by BJ Hoff
She lowered the window, then began to pace the room. Could the truth, no matter how terrible it might be if fully known, really make all that much difference? She could not for the life of her fathom anything so horrible that it would prompt her to leave Bantry Hill—leave Caterina—of her own volition.
Finally, she sat down on the side of the bed, still struggling with the question as to whether anything—anything—she might learn about Michael himself, or Deirdre’s death, could possibly be so heinous that she would allow it to drive her away from Caterina.
In the midst of her attempt to make a way through the quagmire of unanswered questions, yet another question—this one even more unsettling—came hurtling out of nowhere, startling her with its almost brutal force:
Was Caterina really the reason, the only reason, she was so resolved to stay at Bantry Hill? What part, exactly, did Michael play in her unwillingness to leave?
Shaken, Susanna sat unmoving, scarcely breathing, as she clasped and unclasped her hands. She must not, dare not, commit the folly of trying to answer that question.
Not now. Not ever.
26
THE DOCTORS ARE IN
’Tis the human touch in this world that counts…
SPENCER MICHAEL FREE
New York City
Today was the first day the Drs. Carmichael and Cole would be seeing patients at their new location.
Loath to think that she might have been in any way responsible for Andrew’s decision to relocate, Bethany finally accepted her new partner’s insistence that the move had been inevitable for some time now, that she had merely provided the needed impetus for his taking action.
There was no denying that he had outgrown the building on East Seventeenth, and even though the new quarters were situated in a less desirable area, they were far more spacious. Besides, this was where Andrew Carmichael wanted to practice.
Bordered by Bleecker Street, Thompson Street, and the Bowery, the rambling brick building was located in the very heart of an immigrant district. Although many of the older structures in the area had once been homes to city merchants and businessmen, by now most had become commercial establishments and, more recently, settlement houses. Among them could be found temporary housing, as well as classrooms and workshops where English was taught and instruction provided in sewing, cooking, and other basic skills. Occasional clinics were set up for the poor, but these were makeshift at best and usually open to patients only a few days a month.
It hadn’t taken Bethany long to realize that Andrew Carmichael had an intense burden for the underprivileged, especially the countless poor immigrants who spilled onto the shores of New York by the thousands. He had actually purchased the entire building on Elizabeth Street with the express purpose of moving both his office and his living quarters. His intention was clear: not only would he be available to his patients, he would also be living among them.
Bethany had been a little puzzled by the acquisition of the building, if not by the man’s commitment. Andrew Carmichael couldn’t be much past his midthirties—hardly old enough to have accumulated any real wealth. Besides, he kept his fees far too low to generate a lucrative income. Perhaps he was just unusually adept at saving. From what she knew of his lifestyle, it was modest, altogether unpretentious.
In fact, they had this in common; Bethany had never felt the need to own more than the basic necessities, except for her one extravagance—books. Nor had she ever been ensnared by the love of “things,” desiring instead the freedom to practice medicine where the need was greatest, not necessarily where she could earn the most money. It seemed that here, too, her goals were highly compatible with those of her partner.
Her partner.
The fact that she could actually think of Andrew Carmichael in those terms was entirely his doing. Less than a month after they’d begun to practice together, he had informed Bethany that he preferred to acknowledge her as his associate rather than as his assistant.
The truth was, Bethany would have been grateful to serve as his assistant, at least for a time, so eager was she to set up a practice and secure hospital privileges. Andrew, however, refused to discuss it, pointing out that she had worked just as long and as hard as he had to gain her education and training—“most likely harder, considering the obstacles you’ve had to overcome in the medical community itself.”
He insisted his need wasn’t so much for an assistant as it was for a full-time partner, someone willing to carry an equal share of the increasing patient load. “Much as I dislike admitting it,” he told her, his speech rhythmic with the faint Scottish burr Bethany had come to find rather charming, “I cannot seem to manage the work as I need to. So you see, there will be none of this ‘assistant’ business. You’re my associate, and that’s how it will be.”
Even now, as Bethany stood scrutinizing the examining room—her examining room—she had to remind herself again that all this was real. She had worked so hard and had waited so long for her own private practice that she could scarcely take it in.
She heard Andrew clattering about in the adjoining examining room and smiled a little. Perhaps she ought to go offer to help him. The poor man did seem inclined toward disorder, even clumsiness at times.
She had worked until early evening the day before, arranging her instruments just so, stocking the cabinets with tins and bottles and boxes all neatly labeled, then lining the drawers with clean paper before filling them with an adequate supply of dressings, bandages, and towels. Now, with her white ticking apron starched and pressed, her hair tucked firmly into a knot at the nape of her neck, she was ready for whatever the day might bring.
Andrew, on the other hand, had made late calls on two patients the night before and consequently was only now readying his office and examining room. From the sound of things, he was throwing supplies in place rather than arranging them.
Bethany knew before she entered that she would most likely find him in a clean but rumpled laboratory coat, with a shock of dark hair falling over his forehead. As always, he would appear somewhat harried and impatient, although his impatience never seemed to be directed at her, only himself.
In fact, he was still in his shirt sleeves and down on his knees, scooping up an armful of bandages off the floor. He looked up as Bethany entered, giving her one of his diffident smiles as he scuttled to his feet, his free hand knocking an entire row of tin containers off the cabinet shelf in the process.
With some effort, Bethany kept a straight face as the tins went clattering to the floor. Andrew stared at the disarray, then, red-faced, gave a quick little shrug and a quirk of his mouth as he heaped the bandages on the examining table and bent to retrieve the scattered tins.
When Bethany knelt to help him, he muttered, not looking at her, “I should have done this last night, I expect.”
“You were seeing patients last night,” she reminded him. “I’ll help you finish up.”
Something about his lean profile, the dark head bent so seriously to his efforts—and so close to her—made the breath catch in Bethany’s throat. More peculiar still was the sudden inclination to brush that rebellious wave of hair away from his forehead.
He turned to her then, their eyes meeting for an instant. Bethany quickly averted her gaze, but not before her pulse gave an unexpected leap.
“I’m really quite pathetic, aren’t I?” he said.
Surprised, Bethany turned back to him, unable to stop a smile at the sight of his undue look of self-disgust.
“Don’t be silly,” she said, hurrying to scoop up the remainder of the tins. “It’s just that you’re in a rush, that’s all.”
It was then that she noticed his hands. His fingers were swollen, his knuckles red and inflamed, his movements stiff as he went on collecting the containers.
Bethany’s stomach knotted. In that moment, she realized there was more to Andrew’s ungainliness than haste or preoccupation, and it was suddenly anything but amusing. The slow, stiff gait as he a
scended a flight of stairs, his tendency to drop things, the unusual paleness and fatigue that occasionally seemed to overtake him now took on new significance.
She said nothing, however, as she got to her feet. With a deliberate effort to keep her expression clear, she set the tins back in order, then refolded the towels and stacked them in the cabinet drawers.
When she turned, she found him watching her. He had donned his lab coat, its sleeves nearly an inch too short above his wrists. Not for the first time, it occurred to Bethany that with his considerable height, his long arms, and somewhat prominent nose, Andrew Carmichael was almost Lincolnesque—albeit more handsome-featured than the late president—in his appearance. Perhaps he was also just as stoic in his character.
She forced a smile. “Well,” she said brightly, “it would seem that all we need now are some patients.”
As if on cue, the bell above the entrance door rang, alerting them that someone had come into the office. They looked at each other, and both of them started for the door at the same time.
They had discussed the likelihood that they would see at least three or four new patients on their first day. Before noon they had ushered no less than a dozen through the doors.
By agreement, Bethany had seen to the women, while Andrew tended to the men. They had taken turns, also by agreement, in treating the children.
Andrew stood watching Bethany escort the last of their morning patients—a small girl dressed in little more than rags and her cadaverously thin mother—out the door. Word that a woman doctor had set up practice in the area seemed to have traveled fast, and Andrew suspected that after today the news would spread like a brush fire. Women simply did not want a male doctor attending them, especially in the more delicate female matters, such as gynecological problems and childbirth.
In deference to those women who did subject themselves to an examination, he always tried to be sensitive and exceedingly careful, even to the point of using a longer stethoscope than usual to maintain his distance from the patient. But these cursory physical examinations were unsatisfactory, to say the least.
Bethany had brought a solution to this dilemma. She seemed to easily gain the confidence of their female patients, even the most hesitant ones. A steady stream of women had already begun to show up at the old offices before the move, and Andrew had no doubt but what the same thing would happen here as well.
All told, there was simply no reckoning the difference she had made in the practice, not only by gaining the trust of the women patients as she had, but in the considerable workload she’d assumed all along. Andrew could not help but recognize a certain irony in the situation.
If he were to be altogether honest with himself, he supposed that in the beginning of their relationship, he might have entertained a fanciful thought of himself as some sort of modern-day knight, “rescuing” Bethany Cole by helping her obtain her hospital privileges, and at the same time secure a patient list of her own.
Saint Andrew. He smiled at his own foolishness. The fact was that he had been the one who needed rescuing.
And it seemed that the lovely Dr. Cole had done a fine job of it, in a very short time.
In any event, it was an immeasurable relief to know that entire families could now receive the medical treatment they needed and deserved. He had tried to do his best for all his patients, of course, but there was no denying an ongoing frustration in never being able to provide adequate care for the ever-increasing numbers who needed it, especially the women.
Of course, the truth was that he had never been all that comfortable with women, professionally or personally. His mother had died giving birth to him, leaving Andrew to be raised by his middle-aged clergyman father. There had been only an older brother, no sisters to bring even a touch of feminine influence to his youth. With the exception of his aging Aunt Cecily and a grandmother who died before he even reached his teens, nearly all the people in his life had been men.
He had been in love once, in his late twenties. Tragically, his somewhat frail Evelyn had died during a diphtheria epidemic before they could marry. After that, Andrew had withdrawn to his profession, the church, and his travels. More recently, of course, his own physical condition had become an issue, making him reluctant to even consider a new romantic interest.
Not that the opportunity had presented itself. Indeed, Bethany Cole was the first woman to evoke more than a passing interest in all that time.
In many ways, Bethany was a puzzle. At twenty-seven, she had gained an impressive education and quite a lot of experience. She seemed to attack any task she undertook with the same competence and conscientiousness she brought to every patient under her care. Yet she was an extremely feminine, attractive young woman with a bright, appealing personality.
More than once, Andrew had marveled that she hadn’t married and wondered if there was someone in her life. A fiancé, perhaps? And if not, then why not?
He came to himself and realized she was standing with her back to the door, watching him with a faint smile.
“Well—it seems we managed our ‘three or four’ patients for the morning, Dr. Carmichael,” she said.
“It does seem so, Dr. Cole,” he replied. He became aware that he had been rubbing his hands together, kneading his fingers—an involuntary, almost mindless effort to assuage the pain. Quickly, he lowered them to his sides.
“Since the waiting room is finally empty,” he said, “why don’t we get away for lunch? There’s just the place down the street.”
Bethany looked dubious. “In this neighborhood?”
“I can see that I need to acquaint you more thoroughly with your new surroundings. You might be surprised at what’s out there.”
“I don’t doubt that for a moment.”
Andrew leaned against the counter, studying her—the fine, clearly drawn features and delicate complexion, the slight lift with which she carried her head, the always-correct posture—all of which virtually shouted upper class and breeding. “Whatever possessed you to do this, Bethany?”
She frowned. “Do what?”
Andrew took in the room with a quick sweeping motion of his hand. “Medicine. More to the point, why would you agree to practice in the thick of a settlement district, where you’ll never earn anything more than a modest living, at best?”
“What possessed you to do it?” she countered.
He shrugged. “That’s different altogether. I didn’t have to fight the prejudice and resistance of an entire establishment. And I don’t come from an upper-class background.”
He hadn’t meant for the last to slip out, and he could tell the remark had caught her unawares—and quite possibly annoyed her as well. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “That was uncalled for—pure assumption on my part.”
She was studying him with one uplifted eyebrow.
Again, Andrew attempted to apologize. “I am sorry, Bethany. As I said, I just assumed—”
With relief, he saw the ghost of a rueful smile touch her lips. “I’m not rich, if that’s what you’re thinking, Andrew.”
“No, really, I didn’t mean—”
She laughed. “It’s all right. As I said, I am definitely not wealthy, although there was a time, I suppose, when my grandfather was. He came from a long line of bankers and philanthropists. Most of his family tried to discourage him from medicine. They thought it too common. Ultimately they more or less disowned him.” She paused, smiling a little. “It didn’t seem to bother him much. He was generally considered to be one of the finest surgeons and researchers in the country, but he had a distinct tendency to give away his earnings.”
“What about your parents? I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you mention them.”
“They died in a train accident when I was very young. My grandparents raised me.”
She said this without a trace of sentimentality, and Andrew sensed she had said all she meant to say about her family. Before she could change the subject, however, another thought struck
him.
“Bethany—” He paused, thinking, then musing aloud. “Bethany Cole…your grandfather isn’t Dorsey Cole, by any chance?”
She looked surprised, but pleased. “You knew my grandfather?”
“No, but of course, I know of him. I studied his papers on narcotics addiction after the war. In fact, I attended one of his lectures once when he visited Columbia. A brilliant man. Does he still practice?”
The light in her eyes dimmed slightly. “No, he died before I finished medical college.”
“I’m sorry,” said Andrew. “He must have been very proud that you chose to follow in his footsteps.”
Her smile returned. “Yes, I think he was.” She started for the door into the examining area, tugging at the ties of her apron. “He even permitted me to do an apprenticeship with him, which was probably the best—and definitely the most strenuous—part of my training.”
She stopped, glancing back at the waiting room. “If this morning is an indication of things to come, Andrew, I think we may have to consider hiring a receptionist soon.”
“Quite right. And if you don’t mind, I’ll let you handle the interviewing. My last receptionist was a huge mistake. Perhaps you’ll do better.”
“I’ll take care of it,” she said briskly. “And now—about that lunch?”
Her gaze traveled down the front of his lab coat, at the blood spots left by a policeman with a stab wound.
Andrew tried to ignore the annoying way his heart had begun to race at the prospect of an hour alone with her, an hour without a room full of patients waiting for their attention. “I’ll just change, and we’ll go,” he said.
He fumbled at the buttons on his coat, for once unable to blame his clumsiness on his swollen fingers.
27
AMONG FRIENDS
Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work…
ECCLESIASTES 4:9 (NIV)
These are quite possibly the best potato pancakes I’ve ever tasted,” Bethany declared, bringing the last bite to her mouth.