister in any capacity, nor did she delude herself that she ever would. And given her present situation, perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing. If Michael Emmanuel was still grieving for Deirdre, at least she would not serve as any sort of awkward or painful reminder of his loss.
“It would seem,” said Michael Emmanuel, “that you are more than qualified to instruct Caterina. But let me emphasize that first of all I would like you to concentrate on feeling at home with us and learning to think of yourself as family. You are Caterina’s aunt and, as such, will be accorded the respect of the entire household.” He stopped, then added, “You will, however, be paid a fair wage for your responsibilities as her governess.”
Susanna might have protested, had she not been so overcome with relief. She had feared being entirely dependent on her brother-in-law’s largess, but now apparently she would actually be in a position to earn her keep. There was such a thing as being too proud, after all. She was a good teacher, and she knew it; she would accept whatever compensation he offered and be grateful for it. At some point, when Caterina was older, she could use any acquired savings to establish her own home and take responsibility for herself.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “That’s very generous of you.” She tasted her tea, found it cold, and set the cup back on the table.
“It will be of great help to have you here for Caterina,” he said, leaning back in the chair and steepling his fingers in front of his chin. “Of necessity, I must sometimes travel. And during rehearsal, I occasionally stay in the city at night. Even when I’m here, at home,” he continued, “I must work a great deal. It has been very difficult, to balance all the work and make certain Caterina isn’t neglected.”
He took a long sip of coffee, then went on. “You will find Cati an easy child to be with, I think,” he said. “At the risk of sounding prideful, I believe my daughter to be very sweet-spirited, with a genuine interest in others and a desire to please.”
He turned toward her with a rueful smile. “She is also incessantly curious, somewhat precocious, and can be a bit of a minx. At times she may try your patience.”
“The Maher children I cared for were twin boys of eight years with unlimited energy—and boundless mischief,” Susanna said dryly. “I somehow expect that Caterina will be a welcome change.”
“Let us hope you feel the same in a few days,” he said, still smiling.
He got to this feet then, indicating that their discussion was at an end. Susanna also stood, waiting for her “dismissal.”
“I’ve kept you longer than I should have,” he said. “I’ll have Mrs. Dempsey show you to your rooms and help you get settled.”
Susanna turned to go, but his voice, low with an unmistakable note of kindness, stopped her. “Susanna, if there is anything you need, you have only to ask. Supper is at seven, by the way, and we are very informal. Tonight, as I said, will be only family and a few close friends.”
He stepped closer to her, and for an instant Susanna had the irrational thought that he was about to touch her. She suppressed a shudder and stepped back.
As if he had sensed her withdrawal, he also moved away. Immediately, he rang for the housekeeper, who appeared so quickly Susanna wondered if she’d been standing right outside the door.
Upon leaving the room, Susanna glanced back to see him standing at the fireplace. As she watched, he removed the dark glasses and slipped them into his coat pocket, then passed his hand over his eyes in a gesture that hinted of extreme weariness.
She hesitated, struck by an inexplicable twinge of self-reproach at the coldness and utter lack of courtesy she had shown this man, in spite of the graciousness—and generosity—he had displayed toward her. Shaken, her mind swimming with confusion and fatigue, she had to fight the urge to break into a run in her haste to escape him—and the troubling tumult of emotions he’d managed to set off in her.
9
AFTER THE FIRE
She smiled and that transfigured me
And left me but a lout.
W. B. YEATS
By late afternoon, the fire was out, and no lives had been lost. Most of the injuries ranged from smoke inhalation to a few minor burns. There were a number of sprained or broken limbs, but only one or two had suffered more serious injuries. Those who required further medical treatment had already been transported to the hospital by ambulance. The rest of the women, at least those who had nowhere else to go, were being packed into a police wagon and taken to one of the city jails for temporary shelter.
The building itself was still standing, but no one would be living there for a very long time. Andrew Carmichael and Frank Donovan both agreed, however, that all things considered, the situation could have been much worse.
As they stood talking and surveying the fallen bricks and other debris, Frank broke into a grin. Andrew, who was quite certain he had never been so tired in his life, was at a loss to imagine what Donovan found so amusing.
“Well, now, it strikes me, your honor,” said the policeman, his always thick Irish accent more pronounced than ever, “that this is the first time I’ve ever seen you with so much as a wrinkled shirt collar, much less a dirty gob, don’t you know. I wouldn’t have thought you could look so downright disreputable, and that’s the truth.”
Andrew grinned. Frank Donovan was known as quite a ladies’ man, with his arrogant good looks and more than a splash and dash of charm, which he could lay on ever so thick when he had a mind to. At the moment, however, his face, including the rakish mustache, was gray with smoke and soot.
Frank doffed his hat and flicked some ash from it, then settled it back on his head. “Aye, no doubt I’m a sorry sight as well. So, then—you’d like to meet the lady doc, I expect.”
“Yes, of course. Is Dr. Cole a resident of the boardinghouse?”
Frank shook his head. “No. She has a flat near the square. Seems she heard the commotion on her way home and came to help. Come along, then, and you can make her acquaintance. Of course, you’ll keep in mind that I’m rather taken with the woman myself. Not that an Irish cop would stand a chance with her kind.”
Andrew attempted to smooth his hair, then pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and swiped at his face. “Her kind?”
Donovan wiped his face on the sleeve of his uniform. “I don’t know what she’s doing in this part of town, but I’d wager Dr. Bethany Cole’s blood runs as blue as her eyes.”
Andrew studied him for a moment. “Ever the cynic, aren’t you?”
The policeman merely laughed.
Andrew liked Frank Donovan as much as he had ever liked another man. They had become fast and solid friends, but Frank made no secret of the fact that he thought Andrew outrageously naive where his fellowman was concerned. Naive, and perhaps even a little foolish. The “Missionary Medicine Man,” Frank was fond of calling him.
The big policeman gave no quarter when it came to what he labeled the “dregs of humanity”—which in Frank’s estimation included just about everybody “except for you and me, Doc, and at times I tend to worry about you.”
If asked, Andrew would have been hard pressed to say exactly what it was about the big Irishman that he liked so much. They could scarcely have been more different. Other than the fact that they were both immigrants, they held almost nothing in common.
Andrew knew little of his friend’s past, for Frank wasn’t given to personal confidences. What little he did know he’d learned from others, and he suspected that many of the tales told about Frank Donovan were nothing but rumor. One story had it that Frank had come across as a stowaway when he was still a tyke, only to become one of the innumerable homeless waifs who wandered the notorious Five Points slum on the lower east side, shifting for themselves by indulging in petty thievery or running errands for the gang bosses.
According to that particular tale, Donovan had gotten mixed up in a gang only to be arrested for knifing a youthful rival, though he protested h
is innocence right up to the doors of the jail. It was said that a good-natured policeman had believed the boy’s story and, after taking it upon himself to find the real assailant, had eventually gained Frank’s release.
This was only one of the many colorful accounts Andrew had heard about Frank, and he had no way of knowing if it—or any of the other stories told about the man—contained a grain of truth. Nor did he care. What he did know was that Frank Donovan was the most thoroughly honest man he had ever come across. At times, that honesty could seem harsh, even brutal, but it was a trait that Andrew could not help but appreciate.
There was also a strength about the big Irishman that had nothing to do with his physical prowess. Donovan’s brash courage and fortitude, combined with an uncommon sense of loyalty, made him a formidable foe and an incredible friend.
Andrew suspected that no matter what the big policeman might happen to come up against, he would prevail. Frank, no doubt, would describe himself far more simply with a single word: hardheaded.
And come to think of it, that probably summed him up about as well as anything.
It seemed to Andrew that Frank barely made it through the introductions without smirking.
Even with her hair and face dusted with ash, Dr. Bethany Cole was a pretty woman. No—she was more than pretty; she was lovely. Exceptionally lovely. Small with delicate features and hair the color of flax, she appeared too young to be a physician. Andrew saw in an instant why Frank had said what he did about her blood running blue. Everything about the woman bespoke breeding. She looked as if she would be far more at home serving tea in a Fifth Avenue drawing room than toting a doctor’s bag around the squalid streets of Manhattan.
They exchanged somewhat awkward pleasantries, Frank taking it all in with that maddening grin of his.
“So, then, Dr. Cole—how long have you been in New York?” Andrew asked.
She had unusual eyes, he noted: startlingly large and remarkably blue, eyes that gave the impression of looking straight into one’s soul. The thought disquieted Andrew, and he felt suddenly gawky and foolish, as if he had been transformed into a plowboy on the spot. Not to mention his “disreputable appearance,” which Frank had so gleefully pointed out.
But Bethany Cole seemed not to notice. Perhaps he didn’t look quite as disgraceful as Frank had intimated.
Or perhaps Dr. Cole was simply nearsighted. Come to think of it, she was peering up at him as if she might be just that.
“Actually, I haven’t been here long at all,” she said in a voice tinged with the well-modulated refinement of the upper class. “I arrived only a few weeks ago. From Philadelphia.”
“So you’re opening a practice here in New York?”
She lifted one delicate eyebrow. “Well—not just yet,” she said, her tone dry. “I’m still—exploring the possibilities.”
“I see. But you’ve applied for your hospital privileges, I expect?” Andrew thought her smile might have wavered slightly.
“I’ve applied, yes. So far, however, I haven’t found a hospital interested in my particular skills.”
Andrew knew only too well what she was insinuating. Most male physicians had no use whatsoever for women doctors—in fact considered the female “nature” itself unfit for the practice of medicine, aside from midwifery. Most of his contemporaries thought women should be barred from medicine altogether.
He did not share the popular opinion and, for some reason, found himself wanting to convey as much to Bethany Cole. “What about the Women’s Infirmary? Have you spoken with them?”
She nodded. “As it happens, I’m already working at the Infirmary. But I’m still anxious to establish my own practice. I’ll have to wait for that, however. I haven’t a place or the means as yet to set up an office. Besides, I don’t know the city well enough to decide where to locate.”
Something tugged at the fringes of Andrew’s mind, and had Frank not been standing there, arms crossed over his chest as he took in the exchange with more than a casual interest, he might have been able to verbalize it. As it was, however, he felt increasingly awkward and unable to concentrate on anything other than Bethany Cole’s unnerving blue eyes and Frank Donovan’s annoyingly insolent grin. So he simply stood there like a post, saying nothing.
Abruptly, Frank uncrossed his arms and made a move to leave. “Well, now, I expect I should see to my men. I’ll just be leaving the two of you to your medical talk.” With that, he doffed his hat, then set it back on his head at a rakish angle and left them alone.
Under Bethany Cole’s steady scrutiny, Andrew suddenly found that he, too, was eager to get away. They made small talk for only another moment before he offered a clumsy good-bye and turned to go.
He could almost feel her inquisitive gaze following him. On an impulse he stopped and turned back to her. “Dr. Cole?”
She tilted her head a little, her expression quizzical. Andrew had never been given to acting impetuously. Yet something urged him on. He returned to offer her one of his calling cards, and as he did so, he studied her for a moment. “If you’d like,” he said, “I might be able to help with those hospital privileges. If you’re interested, that is.”
She looked at the card he’d handed her, then at him. “Why—of course, I’d be interested.”
Andrew swallowed against the slick of numbness creeping up his throat. “And about your practice—I might have an idea about that as well. If you’d like to… ah…stop by my office when it’s convenient, we can discuss it.”
He must sound like a dimwit—he did sound like a dimwit; he could hear it in his own voice. No doubt, she’d be too put off by him to venture anywhere near his office.
“Thank you,” she said, still regarding him with a questioning look. “That’s very kind of you, Dr. Carmichael. And, yes, I’ll be sure to stop by your office.” She paused. “Should I make an appointment?”
“An appointment? Oh…no, that’s not necessary. Just…stop by anytime.”
That said, Andrew again wished her a good day, turned quickly—nearly stumbling as he did—and made a hasty retreat to the front of the building.
10
SURPRISES, SMALL AND NOT SO SMALL
Blessed day, so calm and restful,
Bringing joy and peace to all,
Linger yet in tranquil beauty
Ere the shades of evening fall.
FANNY CROSBY
Her rooms far surpassed any expectations Susanna might have had. Mrs. Dempsey opened the door onto a high-ceilinged, spacious chamber with frilly yellow curtains, an enormous four-poster decked with yellow and white linens, a wall of neatly shelved books, and an upholstered rocking chair so large and inviting Susanna could scarcely wait to try it.
The room’s sunny atmosphere fortified Susanna in a way she wouldn’t have thought possible. She brightened even more when she realized she was to have her own private water closet and dressing room. She would be living in absolute luxury compared to the small farmhouse where she had grown up. But when she looked at her battered trunk resting on the bench at the foot of the bed—conspicuous evidence of her straitened circumstances—she felt a sudden, unexpected longing for the simplicity of her home back in Ireland.
Mrs. Dempsey seemed not to notice. She pointed out the lovely view of the gardens from the window, and then instructed Susanna to have a “proper rest” before supper. Susanna declined the housekeeper’s offer to help her unpack; the idea of a total stranger sorting through her few frayed garments and threadbare lingerie made her stomach clench.
She did try to express her appreciation for the room, but the housekeeper summarily dismissed her gratitude. “ ’Tis himself you’ll want to be thanking. He was the one who saw to the fixings. He and the wee wane.”
Taken aback, Susanna stared at her. “Mr…Michael, do you mean?”
“Aye, the Maestro, as they call him in these parts. Didn’t he plan the job and see to it himself, he and the darling girl?” The housekeeper preened as if this evide
nce of her employer’s generosity was a matter of personal pride.
Susanna waited until Mrs. Dempsey left the room to do a more thorough inspection. No detail seemed to have been spared in outfitting a room designed for the utmost in charm, coziness, and comfort. And it had been provided especially for her benefit—by Michael Emmanuel himself! The very idea left her feeling bewildered.
She forced herself to unpack her things before resting, hanging her few garments in a wardrobe twice the size she would need, then neatly stacking her personal items in the meticulously lined drawers of a highboy several inches taller than Susanna herself.
Finally spent, she sank down into the enormous rocking chair by the window. The late summer gardens below were splendid, but not formal. Instead of perfect designs, random quilts of color met her view. Like the gardens, those parts of the orchards that were visible appeared well-tended, but with no particular pattern or order.
For a time, Susanna closed her eyes, craving sleep. But she was too tense, too anxious about what might lie ahead, to thoroughly relax. Moreover, she was still trying to take in the fact that Michael Emmanuel had gone to so much trouble and expense on her account. A room decorated specifically with her in mind was the last thing she would have expected from what Deirdre had written of her “cold,” “inconsiderate” husband.
All along she had expected to be treated like an impoverished relative—useful for looking after Caterina, but with no real place of her own in the household. She most certainly hadn’t foreseen that anyone would have exerted even the slightest effort to make her feel wanted here.
Still, she couldn’t help feeling suspicious of her brother-in-law’s intentions and, consequently, hard-pressed to summon any real feelings of gratitude. The man Deirdre described in her letters had never acted unselfishly, but had been motivated solely by a desire to manipulate and control.
But why on earth would Michael Emmanuel attempt to manipulate her? She was already indebted to him, after all. He had paid her passage across, opened his home to her, even offered to pay her a wage. Certainly, there was no reason he should have gone to the additional expense of redecorating and furnishing a bedroom for her.