The Thorn Keeper

by Pepper D. Basham

  Most in the town ignored Madame’s antics as nonchalantly as Dr. Carrier. Her shop, with its wide-spread reputation, provided excellent notoriety for the little village – and her generous husband’s memory usually calmed any storm Madame’s eccentricities brought. But most people couldn’t forgive her for being French.

  Madame shot a string of French insults after the doctor, who was well out of earshot, then she turned to Catherine and David. “You will need a…what do they call…” She waved an arm in the air as if the word for which she searched could be caught. “An upright feeder.”

  David had no idea to what she referred, but the word ‘feeder’ for a hungry baby sounded excellent.

  “Vous comprenez? For the baby?” she urged, finally giving an exasperated roll of her eyes. “I will go and fetch something.”

  And off she trotted, spluttering something in half-French related to men’s helplessness with babies.

  “Thank you, Madame,” Catherine called after her.

  Catherine’s voice had lost its edge from a few moments ago, and her eyes revealed an uncustomary vulnerability. He drew close, grasping for some way to protect her, to comfort her. What had she seen? Witnessed? And most likely alone.

  “What happened?”

  She blinked from her stare and the momentary fragility vanished with the narrowing of those cat-eyes. Kat? Hmmm, it suited her.

  “Do you realize how utterly heartless and…and insufferable this town’s doctor is?”

  He opened his mouth to answer, to correct the ‘heartless’ reference to Dr. Carrier, but Catherine wasn’t quite finished.

  “He left her there.” Catherine pointed her gloved hand back toward the alleyway. “He left her in the apartment, swinging from the ceiling. After he looked at the baby, I assume to ascertain that the infant was alive, he turned and left me standing in the middle of the room with a newborn in my arms and his dead mother hanging nearby.”

  David looked back to the way Dr. Carrier had left, his thoughts searching for excuses as to the doctor’s coldness. “Surely he called for a constable to assist in removing the body.”

  “Surely he did not.” Catherine marched toward Branson’s mercantile, the baby’s cries becoming more and more desperate. “I called one and he helped…after he interrogated me.”

  A slice of pain pierced his chest at the sudden quiver in Catherine’s voice.

  “Interrogated you?”

  “Of course. Who was I to be there, in my station, assisting a woman in her condition… and that sort of nonsense?” She turned to face him, her voice growing louder over the baby’s cries. “But who else would have been there? No one. She died alone. If I hadn’t come...”

  Catherine swallowed, emotions fighting a clear battle for her voice. She placed the finger of her glove into her teeth and pulled it from her hand, turning her knuckle to tease the baby’s lips. He immediately started suckling. How did she know to do that?

  “Why? Why would Meredith do this? Why would she leave her child behind…alone?”

  David gentled a hand to Catherine’s shoulder. “She must have thought he had a better chance without her.”

  Catherine’s steadied gaze told him she knew his unspoken meaning. Children of fallen women carried the stain of their parents’ choices for the rest of their lives. ‘The illegitimate son of so-and-so.’ ‘The tainted child of such-and-such.’ David had heard such phrases all his life, regarded them without a second thought…until now. Until he stared down into the face of a crying orphan and this woman, his unexpected friend, who carried her own contaminated reputation with the same dark consequences.

  His words rose, raw. “She entrusted him to you.”

  She searched his face with that unnerving directness and pulled the baby closer, setting her jaw with purpose. Without hesitation, she accepted her assignment…her calling.

  A piece of him softened toward her even more. He’d never met anyone like her. In the circles in which he’d traveled, the ones introduced to him by his extended Cavanaugh family, the ladies played their demure and proper part, following the steps of society’s dance to perfection.

  But her?

  An appealing energy pulsed from her, a radiant determination. She lived life on purpose and with an inspiring amount of passion.

  “I have it.” Madame Rousell emerged from the shop, two green-glass bottles cradled in one arm and a container of milk in the other. She shoved the two glass bottles into David’s hands and proceeded to open the milk. “Be useful, Docteur.” She gestured toward the bottle. “Vite, vite, remove the rubber teat.”

  With skilled hands, she poured some of the milk into the nursing bottle. “Something is better than nothing, non? And the milk is not cold, so the babe may take it.” She murmured something else in French and handed the remains of the milk to David while retrieving the teat. “Please say you are more useful than Dr. Carrier.” She grimaced her opinion of the elder physician.

  She didn’t seem to want a reply but turned to Catherine and gave her the bottle. “Tease the enfant for a moment to let him learn the teat. He will not like it at first, non, but his appetite will soon take control.”

  So frustrated was the child from crying, the teat sat in his open mouth for long seconds before he seemed to realize it was there. Catherine moved the rubber teat against his lips, teasing him, and after a few inexperienced trials, he began to suck with success. Catherine lifted a smile to him, one of her rare, unhindered smiles that left him unable to do much but stare, befuddled.

  “I see, mon cher docteur.” Madame Rousell surveyed him with a cautious eye. “I think you have the makings of a good man. Standing up to the Carrier le buffoon in front of the town is no small thing.” She tsked. “I’m afraid you may have made an enemy.”

  David ignored the twinge of concern at his aunt’s reaction to his confrontation with her physician. “I’m glad I happened to be by.”

  “Docteur Carrier has been in this town a long time and is of the old way of thinking. The old English way with all of its…” She gave her hand a toss. “Bad blood and society. Pshh, you have proven today you will not be under the Lady’s thumb.”

  David knew exactly to which ‘lady’ Madame referred, and his heart sank a little more. The ‘lady’ waved a dream before him – a dream with a noose at the end, David feared.

  Catherine looked up from her musings over the baby. “Why are you in town? I didn’t think you meant to leave the hospital today, especially while I was gone?”

  “I’d only meant to have a short visit.” He looked back toward the station, remembering his reason for traveling from Roth Hall. He nudged the bottles back into Madame’s arms. “Jessica. I have to go.”

  “Jessica?”

  “She arrived.” He took his watch from his pocket and grimaced. “A half hour ago. Unexpectedly.” He returned the watch and sought Catherine’s gaze. “Promise me you are going directly home. You and the baby. Mason will help you with whatever you need for the drive.”

  Could she sense his concern? After discovering Meredith dead and navigating a thoughtless constable, only to face the unfeeling response of Dr. Carrier in front of a curious crowd, there was no telling the impact on her health.

  She seemed to read his thoughts and offered a tired smile. “I will.”

  David bid a ‘good day’ to Madame, whose expression paused his turn. Her eyes twinkled with a hidden delight, her smile conspiratory. “No worries, dear docteur. I shall see your amour makes it to the auto, tout suite.”

  His amour? David didn’t have time to correct Madame’s misguided assumptions. He took off toward the station. His family’s expectations, his upbringing, even Catherine’s past, shouted to him at full volume. He could not nurture an interest in the lovely Catherine Dougall.

  Chapter Six

  “Heaven have mercy.” Fanny released a gust of air with her exclamation.

  The long-standing Dougall housekeeper pushed back some loose strands of her auburn hair, highlight
ed with hints of silver, and stared down at the sleeping baby in Catherine’s arms.

  Catherine rested her head against the high back chair, her mind a cloud of doubts and questions. The weariness and weight of the past few hours crashed in on her as she watched the gentle breathing of the baby in her arms. A flood of tenderness, of protection, shocked her with its force, and an unchecked tingle of tears warmed her eyes.

  So small. So helpless. How could anyone lay the sins of the mother on his little head? If God healed brokenness and started something new out of a wretched choice, surely he could begin again with the new breaths, the fresh life, of a baby.

  “His poor mother,” Fanny whispered and stepped closer, placing her palm over the baby’s head as if in benediction. “To feel helpless enough to give up your wee bairn. To forfeit her life?”

  “The choices for women in her situation are fairly dim.” Catherine ran a finger across the baby’s cheek, using the silence to reign in the warmth invading her vision. “She’s already branded as a fallen woman, which leads to ‘proper’ individuals shunning her and, in this case, refusing her the most basic services. If she decides to keep her child, she knows the hardships in her child’s future. The ridicule, the struggle. The constant barrage of insults. And unless a good, decent man comes along to marry her and somehow curb the tainted reputation, there’s little that can be done. Such a man is more fairytale than flesh-and-blood.” Catherine smoothed her thumb over the baby’s tiny fingers, the sting of renewed tears burning her throat. “But if she gives up the child? What happens to that part of her heart for the rest of her life?”

  A daunting silence followed with nothing filling it but the sweet wisp of the baby’s contended breathing.

  “You’ve made some hard choices, make no mistake.” Fanny knelt in front of Catherine, the compassion in her voice soothing over the open wounds in Catherine’s heart. “But your past choices only define what you’ve done. They don’t determine who you’ll become.”

  Catherine gave a humorless laugh. “You’re trying to find a ray of sunshine where there are only storm clouds, Fanny dear.”

  “No.” She tipped her chin, the thin coif holding her rebel locks released another strand or two to the motion. “I’m holding out the rainbow in the middle of the storm. Hope. Do you feel the same despair as the young girl?”

  Catherine paused, the vision of Meredith’s lifeless body still wreaking havoc with her emotions. She shuddered and rubbed her eyes as if to clear the horrid image. “No.” She shook her head, the conviction finding residence. “No, I always accepted this as my responsibility and my burden.” She pinched her smile tight. “I only forfeited my future, of course, but what is that?”

  Fanny’s green stare challenged Catherine’s declaration. “I wouldn’t claim the power of foresight if I was you, Catie.”

  Fanny hadn’t used the nickname in years, and somehow, it seemed to break through the dust and drudgery of her pain like nothing else, reminding her of a time when her future didn’t hang limp from misuse.

  “And….perhaps your blessing, as well?”

  “My blessing?”

  Fanny looked down at the infant in Catherine’s arms. “When we seek His will, God has a habit of taking our wrongs and transforming them into something beautiful.”

  A fleeting swell of hope accompanied Fanny’s words.

  Could it be true, or was it merely a platitude people used to soften the harsh bite of reality? Oh, she wanted it to be true, but she knew all too well the social stigma and ongoing shame associated with someone in her position. Shame enough to…take one’s own life. She flinched at the unwelcome memory and looked back to the baby in her arms. Could the Spring not only bring her a little child but also hope for a new beginning? It seemed too much to ask for all of her mistakes.

  “I hope you’re right, Fanny. For his sake.” She placed her palm on her stomach. “And for this one.”

  “And don’t forget you are God’s child, and He has great plans for you. He always has. You may have forgotten Him in the midst of your selfish ambition and now, in the middle of your shame, but He has never forgotten you.”

  “You made a wager with Aunt Maureen?” His sister’s wide eyes reminded him of the utter ridiculousness of the entire situation.

  He hated feeling trapped…or worse, dependent. He’d worked hard in every situation – school, home, hospitals—to complete his goals on his own, with his wits and hard work as companions, and though he had a floundering hospital, he had the satisfaction of knowing he’d done the right thing. All along. In his own way.

  Until now.

  “I’ve not agreed to her demands.”

  “But you’re considering them?” Jessica rolled her eyes behind the motoring goggles as they moved along in the Rover. “Why would you hesitate for a moment?”

  “Wait until you assess our current situation before you pass judgment, Jess.” His palm tightened around the steering wheel. “Our facilities, though free, are abysmal in space and access to town supplies. And though our hostess is gracious in sharing Roth Hall, it is not without a keen awareness of her sacrifice.”

  David exchanged a look with her. Moriah Dougall’s nerves rivaled any fictional Mrs. Bennet and carried a reputation all the way across The Pond.

  “Then we find another way to secure a location.”

  “And what if this is the only way?” he shot back, his voice competing with the wind. “Aunt Maureen owns most of the village. Apart from a few shops Victoria Dougall sold years ago, we have limited opportunities without her compliance, if nothing else.”

  “But what about your future dreams? Your happiness?” Jessica leaned back against the seat and groaned. “If Father knew—”

  “I’d rather Father not know. It’s my decision to make. You alone are my confidante, in the hopes that you might either help me find another solution or…support this one.”

  “David, it can’t be as dire as this.”

  “I would have opportunity to pursue my profession unhindered by expense and restore Father’s standing in the Ross-Cavanaugh families.”

  “Father would never ask you to give up your freedom for his reputation.”

  David hesitated. He’d seen his father’s grief when he spoke of the severed family connection. There was no doubt his parents had loved each other. He could hardly bear the memory of his father mourning his mother, the pain etched in his father’s face. But to know his father was alone, without the comfort of brother or sister in his time of grief, gave David more cause to sacrifice whatever he needed to give his father some happiness in the midst of his pain.

  “I assure you, taking her offer will be my last resort.”

  “After all you’ve told me about Maureen’s iron control over Ednesbury, I think you might be gambling with the devil.”

  “Too many lives are at stake. Having a hospital in town would not only make medical care available for more soldiers, but perhaps…”

  “Oh no, what other scheme do you have in that head of yours?”

  “It’s clear Dr. Carrier is not providing appropriate care.” The argument with the senior doctor burned a fresh wave of guilt through David, and fresh purpose. “I think there is good we could offer for the less fortunate of Ednesbury.”

  Jessica’s eyes squeezed closed behind the goggles. “So you’ll use Aunt Maureen’s money to treat the very people she detests?” The car puttered to a stop in front of Roth Hall in time with his sister’s sigh. “I appreciate your passion for your dreams, brother dear, and the desire you have to set things right for Father, but take care not to dance too close to the fire. Aunt Maureen is not someone to be trifled with. I wouldn’t be surprised if her fury scorched the very dreams you are trying to save and singed you in the process.”

  “How are your grandparents, Jessica?”

  The question seemed to surprise David’s sister, probably more from the author of it than the question itself. Of course, Jessica had left the hospital months ago to t
ake care of her mother back in the States, so all she remembered of Catherine was the social-climbing, manipulative vengeful woman with designs to snag a wealthy husband at any cost, even at Ashleigh’s expense.

  Jessica had left well before God had softened Catherine’s heart with grace.

  It served Catherine justice. She’d created her weary reputation with her own hands, but the constant bombardment proved wearying.

  “They are well as can be expected.” Jessica replied, meeting Catherine’s eyes with an unwelcome stare. “The flood back home couldn’t have hit at a worse time, but they’re managing.”

  Catherine ought to look down, hold fast to the label of ‘fallen woman’ that bit at her heels, but she refused the urge. “I’m truly sorry. Ashleigh always spoke highly of your mother. Ashleigh wrote about some of the destruction around Hot Springs and Asheville from the flood. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to recover from so much such loss.”

  The stonewall set of Jessica’s jaw slackened slightly, as did a bit of the coldness in her emerald eyes. “Thank you.”

  “I’m happy to see some help has come.” Mother’s voice drew attention to her place at the head of the expansive dining table. The remains of their aristocratic life paraded in the form of the Dougall family china across the ivory tablecloth. “We lost Ashleigh a few weeks ago and another nurse last week. The wounded are coming in droves, and then there’s the orphanage. What was Ashleigh thinking, leaving all this to us?”

  Catherine stifled a groan. Ascribing mental energy to work out her mother’s rationale proved rather pointless, but one statement among her usual nonsense boiled clear: The wounded came to Roth Hal in a trickle instead of ‘droves’, but any addition added stress to their confined situation.