The Thorn Keeper

by Pepper D. Basham

  “Why not? You’ve certainly proven yourself,” David chimed in.

  “I’ve only been working with patients for six weeks. That does not give me expertise—”

  “You’ve a quick mind and are a born leader, two very important skills you’ve always possessed, Catherine.” Ashleigh’s smile grew. “I think it’s time you stop hiding in the shadows—a place you were never meant to be.”

  “The shadows and I are getting on just fine.”

  “I have every faith in you.” The confidence in David’s expression proved his utter insanity. His dimple flickered with mischief. “Your sister wouldn’t lie.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Catherine looked from one to the other. She wasn’t the sort of person to place in charge of nurses? Or anyone, really. “I’m more of a rabble rouser than a bringer of calm.”

  “You’ve already taken pains to develop daily activities for the soldiers to keep them occupied. You’ve garnered more volunteers from the village than David or I have ever brought.”

  Well placed words at just the right times—and maybe the subtlest blackmail—worked wonders. Catherine cringed. No, not blackmail exactly….more of guilt-induced persuasion.

  “You’re an excellent problem solver and initiator.”

  She needled David with a look. Being an ‘initiator’ had got her into her present trouble in the first place.

  David ignored her glare. “Both qualities are valuable to us.”

  “And calm isn’t always what’s needed.” Ashleigh’s dark eyes took on a playful glint. “Besides, you have Grandmama’s strength. A fresh pair of eyes and a strong determination offer a whole new perspective.” She looked to David. “We need new ideas for bringing more funds into the hospital if we’re going to be able to save it.”

  David’s smile lost a little of its gleam, and Catherine perked to the alert. Watching him work day after day with these patients, whether soldiers or people in town, proved his passion for his profession, his calling. She might have lost a chance at her dream, but could she help him save his?

  She drew in a breath of determination and faced her sister, the lunacy apparently contagious. “All right, I’ll try. But if I fail miserably, I’ll blame both of you without hesitation, and you can explain this entire insanity to the patients. Agreed?”

  David and Ashleigh exchanged a smile then Ashleigh put out her hand. “Agreed.” Catherine took her sister’s hand. “But I know you. You won’t fail.”

  David had never realized how much of a buffer Ashleigh provided between him and Catherine until she was gone. Though he’d spent many hours in Catherine’s presence, enjoying her transformation from flirt to friend, Ashleigh had usually accompanied them, providing a distraction to his feelings he didn’t realize he needed. At Ashleigh’s sudden absence, he engaged in hourly consults and close proximity. Her presence dug like a two-edged sword, a constant reminder of his aunt’s dream-dangling wager pitted against his deepening friendship.

  Then there was the added awareness of knowing exactly where she stood in any room he entered. Like an obsessive need, he found himself trying to locate her and make a mental tap at her well-being before moving ahead with his plans. Maybe her pregnancy added an extra glow to her cheeks, because for some reason her beauty captivated with a longer hold than usual.

  Truth be told, he liked her. He admired her focus and quick mind. Her humor appealed to his internal wit, and her transparency proved a refreshing change from the typical pretense in the social world around him…but he’d spent his life determined to stay free of a woman like her—strong-willed, sarcastic, hot-tempered, impulsive…and distractingly beautiful. Nothing he’d imagined for himself, and yet, somehow, exactly what he craved. To indulge in the sheer pleasure of her company.

  He drew his attention away. His aunt’s ultimatum flared warning, causing a chasm between him and Catherine that left residual discomfort in his chest. How could he encourage such a pairing? Social expectations and his aunt’s voice bit into his conscience and braided with his convictions from childhood, sending him back a step and cooling the heat of curiosity. He couldn’t afford an attraction to her, not with the hospital and his dream in peril.

  But his rebel gaze returned to her face. Instead of greeting him with her usual disarming smile, her expression darkened like a storm cloud with an extra lightning sparkle in those sapphire eyes. “We need to talk.”

  “Clearly.” He took her by the arm and pulled her just outside the doorway, free of curious eyes and ears. Being on the receiving end of her fury was a new experience for him. “Have I done something to offend you?”

  “You?” Her brow crinkled in confusion paired with a hesitant blink. “Why would I ever be angry with you?”

  The question, so honest and direct, completely unfurled his smile. “Close quarters. Long nights. It will only take time.”

  “I doubt it.” She almost grinned, but must have remembered why she’d stormed toward him with such wrath. “It’s about Louisa. She left us.”

  “Left us?”

  “I confronted her about her inappropriate use of the Bipp paste, and she threw a bottle of it at me then stormed from the house.”

  “Inappropriate use?”

  “I informed her if she couldn’t perform her job appropriately, perhaps she could benefit from my training.” She gestured toward herself. “And that didn’t suit her at all.”

  Louisa, a newly trained nurse, accepting help from Catherine? “I should think not.” He studied her face and her stormy blue eyes. She looked rather fascinating when she was angry.

  “This is no smiling matter, Dr. Ross.” She pointed her finger to his chest. “It’s quite serious.”

  “Yes, of course.” He wiped the smile from his face but not from his mind.

  “She refused to place Bipp on half of our current patients.”

  “What?” All humor fled him with a cold wave of clarity. The Bismuth iodoform paraffin paste kept the wounds from becoming infected. The nurses had been trained to use either Bipp or Carbolic lotion on any unhealed injuries, particularly the large ones, regardless of the wound’s severity.

  “She was trying to conserve it for the ones she’d deemed more worthy. But how can she decide who will live life well, whatever their circumstances, amputee or not? If the poor men survived the train all the way from the Front, they deserve whatever chance we can give them.” Catherine growled. “And I’m certain she took some of the morphine with her when she left as a little salt in the wound.”

  What a disaster! Losing another nurse and important medicine? Catherine’s brow crinkled with worry lines. “I’m sorry, Dr. Ross.”

  “This wasn’t your fault.” He attempted to smooth away her concern with his words. “Thankfully, I have another shipment of morphine arriving in two days.”

  She nodded. “I’ll collect it when I gather our usual supplies.”

  “And visit your friend in the process?” He hoped to tease away a few more of her worry lines.

  A waif of a smile touched her lips. “I have no idea to what you refer.”

  The hint of mischief in her eyes, the shared secret, tempted him a step closer. “Well, should you recall, I implore you to take care. Certain places in the village are less polite to your class, let alone your sex, than others.”

  She stared up at him. An enchanting tenderness softened her features to display the sensitive, beautiful soul hidden beneath her usual strength and fire. The invisible bond born from the night he’d prayed with her a few months ago knotted tight against his best efforts to fight against it.

  She lowered her head and shrugged her shoulder, as if passing off the awkward moment. “Next time I visit Branson’s, I’ll be certain to heed your advice.”

  “I doubt you’ll be welcome in Branson’s ever again.” Moriah Dougall’s voice hammered into the conversation with its usual anxious edge, eyes narrowed with accusation. “Not after everyone sees Mr. Dandy’s latest article in the paper. We are ruined.�
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  She rattled papers at them and shook her golden head, her brow a furrowed wave of frustration.

  Catherine’s shoulders dropped. “What do you mean, Mother?”

  “I believe you have just secured your reputation as a woman of ill-repute.”

  Even as her mother marched forward, pages in the air, Catherine braced herself, closing her eyes for a moment against her mother’s needling implications. She understood the consequences of her previous lifestyle. Being a notorious flirt and compromising herself for the affection of a rich gentleman carried with it certain unhappy residual effects, but when her previous reputation reared its ugliness to impact the people she loved, it brought an added sting.

  It was impossible to forget the stains, let alone forgive herself for them.

  Her mother shoved the paper into her hands. “I don’t know how much more my nerves can take. Wounded soldiers, crying babies, and now, our names are slandered in the paper.”

  The article wasn’t what Catherine expected. Mr. Dandy failed to report about David, a well-respected gentleman, walking out of a dark alleyway with the village flirt. Nor did he mention their close proximity, the mere memory of which warmed her cheeks.

  At least David’s reputation remained beautifully intact.

  He stood near her shoulder, so she turned to give him access to the paper. Mr. Dandy focused the full potency of his verbal venom on Catherine’s association with those of ill-repute, bringing into question Catherine’s character as well as that of the entire Dougall household.

  With a final flair of melodrama, Mr. Dandy reiterated the need to keep Ednesbury’s reputation as pristine as its benefactress, which clearly marked the influence for his bias. Catherine almost let loose her own verbal tirade but remembered David’s proximity, and out of sheer will, kept her thoughts about his aunt to herself. She never imagined learning to control her tongue could be so exhausting.

  Mr. Dandy ended the article with a clear proclamation that “anyone who associates with persons of less moral fortitude should be shunned until they can reform themselves.”

  Catherine rolled her eyes at the utter arrogance. She could imagine a few very powerful means of reformation she’d like to carry out on Mr. Dandy and his nefarious intentions, starting particularly with some tweezers and his spindly moustache. Moral fortitude, indeed!

  “You are too impulsive, leaving the rest of us to suffer from your rash decisions.” Her mother snatched back the paper, turned on her heel, and walked down the hallway.

  “I would rather do something than nothing at all,” Catherine called after her. She sighed and lowered her voice. “How can she ever understand?”

  She looked up at David, afraid he might share her mother’s disappointment, but she should have known better. Somehow he saw her…truly, in a way no other man did. Beyond the frills and the façade, the past and the mistakes, his intense stare looked into her wretched heart – and still wanted to keep looking. If she had been pure and good, like her sister, she would offer him every part of her for the rest of their days.

  But she was nothing like her sister. Neither pure nor good.

  “But you understand—and you can make a difference, no matter how small.” He lowered his gaze. “You’re brave enough, I’m certain.”

  His smile flickered before he returned to the hospital room. If bravery meant fear mixed with a healthy dose of righteous anger and a reluctant dash of humility, then she had enough courage pumping through her veins to change the entire village.

  Or, at the very least, cause some trouble.

  And she had much more practice with the latter than the former.

  Chapter Four

  Branson’s delivery boy was an easy sale, especially when Catherine mentioned David Ross’ name. Giving Caleb an extra shilling to secure his solidarity around the secrecy of exactly ‘who’ was picking up the supplies didn’t hurt either. She knew his family from long ago. Hard-working, honest country folk.

  Before her many failures, she would have sneered at such a simple life. Now? It sounded as welcome as the memory of David’s warm coat around her shoulders.

  Whether Mr. Dandy’s article impacted Branson’s choice to allow her into his shop or not, Catherine had no desire to find out. She wouldn’t risk losing her chance to get another package of food to Meredith, especially since the poor girl’s child was due soon.

  Hiding out at Madame Rousell’s while she waited came with its own benefits. It tempted a sweet longing. A tug from a past consumed by the search for status, profitable marriages and elegant fashions. She ran her fingers over a white French tulle veil, its intricate scalloped edging and delicate rose designs towed at the ache in her chest. Fragile, pure, beautiful – things she could no longer offer any man. She indulged the broken dream, even tortured herself with it. Daydreaming over a wedding veil?

  She sighed and caught sight of a rouge gown which looked like a design from one of the many women couturiers she admired, Jeanne Paquin. The sleeves draped to the elbows in a dramatic fashion with bounds of satin dropping from an empire waistline to the floor in a cascade of reds and golds. The diagonal drape of the midsection of the gown reminded Catherine of similar styles from ten years before, only updated with glamour and an uncorseted look. It was spectacular.

  Oh, to bring fashion to life!

  “I see you have finally found your way back into my shop, ma chère. Even if it is only to hide.”

  “Madame Roussell?” Catherine let the lace slip through her fingers and turned to the sound of the extravagant proprietor’s lilting voice.

  A middle-aged lady in ravishing purple, she wore makeup like a cloak and a smile like a promise. You will find something beautiful in my shop. Her smile appeared more dazzling framed by a deep blush of red lip stain.

  “Your heart loves beautiful things, oui?”

  Catherine’s fingertips still hummed from the touch of silk and fairytales, but her head grounded firm in reality. “It is a weakness of mine.”

  “Mais non.” Madame left her perch behind the counter and moved with the grace of royalty toward Catherine. “It is an appreciation, not a weakness. It is a gift to not only appreciate beauty, but to see it in the most menial of places, perhaps in the most undeserving?”

  Her piercing fawn gaze spoke of how news of Catherine’s actions the previous week had spread through the village like a plague, but Madame seemed to keep abreast of the most intricate news, even Catherine’s.

  She challenged Madame’s declaration. “Many beautiful things may be more sting than silk.”

  “Ah.” Her pointed finger, almost statuesque, reminded Catherine of a quirky, mustached actor she’d seen in a recent moving picture show. “Those who are wise have learned to sort out the two.” She took the veil from the display and folded it over her arm. “Zis lovely veil is beautiful, of course, and to the untrained eye, it appears fragile, oui?”

  Catherine waited for Madame’s point.

  “But it is made strong by threads woven together. Even a weak thread, when bound with strong ones, strengthens the entire veil.” The woman’s painted lips tilted, evidently proud of her subtle—or not so subtle—lesson. “You have made mistakes? I saw you with Monsieur Cavanaugh and I see you now.” She blew air through her lips in response. “We all make mistakes. But you are strong. And you can take the strength you’ve learned from the qu’est-ce que c’est…stings, and make something beautiful.”

  She offered Madame a polite smile, and Madame caught her.

  “You doubt me, do you? You do not think a veil is in your future?”

  “You are kind, Madame.” Catherine glanced around the shop and sighed, taking a step toward the door to escape all the empty promises housed in lace. “But I don’t believe in fairytales, especially now.”

  She took another step forward, unflapped by Catherine’s response. “Whether you believe or not does not change the truth.”

  Catherine conceded her grin in the face of such flagrant optimism.<
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  “The passionate soul has the rockiest road to romance.” She released a trill of a laugh and placed her hand over her heart, a conspiratory light of kinship flickering in her eyes. “Rocky, but oh, so magnifique.”

  The brown eye paste, popular in most social settings, enhanced the tea-color of Madame’s eyes in a dramatic sort of way. Passionate soul? Madame exuded it, but her prediction of Catherine’s future missed the mark. In fact, it missed the entire target. “Your French optimism, Madame?”

  “Non, non. The French are realists. Have you not seen our art?” She waved her hand as if to dismiss Catherine’s statement. “But Madame knows. God would not give you such passion for nothing. Romance waits in your future. Perhaps with fairytales and French tulle veils?”

  She chuckled, clearly happy with her little rhyme and prediction, then returned to her perch at the counter, but her stare rested back on Catherine. “You are not friendless, ma petite rebel.”

  Catherine’s face warmed from the compassion in Madame’s pet name.

  “Your _Grandmama’s reputation is not easily forgotten. I see her in you, in your fury to do what is right. To make good from mistakes. Grace breeds generosity…and courage.” She nodded her dark head. “I will help you in any way I can. In life and in l’amour. Remember that.”

  Catherine poised at the door for a moment longer, clinging to one last second hint of promise in Madame’s optimism, but as the exuberant woman hummed a melody, Catherine sighed away the daydream. A firm grip on reality propelled her out of the shop door and back to her life. Pondering useless thoughts wasted time and heart, and even if the pull of the veil brought her back to Madame’s shop next week, or next month, the mid-morning breeze would chill away the daydream as always.

  And Grandmama? How could she be anything like her saintly grandmother? And for what menial mistakes should Grandmama ever atone?

  Caleb had just finished placing the packages in the car and greeted Catherine with his gapped smile. “It’s all there, Miss.”