The Thorn Keeper

by Pepper D. Basham

  “Thank you. Here’s another pence for your trouble.”

  “No trouble. You and Dr. Ross are helpin’ take care of them soldiers on the hill. I don’t need no extra reason to make sure you get your orders.”

  And David’s reputation covers over a multitude of sins.

  “I’m pleased to hear chivalry still resides in our village.”

  He stood a bit taller, tipped his cap, and returned to the mercantile. It was good to know that some hearts remained true, regardless of the bullies flaunting their power from gilded halls.

  Catherine turned to Mason, who immediately moved to open the car door for her. She sent a quick glance behind her, as if someone cared about her conversation with the chauffer, but in a village with people like Mr. Dandy or spies like Madame Rousell, possibilities thrived in unexpected places.

  “I need to make one more stop, Mason. Do you mind waiting a little longer?”

  He dipped his head, acquiescing to her request.

  “Thank you.” She took the basket she’d brought from the back of the car and filled it with a careful choice of provisions. Then she placed the winter quilt she’d carried from home in North Carolina. Spun by a few Appalachian women, the brilliant rainbow of autumn-hues livened up everything else in her arms.

  “I don’t plan to be long.”

  She started up the street and, with another glance around her, took the first alleyway in the direction of her goal.

  David placed his palms against the desk in front of him and released a sigh, bending forward almost in prayer. What am I going to do, Lord? One less nurse left the rest of them in dire straits until support arrived. His sister hinted at her return soon, but her last letter gave no specifics.

  He massaged his fingers into his forehead, weary from the internal war of making bricks with no straw. His aunt’s offer burned a hole in his jacket pocket as well as his conscience. He needed to help these soldiers, along with the people of Ednesbury who had supported this plan for the past year, but how?

  He placed the envelope from his aunt in front of him on the table. The morphine was in short supply, the bedclothes in need of repair or replacement, and changing cloths ran low.

  And Roth Hall? The old manor house wasn’t equipped to be a long-term war hospital, especially due to the stress it inflicted on Moriah Dougall’s fragile nerves. Aunt Maureen’s wager stung with a renewed sense of urgency. Was this the only answer?

  A knock at the door pulled him out of his mental doldrums. He stuffed the envelope back into his shirt pocket. “Come in.”

  Fanny, the copper-headed housekeeper who basically kept the fragile Mrs. Dougall and Roth Hall in working order, entered. “Dr. Ross, I’m sorry to interrupt what little rest you take for yourself.”

  “Not at all.”

  She stepped forward, paper in hand. “This telegram just arrived for you, but it is marked for last week. I believe the postman is falling under the ill-effects of Lady Cavanaugh’s particular dislike for Roth Hall.”

  “I’m sorry, Fanny.” His association with his aunt along with the secret wager encouraged his guilty conscience. “I will try to speak to her.”

  “I don’t think she’s one to listen to reason, sir, but I’m certain the Dougall’s would be obliged for any way you might soften her dislike. It’s a bit inconvenient, especially for you today, I should think.”

  He raised a brow, took the proffered paper, and slipped the card from the envelope.

  Coming early. Arrive Thursday. 11am train. Jess

  David looked up and met Fanny’s knowing gaze. If his sister had made such an impulsive decision, he knew her grief over their mother’s death drove her mad. Jessica didn’t handle idle time well. She craved distraction. Employment.

  His emotions dropped like led in his stomach. “What day is it?”

  A hint of a smile softened Fanny’s features. “Thursday, sir.”

  He couldn’t keep his own smile from responding. “We were in need of another nurse, Fanny.”

  “I shall prepare a room.”

  Catherine knocked on the worn wooden door, its marker made barely visible by weather, erosion, and time. The narrow lane, crooked and dingy, stretched and curved like a bent finger around other similar apartments, each leaving its own blight on the scenery. A stench of sickness and poverty swelled from further down the lane, giving Catherine the slightest gratitude she didn’t have to search further down the streets for Meredith’s home.

  She knocked again, a hollow sound against the thin boards, and moved her gloved hand under her nose to abate the stench, a skill honed at the hospital. The distant clop of footsteps rose from within, halting and slow. An older woman, face creased with age, opened the door wide enough to peer out, her dark gaze riddled with suspicion.

  “What’dya want?”

  Catherine forced a smile and readjusted the basket over her arm, hoping the gift would curb the harshness in the woman’s voice. Showing charity remained an out-of-practice skill, but she kept trying. “I’ve come to visit Meredith.”

  The woman gave Catherine another shrewd inspection before opening the door to its full width. She propped her spindly fingers on her thin waist and stood with a strength her waif-like frame defied. “You the one who gave her the fancy coat?”

  “I am.” Catherine gestured with her chin toward the basket, brimming with bread, cheese, and other staples. “I want to help her, and the child.”

  With a slight hesitation and enough warning in her grimace to leave a prickle on Catherine’s face, the woman stepped aside to allow Catherine into the darkened hallway. Lit by a single lantern in the center of the narrow corridor, the hall rounded more like a tunnel than an entrance.

  “She told me you’d be comin’. Blimey, she was right. I owe her a pence.” The woman rubbed a palm against her weathered chin. “Told her not to set her cap at you keepin’ to your word. Your kind never do.”

  “‘Never’ might be too bold a declaration at this point, perhaps?”

  The woman stared long at Catherine and then chuckled, a raspy sound. “I ’ave to say, you’re the first of your kind that’s ever stepped foot in my apartments.”

  The rift between the social classes glared from the dingy hallway. Months ago, Catherine had embraced the distance, portraying herself as a wealthy heiress when all the while she’d stooped to whatever level she could to obtain a rich husband – only to end up as a castoff. Or she would be, once the news of her pregnancy became common knowledge.

  “I hope to provide some help.” Catherine followed the woman into the shadows. “It’s getting colder out. I thought she might need something for her and the baby.”

  The woman paused and gestured toward the quilt in Catherine’s hand. “I ain’t never seen nothing like it before.”

  Catherine slid her hand over the soft, cool material – the bumps and curves evidence of knotted string and carefully woven seams by aged and experienced Appalachian hands. Patches taken from feed sacks and old garments pieced together in autumn hues to make something beautiful. “It was stitched by some women back home in North Carolina. My grandmother’s housekeeper’s family are quilters.”

  The woman reached out to touch the quilt but stopped just before her wrinkled fingers met the material. She curled her fingers back into her fist and continued her walk down the hall. “Something so pretty coming from scraps? Takes a gift to make useless pieces into something so useful and lovely.”

  Catherine studied the patchwork quilt with fresh eyes. Pieces? Remnants of dreams and hopes pieced together? She almost smiled. Could God make anything beautiful out of the remnants of her life?

  The woman continued her conversation. “Meredith’s been in good spirits the past two days. Had the wee babe three days ago, and it must’ve lightened her mood.”

  “Is the baby well?”

  “These walls ain’t much for privacy.” She patted the thin board as she walked. “Heard him once or twice.”

  Him. Meredith had a baby
boy. Catherine resisted the urge to rest her palm against her stomach, a growing awareness of the little life. When would she feel the little one inside of her? When would it become more than a mental assent?

  Shadows, lamplight, and dust led the way to the last door on the right, half-hidden in the remaining shadows. The woman’s knock sounded too loudly in the gray swell of silence.

  “She must be taking a kip with the wee babe.”

  “I’m certain she’s exhausted.” Catherine pulled the quilt close to her chest to stay a sudden chill.

  The woman knocked again, louder. A newborn cry rose in response.

  “Well, she’s inside, make no mistake.” The woman shook the doorknob. “Meredith, open the door. You got company.”

  Nothing. Not even the sound of creaking floorboards. The baby’s cry grew louder.

  The apprehension building in Catherine’s chest must have transferred to the proprietor. She fumbled through her pocket for a set of keys. “I don’t understand that girl.”

  A sudden sense of dread chased a chill up Catherine’s arms, her breath skimming shallow.

  The key clicked and turned. The older woman pushed the door open, her grumbles dissolving into a gasp. “No!”

  Catherine tightened her nerves and peered over the woman’s shoulder into the room. Her hand flew to her mouth to ease a sudden swell of nausea, the basket crashing to the floor. Meredith’s body swung from a rope in the middle the room, and at the poor girl’s dangling feet, wrapped in Catherine’s coat, lay the crying baby. A poorly written note, scrawled in large letters, read Save my son.

  Chapter Five

  David drew his pocket watch from his jacket and stepped from the car. Jessica’s train arrived in a half hour, enough time for him to ensure Catherine’s presence in Branson’s didn’t bring trouble. For anyone.

  One look in the direction of the mercantile sent his hopes crashing. A large crowd had gathered near the front of the shop, and a scattered dissonance of raised voices carried over the cobblestone street.

  What had Mr. Dandy’s article produced? Where was Catherine?

  As if in answer, her voice rose above the throng, a furious storm of American dialect and devil-may-care, sticking out from the rest of the crowd…as she usually did. David hurried forward and pressed into the circle, looking for his trouble-making American.

  She stood in the center, facing Dr. Richard Carrier like a tigress ready to strike—eyes narrowed, one fist curled at her side and a cloak cradled in her other arm. Her cloak, in fact. The one she’d given to the woman in the alley.

  Dr. Carrier faced Catherine with as much resolution, hands gripped on his hips, leaning from his tall height in a threatening manner. Catherine continued ranting, clearly nonplussed.

  David wasn’t the doctor’s biggest supporter. The older man touted arrogance more than wisdom at times and cared little for new research in the profession, but he had been the town physician since David wore stockings and baby curls.

  “How dare you accuse me of injustice?” Dr. Carrier’s bass voice boomed each consonant with resounding accusation. “I am not bound to help those who have refused to help themselves.” His brow bent in a fury of intimidation.

  David released a sigh of resignation. Dr. Carrier clearly had no idea with whom he argued.

  “Refuse to help themselves?” Her finger shot up like a dagger, pointing at Dr. Carrier’s chest. “You’re a physician, for heaven’s sakes. You’re obligated to help. Falling prey to the influences of higher class morality does not and should never refuse any woman the care she needs…even more a woman with a child.”

  David pushed forward to break into the circle, but when Catherine turned a little, he saw the bundle in her arms more clearly. A baby, newborn, face pinched as if he liked the argument about as well as David did. What was going on?

  Dr. Carrier caught sight of David and his chin tilted in victory. “Ah, Dr. Ross will clarify the purpose of our profession. Not some wench who finds herself in the middle of Old Rutland with a dead whore and her newborn.”

  David caught Catherine’s hand before her claws made a lasting mark on Dr. Carrier’s face.

  “Catherine.” His harsh whisper was meant to calm her, but she ignored him.

  “The young woman was not a whore, but even if she was, you had no right to refuse services. She came to you looking for help, for food, and you turned her away because of her reputation?”

  The confidence in Dr. Carrier’s stance deflated a little, casting truth on Catherine’s accusation. David’s stomach knotted in response.

  “And now? When she’s dead in a filthy room with nothing but a cot and a newborn baby, you won’t even help me take her body down?” A few gasps from the crowd filled the dramatic silence. Catherine jerked free of David’s hold and glared at the older doctor. “You’re not even a gentleman, let alone a healer of the sick.”

  David looked from Catherine to Dr. Carrier then down to the newborn in Catherine’s arms. A dead woman hanging? A newborn? The worst scenario emerged in his mind.

  Dr. Carrier’s snarl hardened the older man’s expression. “Gentleman?” He sneered. “I know enough of your reputation, Ms. Dougall, to recognize your definition of gentleman or lady is in question.”

  David stepped forward, a barrier against Dr. Carrier’s insult to Catherine. “That was uncalled for, sir.”

  He turned the fire of his red-faced fury onto David. “And you would do well, Dr. Ross, to take care of the company you keep.”

  “Then I shall steer clear of your office from this point on, sir.”

  The words, a line drawn, sliced into the silence.

  Dr. Carrier’s smirk deepened. “So, the notorious Miss Dougall has enchanted even you?” He shifted his chin in Catherine’s direction. “Mark my words, she’s exactly the sort who will ruin you. Like this woman’s child. Whether from lapse of judgment, poor morality, or bad blood, they forfeited their right to demand service from anyone of good standing.”

  Dr. Carrier’s words, even his tone, captured the influence of his aunt’s cold demeanor.

  Catherine pushed passed David. “How dare you. How dare you be judge and jury to them? Who do you think you are?”

  “Life is their judge. Their consequences are dim, at any rate. I can do nothing for them.”

  David found his voice, his shock replaced with a boiling fury. “Dr. Carrier, I won’t deny I find your reaction disappointing, especially in the shadow of the devastation we see here, not only from the wounded coming into our town, but even in the wake of the Zeppelin attack.” David gestured toward the end of the street where his previous hospital building lay in rubble. “How could this suffering encourage anything but our compassion? Are we not all victims of some sort?”

  His own admission pierced his conscience. He’d withdrawn from the likes of Meredith Cooper and her tainted background because of his aunt’s previous support. But for Catherine’s relationship with her sister, Ashleigh, he would never have sought a friendship with her or realized the beautiful transformation of mercy. Pride in his dreams had erected a ruthless wall in his heart. One cultivated by culture and expectation.

  “The wounded of war are quite different than the harlots of the street, Dr. Ross.”

  “But no less human, nor, dare I say, in need of mercy.”

  Catherine’s look of unfettered admiration urged his confidence and his determination. “You said we shouldn’t provide medical care for those who are suffering the consequences of their own choices? But I recall a time when I was twelve and, foolishly, had gone horse racing with my cousin. We’d been told not to go. It was raining that day. I fell from the horse and broke my leg. You shouldn’t have helped me, based on your assessment alone. I was suffering the consequences of my own actions. My own rebellion.”

  “You were a child.”

  “And how many of these broken people make choices as rash as any child? Or are forced into situations by circumstance or tragedy which have led them to desp
erate actions?”

  “You would condone their choices?”

  “No, I wouldn’t. And neither would most of them in hindsight. But that should not nullify our ability to serve those in need and provide mercy to perhaps soften the sting of their transgressions. How can we provide an opportunity for hope in future generations if we are not tending to those in this one? How will our children see mercy, if we do not show it to those in the direst need?”

  The newborn in Catherine’s arms began to protest, as if as insulted by Dr. Carrier’s narrow perceptions as David.

  “Your optimism is misplaced. Stick with your soldiers and orphans, and leave the people of this town to my judgment.”

  David didn’t waver. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I don’t know that your judgment is best.”

  The man tossed away David’s words with a wave of his wrinkled hand. “What do you know? You’re still young, green, and arrogant. Someday you’ll learn…you can’t save everyone.”

  “I can’t save everyone.” David looked down at the baby in Catherine’s arms and then met her eyes, drinking in the faith he saw in them. His voice caught. “But I can try.”

  The bundle of life grew more distressed, the tiny face reddening, ready to burst in desperation, which was followed in a second with a pitiful cry. Catherine shushed the child, bouncing with a gentle motion, but his pitch and panic intensified.

  “He has to be hungry.” Catherine said over the cry. “There’s no knowing how long ago he ate.”

  “Branson’s will have something to assist with…with such needs, I should think.” A rush of embarrassment replaced the warmth of anger in David’s face. “And fresh milk?”

  Catherine nailed him with a look to remind him of her unwelcome presence in the mercantile.

  “That child has no life ahead of him. With such beginnings and...” The doctor shook his head, turning to push his way back through the crowd. “Bad blood.”

  “Allez.” The French exclamation warned of Madame Rousell’s entry into the conversation well before her deep purple gown and exotic hat emerged. “You would be so unfeeling for the child?” She waved her finger at Dr. Carrier’s figure disappearing into the crowd unfazed by Madame’s question. “Bah. You Englishmen. Your compassion is as dreary as your weather.”