by BJ Hoff
Caterina was awake, pillows propped behind her. “Papa—”
Her attempted greeting set off a hard spasm of coughing.
Susanna went to one side of the bed, Michael to the other, where he scooped Caterina into his arms, holding her close and putting his cheek to her forehead.
“I’m sorry, Papa.” The child’s voice was hoarse and thick.
“Sorry?” Michael stroked her hair. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“I don’t like to make you worry,” Caterina managed between bouts of coughing.
Michael’s composure seemed to slip for an instant as he rocked his daughter gently back and forth. “Papa isn’t worried, cara. We will have Dr. Kent come and see to your cough. He will give you some medicine, and you will be well again. So why should I worry, eh?”
Caterina turned toward Susanna. “You look funny, Aunt Susanna,” she said with a feeble smile. “You, too, Papa. Both of you are wet…like the ducks on the pond.”
The few words seemed to exhaust her, and Michael drew her even closer as she was seized by yet another fit of coughing.
A knot settled in Susanna’s chest at the familiar sound of that cough. She thought she recognized it.
She hoped she was wrong.
“Pauli?” Michael was saying. “Send Dempsey for Dr. Kent, please. Right away.”
Paul started for the door, then suddenly turned back. “Michael—Dr. Kent is in hospital himself. Do you not remember? The stroke?”
Susanna saw Michael blanch. Caterina gasped and began to cough again, a loud, barking cough. Carefully, Michael lowered her to the bed and sat down beside her, stroking her forehead.
“She’s so warm,” he said, his voice low. “Too warm. We must have a doctor. But who?”
Paul gave a quick shrug of frustration. “We will have to find someone from the city.”
Susanna’s mind raced. A thought struck her, perhaps implausible. But Michael was right. They had to have a doctor.
“Michael—”
He turned toward her.
“I think I know what this is. The cough—it sounds like croup. I’m almost certain.”
He frowned. “Croup? What is that?”
“It sometimes follows a bad cold. One of the Maher twins was susceptible to it. I remember what Mrs. Maher used to do. You understand, we’ll still need a doctor, but perhaps we can ease the cough a little and make her more comfortable for a time. I’ll just need a few things—”
“Pauli,” said Michael, “help Mrs. Dempsey collect whatever Susanna needs. We will never get a doctor this time of night, but tell Liam to plan to leave first thing in the morning for the city, as early as possible.”
On impulse, Susanna laid a hand on his arm. “Actually, Michael, I think I know a doctor who might come tonight.” She sent Paul to fetch the items she’d need, then told Michael about Dr. Carmichael, the physician she’d met during the crossing. “He seemed such a good man, and the Moodys spoke so highly of him. He might remember me. Perhaps if I were to send a note, he would come.”
Michael’s strained expression seemed to ease slightly. “Where would Dempsey find this man?”
Susanna had to think a moment. “Seventeenth Street…yes, that was it. He mentioned that he was considering moving from East Seventeenth Street to somewhere with more office space.”
“But surely he would not be in his office at this time of night.”
Susanna frowned. “But he lives upstairs, over the office! I remember, because Mrs. Moody was often fussing at him that he ought to live somewhere else, where his patients can’t find him at all hours.”
Michael nodded. “Write the note, please, Susanna.”
Within minutes Dempsey appeared at the door to get the note for Dr. Carmichael. “I’ll be leaving for the city now,” the gruff Irishman announced. “Best not to wait. Even if the ferry’s not running, there’s always some fellow hanging about the dock, looking to make himself some extra money. I’ll find a way.”
“Grazie,” Michael replied, his voice strained. “Pay whatever you must, Liam. Paul, get him some money; would you please?”
When Dempsey was gone, Susanna made a tent of one of the bedsheets and explained to both Caterina and Michael—who of course couldn’t see for himself—what she intended to do. By the time Paul returned with the bucket of hot water and lime she’d sent for, she was ready to begin.
“Now, Caterina, I’m going to get inside the tent with you, darling, and we’ll breathe in the steamy fumes from this bucket, the two of us. I think it will ease that nasty cough.”
For the next half-hour, Michael kept the fire going in the fireplace and Paul added hot water to the bucket every few minutes. Susanna held Caterina’s hand as the child inhaled the vapor from the lime water.
The steam finally helped to lessen the coughing spasms enough that Caterina fell into a fitful sleep. Paul helped Susanna dispose of the wet sheets, then went downstairs to fetch some tea for all of them, leaving the room quiet for the first time since their return.
Susanna got up and took a towel to her wet hair. She could see Michael in the mirror, seated close beside the bed, holding Caterina’s hand. His face was haggard with worry and fatigue.
Whatever else she might think about her cryptic brother-in-law, Susanna had to admit that there was no doubting his love for his little girl. Clearly, Caterina was the heart of Michael’s life, the most important part of his world, and she could not help but feel a measure of softening toward him when she watched him with his daughter.
She could tell that he was praying. Susanna added yet another of her own silent pleas to his. The little niece with the ready smile and merry nature had become infinitely precious to her in a very short time. She couldn’t imagine a single day without Caterina. If the child didn’t make it—
She shook off the thought, refusing to give in to her fear. Caterina would be all right. This was only croup, after all. A common illness among young children, and one from which they almost always recovered.
Almost always. Unless it turned out to be what the old women back home called “the bad croup.”
“I’m very thankful you were here, Susanna,” Michael said softly from across the room. “You knew just what to do.”
Susanna became aware that she’d been staring into the mirror, the towel still swathed around her hair. “This may not last, Michael. You understand that it’s only a temporary measure?”
He nodded. “Sì, but it is something.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “You care deeply for Caterina.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.
Susanna swallowed, still watching his reflection in the mirror. “I love her as if she were my own.”
“It would make Caterina so very happy to hear you say that.” He paused and smiled a little. “It pleases me, too.”
Susanna was unprepared for the warmth that stole over her at his words. She realized for the first time that in some inexplicable way, she wanted his approval, wanted to please him.
It was an entirely unexpected thought, and one that left her shaken and confused.
Why should she care whether Michael approved of her? This was the man who had somehow managed to make her sister so miserable that she’d referred to her marriage as a “disaster.” Moreover, everything Susanna had learned so far led her to believe that Deirdre might well have been running away from Michael—and her marriage—the night she died.
She studied him in the mirror. It occurred to her that she still knew little more about Deirdre’s accident than she’d known before she came here, other than the fact that there had been an argument—a particularly ugly one, apparently—and that Deirdre had driven off to her death. Up until tonight, Michael had managed to evade even the most superficial of explanations. Now, with his earlier account interrupted, she couldn’t help but wonder how long it might be before he would again be willing to take up where he’d left off.
But before she could pursue her troubled thoughts any further
, Caterina was gripped by a new, and even more violent, fit of coughing.
And this time, she seemed to be fighting with all her strength simply to breathe.
There was nothing unusual about a knock on Andrew Carmichael’s door in the middle of the night. In fact, it was a rare night indeed when he managed more than four or five hours sleep. Fortunately, he had discovered while still in medical college that he could get along surprisingly well on very little sleep—a quality that had proved exceedingly valuable for one in his profession.
At the sound of someone pounding, he came instantly awake, fully alert. Quickly, he lighted the lamp on the table beside the bed. A glance across the room to the clock on the fireplace mantel showed that it was almost one-thirty.
It was still raining, a persistent, drumming rain that held little promise of slackening soon. Chilled, the doctor shivered a little as he threw on his bathrobe and half stumbled downstairs to the side entrance.
He felt uncommonly irritated—more so than usual—at being disturbed at such a late hour. The lingering effects of what he thought must have been a very pleasant dream clung to him like a subtle fragrance, and for a moment he resented the unknown intruder. Even so, he could hardly ignore the relentless pounding and go back to bed.
On the way downstairs, he became aware that the dream in question was of Dr. Bethany Cole. Now, there was an intrusion! The woman had been invading his mind at the most inopportune moments almost from the first day they’d met.
The thought of his attractive new associate fled, however, when he opened the door. The man standing on the stoop bore a strong resemblance to a walrus. Yes, definitely a walrus, complete with the heavy mustache. He was a hardy, thick-chested man, probably in his late fifties, with a bit of a droop to one eye.
“The name is Dempsey, sir,” he said in a voice as rough as gravel. He thrust a piece of paper into Andrew’s hand. “I was to deliver this note from Miss Susanna Fallon.”
Andrew frowned, looking from the man with the Irish accent to the note in his hand. For a moment he couldn’t think. Then it came to him. “Miss Fallon… oh, of course! Why, whatever is wrong? She’s not ill, I hope?”
Even as he spoke, Andrew unfolded the stationery and read what appeared to be a hastily written note.
“Please forgive this imposition, Dr. Carmichael. I don’t mean to presume on our brief acquaintanceship, but my four-year-old niece—the daughter of Mr. Michael Emmanuel—is very ill with what would seem to be a severe case of croup. I believe it is most critical that she receive medical attention right away, and Mr. Emmanuel’s family physician is himself hospitalized. I do apologize for asking, but if you would be good enough to accompany Mr. Dempsey upriver, we’d be most grateful. We desperately need a trustworthy physician, and I naturally thought of you right away.”
“Upriver?” Andrew questioned, glancing at the man called Dempsey.
“Aye, sir. Between Tarrytown and the Military Academy, it is. You know Mr. Emmanuel, sir?”
Andrew nodded, still studying the note. “The musician…yes, of course. That is, I know of him. That’s right, now I remember, Miss Fallon told us about him and her niece.”
He hesitated only a moment. “Well, step in out of the rain, man. I’ll have to dress and get my bag.”
The Irishman seemed relieved—and somewhat surprised. “You’ll be coming, then, sir?”
Andrew cut a look at him. “Why, yes, of course.” In truth, he hadn’t thought of not going.
The sturdy Irishman stepped inside, cap in hand. He seemed unaware of the fact that he was thoroughly drenched.
“Come on up if you like,” Andrew said, already starting up the steps.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll be fine right here.”
The man Dempsey was obviously a fellow of few words, which was just as well. This hour of the night Andrew wasn’t much inclined toward conversation himself.
21
RAIN ON THE RIVER
If it be stormy,
Fear not the sea;
Jesus upon it
Is walking by thee.
JOSEPH SHERIDAN LEFANU
Susanna had tried everything she knew to do, but Caterina’s racking cough only grew worse. She glanced across the room at the clock on the mantel. Nearly three-thirty. It seemed as if Dempsey had been gone all night.
Only with the greatest of effort had she managed to avoid utter panic. Michael, too, was clearly distraught. His hair was wild from raking his hands through it, and he had pulled at his tie so fiercely that both the tie and his collar hung askew.
“Michael, you should try to rest,” Susanna said, raising her voice to make herself heard above Caterina’s coughing.
He shook off the suggestion and got to his feet for yet another round of pacing the room. After a moment, he stopped in front of Susanna, extended a hand to her, and said, “Will you pray with me? Pray with me for Caterina.”
Susanna studied him, her throat tight. For the first time since they’d come upstairs she could see him struggling with his faith. By now his fear seemed almost palpable, as was her own increasing dread. On impulse, she took his hand and went to stand with him beside Caterina’s bed. With the rain drumming a relentless rhythm against the house and her heart hammering in painful counterpoint, they pleaded together for the child they both loved with all their hearts.
At some point, Susanna felt Michael’s hand tighten on hers. At first she resisted, but only for an instant. His hand was strong and warm, and her growing panic, plus the need to be in harmony as they prayed, made it possible for her to put aside, at least for the moment, her misgivings and her doubts about him. For now, all that really mattered was Caterina, and it seemed vital that they join their thoughts and their hearts as they approached the only One who could bring healing into this room tonight.
A few minutes later, Susanna went for a fresh pitcher of water. The rain had slackened by the time she made her way back to the bedroom, and the house had grown quiet, except for Caterina’s continual hacking. The strangling cough pierced the night, sending one stab of pain after another shooting through Susanna.
The wolfhound saw her from his watchful position outside the room and lifted his great head in appeal. Even Gus was looking for a reassurance she couldn’t offer. She stopped long enough to rub his ears and give him a word of encouragement.
She started to enter the bedroom, then hesitated. Michael had lifted Caterina from the bed and sat cradling her in the rocking chair by the window. His arms were wrapped securely around his daughter to help support her against the brutal coughing. Even as he hummed a soothing melody against her hair, his own face was a mask of despair and helplessness.
The sight of his stricken countenance and his unmistakable love for his daughter was almost Susanna’s undoing. Something twisted inside her, and for a moment, forgetting that Michael could not see her distress, she turned away to collect herself before crossing the room to set the pitcher on the table.
The sound of voices downstairs startled her, and she sloshed water over the side of the bowl as she set it in place. Michael was already on his feet, still cradling Caterina in his arms.
“That must be Dempsey!” Susanna said. “I’ll go.”
Outside the room the wolfhound was poised at the top of the steps. He barked once, then turned to Susanna, as if waiting for a command from her.
“Quiet, Gus.” A wave of relief swept over Susanna at the sight of the tall, rangy Dr. Carmichael ascending the steps while Paul waited in the vestibule with Dempsey, watching.
“Miss Fallon.” Andrew Carmichael gave her a quick smile as he reached the top of the stairway.
“I can’t thank you enough for coming, Dr. Carmichael! I know what a terrible imposition this is, but I couldn’t think what else to do.”
He waved off her apology and, at the sound of Caterina’s coughing, glanced toward the bedroom. “Sounds as if she’s having quite a time of it,” he said, already starting down the hallway as Susanna hurried to
keep pace with him.
“How long has she been this way?”
“All night,” Susanna replied. “Mrs. Dempsey said she started not long after we left for Brooklyn, for the revival.”
He looked at her. “You were at the meeting? So was I. In the wings, actually. One of the workers wasn’t feeling well, so I stayed close by. Just in case.”
They stopped just outside the bedroom door. “Now, then—tell me what you’ve done for her so far.”
Susanna gave him a hasty account of her efforts, to which he nodded approval. “Good. Very good thinking. Well, let’s go in.”
Upon entering the room, the doctor stopped for only a moment before crossing to where Michael stood with Caterina in his arms.
Susanna quickly introduced them, and with great care Dr. Carmichael took Caterina from Michael. “Let’s have a look, if I may,” he said, lifting her onto the bed.
The child’s frenzied coughing and unfocused gaze set off yet another spasm of alarm in Susanna. But Andrew Carmichael’s good-natured features creased into a smile as he bent over the bed.
“I’m Dr. Carmichael, Caterina. I need to have a look at your throat, is that all right? It won’t hurt a bit, I promise.”
The girl’s cheeks were stained with crimson, her eyes sunken, but she managed a faint smile and a nod. Even that small effort seem to ignite another round of hacking.
Susanna watched Andrew Carmichael closely as he checked Caterina’s throat. She saw his expression turn somber, and in the stillness of the room she imagined everyone could hear her own heart pounding with apprehension.
The child’s cough was so relentless it was all Andrew could do to manage even a cursory examination. But he was vastly relieved to find that it wasn’t membranous croup, as he had feared when he first heard the cough. No, this was the plain old ordinary stuff—just an unusually severe case of it. More than likely the result of a bad cold but, hopefully, still treatable.