by Kit Morgan
Sarah and the Doctor
Prairie Tales
Kit Morgan
Angel Creek Press
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Kit Morgan
Sarah and the Doctor
(Prairie Tales, Book One)
by Kit Morgan
© 2018 Kit Morgan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the publisher. All characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or livestock are purely coincidental.
Cover design by Angel Creek Press and EDH Designs
License Note
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
For all my wonderful readers who inspire new stories to be told! So many of you have asked for earlier tales of some of your favorite characters. What were they like in their younger years? How did these couples meet and fall in love? Well, from those questions Prairie Tales was born! Now you can have your questions answered and have fun reading those answers to boot! I hope you enjoy this new series of sweet stories created at your requests.
Kit
Prologue
Somewhere along the Oregon Trail, 1849 …
“Grandma Waller, how old are ya?”
Grandma looked at little Tommy Turner. He couldn’t be more than four. The little tyke was a curious sort and asked a lot of questions, as most children do. “Old enough, but not as old as I will be.”
His face screwed up in confusion. “Huh?”
Grandma laughed. She glanced around the campfire. After supper the men sometimes went off to talk amongst themselves while the women told stories to each other.
“Tommy Turner, don’t you know not to ask a woman her age?” One of the women scolded.
Tommy shrugged. “I ask my ma and she tells me.”
Mabel Turner blushed as she took Tommy by the shoulder and pulled him close. “Tommy, mind your manners.”
“I was just askin’.”
“Sorry, Grandma,” Mabel apologized.
“He’s a child, he’s going to ask,” Grandma said with a chuckle. She looked at Tommy. “If you must know, I’m fifty-four years old.”
Tommy’s eyes rounded to platters. “That’s old!”
“Tommy!” his mother said.
Grandma laughed. “He’s all right.” She leaned toward the child. “And I’m going to get a lot older. In fact, I’m probably the oldest person on this wagon train. Why, to think I’m over a half a century!”
Tommy gasped. Mabel clamped a hand over his mouth before another embarrassing comment escaped.
“I plan to live to be a hundred,” Grandma told him and winked.
As soon as Mabel dropped her hand, Tommy gaped at her. “Wow.”
Grandma nodded. “Yes, child. Wow.”
Tommy cocked his head to one side. “Is Doc gonna live to be a hundred too?”
“I hope so,” she said.
“Did you used to be young?” he asked, much to his mother’s dismay.
Grandma laughed again. “Oh, child, the things you say. How can we get old if we don’t start out young?”
Tommy glanced at his mother and back. “Did you look different when you were young?”
Grandma Waller sighed. “Yes, but not too different. My hair didn’t have this grey in it, my face, not so many lines.”
“She was a beauty,” Doc Waller said as he stepped around a wagon. He took a seat on a campstool next to her. “Prettiest woman in Philadelphia.”
Grandma blushed. “Oh, Doc …”
“You were. Remember the Millers’ ball and the gown you wore? I can still picture it. You were a vision.”
Honoria Cooke, a newly married English woman with three sons (she married a fella named Jefferson with two) smiled at the Wallers. “Grandma, I had no idea you were from Philadelphia.”
“Yes, born and raised. Believe it or not, I was a well-to-do woman that used to have her nose in the air.”
“No,” Doc said. “You were never snobbish.”
“I came from a family that was,” she said. “Remember?” She looked at those seated around the campfire. “My family didn’t think Doc was good enough for me. He was beneath my station.”
Several women gasped, including Mary Mulligan. She looked at the couple everyone had grown to love during their long trek to the Oregon Territory. “Grandma,” she said in her Irish brogue, “were you a … a socialite?”
“I was. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
Several nodded. Honoria smiled. “I would love to hear about those days.”
“You mean, how Doc and I met?” Grandma blushed. “Land sakes.”
Doc smiled. “Now there’s a tale. Right, Sarah?”
She waved a hand at him and blushed some more.
Honoria’s smiled broadened. “Oh, do tell us.”
Doc looked at his wife, a mischievous grin on his face. “Do you wanna tell them, or shall I?”
To everyone’s surprise, Grandma giggled. “You can, but for Heaven’s sake, leave out the part about Oswald!”
Doc laughed. “Oh, but, that’s the best part!”
Grandma buried her face in her hands and groaned.
“Who’s Oswald?” Mary asked.
Grandma brought her face out of her hands and sighed. “He was a suitor of mine. Not a very pleasant fella. But, if it weren’t for him …”
“Yes,” Doc said with a wide grin. “He did help things along. We really ought to tell them.”
She shook her head in resignation. “Oh, all right. But I am not telling them what happened with Oswald!”
Doc winked at the onlookers. “You can’t leave it out.”
She rolled her eyes, looked at her audience and said, “Fine. Here’s how it happened …”
Chapter 1
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 1817
“Really, Sarah, when are you going to listen to reason?”
Sarah Clemmons sipped her tea. She peeked at her mother over the rim of her cup and did her best not to choke. What her mother suggested was appalling.
“He’s rich, he comes from one of the best families,” her mother went on. “By Heaven, they’re worth a fortune! And he’s available.”
Sarah primly set her cup in her saucer and put it on the table. She took a biscuit, stared at it, then moved her mouth side to side with indecision. Clotted cream or lemon curd? Hmm, both? Her face brightened as she reached for the cream first.
“His father could get your father into the best social circles not to mention myself,” her mother said with a wag of her finger. “I’m telling you, this is the best offer you’re likely to get!”
Sarah reached for the lemon curd. Maybe she ought to have jam instead?
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?” her mother squeaked.
Sarah glanced up. “Ye
s.”
“Well?”
Sarah took a bite of biscuit and chewed. Slowly. Just to irritate her mother. It worked.
“Sarah!”
She swallowed and looked at her. “Oswald Petite is all well and good, Mother, but he’s …” she made a face, “so boring.”
Her mother’s blue eyes popped wide. “Boring?” By Heaven if the woman’s voice didn’t rise an entire octave.
“Yes, boring.” She picked up her biscuit and took another bite.
“Why, you … you … ungrateful girl!”
Sarah chewed, swallowed, and put the remainder of her biscuit down. “Mother, if you had the choice to marry Oswald Petite or Father, who would you choose?”
She gasped. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it? You love Father, you always have. You’ve told me the story a thousand times. The two of you were in the park, you spied him from afar …” She put a hand over her heart. “He saw you, the two of you were introduced by love itself …”
“All right, stop it,” her mother said. “Yes, I love your father and he loves me and … we got lucky, that’s all.”
“Lucky?” she said as her hand fell to her lap. “Can you not wish me the same luck?”
Her mother’s face fell. “Oh, I see what you mean.” She picked up her cup and sipped her tea. When she set it down, she looked Sarah in the eyes. “I’ll not force you. But at least meet with him. He’s joining us for tea tomorrow.”
“I will be civil, but I make no promises. The man is about as exciting as a walnut.”
“Sarah, such language.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that description. Besides, it’s the closest thing to describing Oswald. And if he talks of nothing but his blasted seashell collection, I’ll scream.”
“Sarah! Don’t say ‘blast’. I, for one, think it a fine thing for a man to have hobbies. And don’t talk to him about that garden of yours. Some of the things out there stink.”
“It’s an herb garden, Mother. I grow them for medicinal purposes. We could use them come winter for teas and such. I want to be ready.”
Harriet Clemmons stared at her daughter, her mouth half-open. Sarah was well aware her mother knew what she referred to. “Don’t speak of her,” she finally said.
Sarah studied her mother. At the mere mention of the word “medicinal” the woman’s face had gone pale. “I wasn’t.”
“You implied.”
“Mother, Molly is gone these five years now. I still believe something could have been done to save her.”
“I said don’t speak of it!” Her mother got to her feet and paced. Any mention of Molly upset her these days.
“Mother, Molly and I were so very sick. Why I survived, and she didn’t I can’t tell you. Perhaps because she had it longer …”
“I said don’t.” Her mother turned her face away.
Sarah sighed. Mother refused to speak of Molly. If she were alive, she would be married by now. Perhaps have a child, a triumph for both her parents. They struggled to cling to the last rungs of Philadelphia’s social ladder as it was. Lately that strength was waning.
Why couldn’t they face facts? They were not part of the social elite. Her father worked for the bank, made decent money, but he wasn’t the president or even the vice president. He was a manager, but that didn’t guarantee you an invitation to all the best balls and parties in the city. She wished he would buy a house in the country, move there and stay. She liked to be in nature. Wildlife and plants fascinated her. Over the last few years she’d become obsessed with plants holding medicinal properties.
A British friend of her father’s, Mr. Foster, used to work for the East India Company. He’d lived in America now and joined them for dinner once or twice a month. He told Sarah and Molly such wondrous stories of India’s people, culture, foods and all things exotic. Sarah was fascinated and had wanted to travel to far-off lands and explore new people, places and things ever since. If she married someone like Oswald Petite, that wasn’t about to happen.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” she said. “I didn’t mean to bring up Molly. I know how the topic grieves you.”
Her mother clasped her hands in front of her and nodded. “It’s been five years, but it seems like only yesterday.” A tear ran down her cheek and she quickly wiped it away.
Sarah got up, went to her mother and took her in her arms. “Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”
Her mother wiped away another tear, nodded, and stepped out of Sarah’s embrace. “It’s not fair that she died. Not fair at all.”
Sarah swallowed hard. She missed her sister terribly. She watched her mother pace to the other side of the room and back, still upset. Would she be this upset if Sarah had been the one to pass?
It was a horrible question. But there were times Sarah wondered if it wasn’t true.
Her mother went to the tea tray, took the lid off the pot and looked inside. “This has gone cold. Ring for Fiona.”
“She’s out doing the shopping. I can brew us a new pot.” She went to the table, gathered the cups and saucers and put them on the tray. “It won’t take a moment.”
Her mother put a hand to her forehead and rubbed. “Never mind. I feel a headache coming on. I’m going upstairs to lie down. In the meantime, I want you to think about tomorrow. Wear your yellow day dress … no … better yet the blue. It matches your eyes. The yellow with your blonde hair will give you a washed out look.”
Sarah fought the urge to roll her eyes. Personally, she hoped the yellow did make her look sickly. She’d be sure to wear it. Maybe Oswald would think twice about wanting to court her. Then again, she didn’t fancy her mother getting upset over a dress, and especially not in front of Oswald. He was not only a bore, but a horrible gossip. Who knew what rumors he’d spread by the end of the day. “Very well. I’ll wear the blue.”
“Good. When Fiona returns tell her to make something special for tomorrow’s guest.”
“Mother, she is perfectly capable of making something then. There’s no need to make anything tonight.”
“It’s best to be prepared,” her mother countered. She straightened and stared at Sarah, through with the conversation.
“It means she’ll have to go shopping again,” Sarah said for good measure, then headed for the dining room.
“I don’t care,” her mother called after her. “I want this tea to be perfect.”
Sarah stopped and sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.” She went through a door, down a hall until she reached a set of stairs. These she followed down to the kitchen. The townhome they lived in wasn’t small, but it wasn’t large either. There was a parlor, a drawing room, dining room, her father’s study, and her mother’s sewing room. Sarah’s favorite room was the library. Upstairs they had four bedrooms. She and Molly shared a room while growing up. When they got older Molly wanted her own room. Sarah remembered feeling abandoned when she moved into it. She liked sharing a room with her sister. But Molly was a few years older and didn’t like the same things any more. She wanted privacy. Sarah, the “little sister” didn’t have much say in the matter.
She set the tray on the worktable with a heavy sigh.
“What are ye doing, Miss Sarah?” Fiona, the family’s Irish cook and maid looked at her. She hefted a basket of fruits and vegetable onto the worktable next to the tea tray.
“Preparing another pot of tea. Would you like a cup? Mother is going upstairs to lie down. She has a headache.”
“Ye should make a cup of that special chamomile tea like ye made me last week. Cleared my headache up just like you said.”
Sarah smiled. Fiona hadn’t worked for the family when Molly died. She hired on in the midst of the devastating grief that followed. Fiona knew of Sarah’s goals to keep sickness at bay. A person’s chances of survival, though better than a half a century ago, were still slim. If Sarah could find a way to help people prevent sickness, then perhaps she’d feel at peace.
“I don’t think a cup
of chamomile tea is going to help,” she told Fiona. “I think she needs something stronger.” She looked at the last biscuit, picked it up, and held it out to her. “Want this?”
“Don’t mind if I do. I am hungry.” Fiona took it, cut it open and slathered it with lemon curd. “What do you think caused yer mother’s headache?”
Sarah leaned against the worktable. “I made the mistake of bringing up Molly.”
Fiona blanched. “Oh, no, Miss Sarah. Ye know the anniversary of her death is next month. Yer folks always get sad faces this time of year.”
“Yes, I know.” Sarah said. She glanced around the kitchen and sighed. Time to change the subject. “Do you like to cook?”
Fiona almost choked on her biscuit. “Begging yer pardon, Miss Sarah. But if I didn’t like to cook I’d probably be out of a job.”
Sarah laughed. “Do you enjoy cooking?”
“Yes, I do. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to become one. I’d rather be a cook than a maid.”
“And you’re a very fine cook. But as I don’t want to lose you, I’m not going to shout it in the streets.”
Fiona laughed. “I wouldn’t want to leave ye or yer parents, Miss Sarah. Yer like family to me.” She took a napkin from the tea tray and wiped her mouth with it. “Why do ye ask?”
“I’d like to learn how to cook,” she confessed and stared at the stove.
“You? But why?” Fiona picked up the tea tray and took it to the sink. “There’s no need for a woman of yer station to learn.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “If the women of my station suddenly found themselves stranded in the middle of the wilderness, how would they survive?”