Wishes & Tears

by Nancy Loyan

  “Miss Donahue, I want you to be my governess forever,” Andrew said, grasping her hand as they strolled down Sacramento Street. His dark eyes beamed up at her with longing.

  “It’s your father’s decision,” she replied. Her future was contingent upon his decision. She crossed her fingers that destiny was on her side.

  “What, pray tell, is my decision?” Doctor Forrester’s dusky voice boomed behind them.

  Faith stopped in her tracks, taken aback. She drew her free hand up to her chest, as if to stop the thumping of her heart. She turned to face him.

  “You frightened me. Must you always be in the habit of sneaking up on people?”

  He laughed, dimples forming and teeth glistening.

  “Papa!” Andrew cried. He released Faith’s hand and raced toward his father.

  Doctor Forrester reached down and picked up his son, lifting him overhead and over his shoulders for a piggyback ride.

  “I wasn’t sneaking up on you,” the doctor said, gazing at Faith. “After arriving home, I spotted you both and decided to surprise you.”

  “A surprise, indeed.”

  “Will Miss Donahue be my governess forever?” Andrew asked, lifting up his father’s straw boater and pulling at his father’s hair.

  “We’ll see, son.” His eyes locked on to Faith’s. “We’ll see.”

  She drew a deep breath, looking away to avoid his intense gaze. “So, tell me, doctor, now that the fire’s out, how are the survivors coping?”

  “As you well know from your study of history, Miss Donahue, the residents of San Francisco are quite resilient. There’s a great deal of talk about rebuilding. Life will go on.”

  “Indeed it will.”

  “You should know,” he said.

  She didn’t miss the bite in his tone. She held her tongue. She had been doing a great deal of that lately. Fearful of losing her position, if she still had one, and leaving the only home she knew, she was fearful of somehow sabotaging her future. She felt like a skater on thin ice, afraid of making a move for fear of sinking. What if, by chance, she was being overly cautious, altering the course of her destiny? What if Doctor Forrester did not fall in love with her and, instead, married Miss LaDue? Where would that leave her? Would she be transported back? Would she be forever lost back in time? She shuddered at the thoughts racing through her mind.

  “Are you all right?” Doctor Forrester asked.

  His voice rescued her from her morose thoughts. She snapped out of her funk and nodded.

  “For a moment there you looked as though you were taken ill. Look at you, you’re shivering.”

  They stopped walking.

  She rubbed her arms with her hands. “Just a slight chill, nothing to be the cause of concern.”

  “We can return to the house if you desire.” He reached up, grabbed Andrew, and lowered the boy to the ground.

  “No cause for alarm. I’ll be fine,” she assured him.

  He unbuttoned his double-breasted casual jacket and, without asking, slipped it over her shoulders. The act made her shiver more. The nubby jacket still held his warmth and masculine scent of mint and spice.

  “There, that should help.” He perused her, and with a satisfied smile, he took Andrew’s hand and continued their stroll.

  Andrew reached up with his free hand and grasped Faith’s, walking between them.

  Faith looked down at the child and up at his father. Together they looked like the epitome of turn-of-the-century domesticity, much like the old faded family photograph she kept hidden. All that was missing was the little girl. The thought of it made her nerves unravel and shiver all the more.

  “I have a patient to check in on,” the doctor said, stopping before a sprawling Eastlake style home.

  “I don’t see your bag,” Faith said, noting the absence of the black leather satchel he carried on medical calls like an extra appendage.

  “Fanny Jamison has asked to meet Andrew. She’s a lonely old widow, stubborn and healthy as an ox, though she’d have you believe she’s at death’s door. I think she creates maladies just to coax a visit from me.”

  “I see that it’s effective.” She grinned.

  “I’m a sucker for old ladies.” He winked as he led them up the warped wooden steps on to a slanting porch.

  “What was that for?” she asked.

  “According to your own calculations, you are, after all, many decades older than me.” He winked again.

  Faith stared at him as he rapped on the front door. He believed her? She shook her head.

  Footsteps shuffled on creaking floors inside the house. The latch clicked and the door opened just a crack.

  “Doctor Forrester,” the deep voice of a frail, petite dowager greeted, opening the door to get a better look at those standing on her porch. “And I see that you brought the family.”

  “Mrs. Jamison, we were strolling by and I thought we’d call on you.” He removed his hat and held it at his side.

  “You are most welcome to come and visit, especially since you brought that dear little boy I’ve heard so much about.” Her smile was warm even with the wide gaps in her teeth. She opened the door and waved her gloved hands. “Do come in. I’m not long for this earth. I need to enjoy callers while I still can.”

  Dressed in head-to-toe black taffeta, a knit black shawl draped over her shoulders, and a frilled lace cap fitted on her tiny head, she looked like a figure out of a painting. Grandma Moses, perhaps, Faith thought.

  Mrs. Jamison led them through the foyer, its wood floors scuffed, the burgundy flocked paper peeling away from the walls. She pointed to the parlor. Floral wall covering in hues of vermilion, lemon-chrome, celestial blue, and cream was faded and water-stained. The scattered Persian rugs were threadbare. Furnishings were scuffed and dusty. A fire blazed in the hearth adding to the stifling heat in a room that probably had never had a window opened. The scent of lemon verbena, wood smoke, and the stuffy air was suffocating.

  “Won’t you please sit and join me for tea?” Mrs. Jamison asked, making it sound more like an order.

  Faith smoothed her skirt and sat in a low parlor chair. The springs pinched even through the thick fabric of her skirt.

  Doctor Forrester sat in a nearby gentleman’s chair, holding Andrew on his lap.

  Before positioning herself on the rosewood sofa, Mrs. Jamison reached down to Andrew and pinched his cheek.

  “What a cute one you are. A handful I can tell,” she said.

  Andrew rubbed his cheek with a smirk.

  “I wasn’t aware of you having taken a wife,” Mrs. Jamison said, surveying Faith with raised eyebrows and inquisitive gray eyes.

  Before the doctor might answer, Mrs. Jamison reached back and pulled on a tapestry cord. “Daisy is too deaf to answer the door but can still hear the bell.”

  Faith watched the woman in fascination. She half expected Lurch from the Addams Family to appear at any moment from the shadows.

  “How old are you son?” Mrs. Jamison turned her attention to Andrew.

  Andrew looked up at his father.

  “He’s four,” the doctor replied.

  “Can’t the boy speak for himself? Cat got your tongue?”

  Andrew stuck out his tongue. His father nudged him.

  “I’ll be five in July,” Andrew replied.

  “A big boy.” She turned to Faith. “I see, Mrs. Forrester, that you have the patience for a widower and his son.”

  After casting a glance at the doctor, Faith answered, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Jamison, but I’m merely Andrew’s governess.”

  The old woman scoffed, looking at the doctor and the child squirming on his lap.

  “Doctor Forrester, does Andrew’s governess accompany you on all your calls?”

  Ian Forrester appeared at a loss for words. His faced paled and he squirmed in his seat.

  “Only when Master Andrew is joining his father,” Faith replied.

  “I see.” Mrs. Jamison arched her
brows. “For a moment I was wondering who might be governed.”

  A thin black woman in a ratty maid’s uniform and hair that resembled Don King’s straight-up-in-the-air style plodded into the parlor. In her hands were a tarnished sterling tea service, china cups, saucers, and plates that rattled with her every move.

  Faith leapt from her chair and was at the woman’s side, assisting with the tray and its contents. Only when the tea service was securely set on a butler’s table did she retain her seat.

  Mrs. Jamison’s eyes were as wide as saucers, while the maid cowered, thick lips trembling.

  “Well, shall we have tea?” Mrs. Jamison began with a huff. She turned to Faith. “I’ll pour.”

  • • •

  As they strolled back down Sacramento Street en route home, Doctor Forrester chuckled. His eyes were focused upon Faith, who stood at his side gripping Andrew’s hand.

  “I honestly don’t think Mrs. Jamison knew what to make of you.”

  Faith looked up at him. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Fanny Jamison thought she held the patent on being a strong woman. In you she met her match.”

  “Strong? Left on her own, Daisy would’ve dropped the tray. She’s in no condition to serve yet alone clean up a mess.”

  “I felt as if I were seated between a battle of wills.”

  “Being helpful and speaking up can hardly be considered assertive,” she said, and after giving it some thought added, “Perhaps, in this day and age it is. I keep forgetting that a woman’s place is to be prim, proper, seen but not heard.”

  “In this day and age?”

  “By now I thought you’d be convinced. Hasn’t that Merck Manual offered enough evidence?”

  “The volume does offer some interesting reading, I’ll admit.”

  “You haven’t used it as a diagnostic tool yet?”

  “I cannot chance treating my patients on theory. I must separate fact from conjecture.”

  “The book contains only fact, I can assure you. I can’t transport you into the future to provide proof.” She sighed.

  “I have no desire to go anywhere. My home is in San Francisco with Andrew, here and now. My concern is treating my patients.”

  “I know, the ones who need hand-holding and smelling salts.” She rolled her eyes.

  He stopped walking and faced her. “If you haven’t noticed, since you left and returned, my practice has shifted. After the earthquake and fire, I have devoted my practice to aiding the unfortunate. Those who suffered the most are benefiting from my skills and for the first time in my life, I feel that I am making a difference in people’s lives.”

  “Only now? I thought that’s why one chose to become a doctor.” She wondered why it took a catastrophe for his concern to shift from the privileged to those less fortunate. Yet, he still planned on marrying a snobbish socialite.

  “You don’t understand. My father was an esteemed physician who built a practice treating those in his social circle. Sure, there are illnesses to contend with, babies to deliver, and the income lucrative. I reluctantly followed in his footsteps but always felt that I could do more. After his retirement and death, I assumed his practice. On the side, I would go out and treat the destitute, my only payment the personal satisfaction of making a difference in a life. After the quake and fire, I’ve spent hours out in the parks, doing all that I can to help and heal without giving thought to income.” He put out his hands. “I am gifted. My hands heal. Is it not a doctor’s role to heal the sick? Are the wealthy the only people entitled to medical treatment? I say not.”

  She smiled. “Doctor Forrester, I never thought I’d see the day when you were humble.”

  He laughed. “You don’t know me well enough.”

  “I’m now glad just knowing you.” She looked up at him, meeting his gaze. A smile glowed on her oval face.

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you have a lovely smile?” he asked, surveying her.

  “Someone just did.”

  Chapter 19

  The Forrester home glistened like a jewel among the ruins. A delayed spring cleaning resulted in gleaming hand-scrubbed floors, clean sponged walls, aired draperies, batted rugs, laundered doilies, sparkling oiled moldings, and lemon waxed furniture. The scent of lemons and fresh air wafted throughout the home. Lamp fixtures were polished, globes shimmering from a vinegar and water wash. Dimmed gas lamps and flickering candles warmed the wood and tapestry adding a refined elegance to the indigo dusk.

  Hired wait staff in starched uniforms marched around the room like penguins, serving steaming hors d’oeuvres and champagne to mingling guests in the parlor. Men in dapper frock coats and creased striped trousers posed with women in couture creations by Worth and Drecoll, sheath gowns in muted tones and “Alice” blue, elbow-length gloves, and ostrich feathers fluttering in their hair.

  After the chaos of the earthquake and fire, the prenuptial soiree for Doctor Ian Forrester and Miss Constance LaDue was one of the first social events held in the city. There was a renewed sense of hope in San Francisco and what better way to anticipate the future than with an upcoming wedding. Neighbors, friends, and the elite ousted from their Nob Hill mansions gathered at 92 Sacramento Street to reminisce about the past and celebrate the future.

  Faith accompanied Andrew, introducing him to guests, as the doctor had requested, making sure that he minded his manners and was a cordial little gentleman. Andrew snickered at all the fussing and fawning over him. He swiped damp kisses from his cheeks and stuck out his tongue more than once behind a guest’s back. Faith reprimanded him and removed a handmade slingshot and dried peas from his back breeches pocket. Faith knew that the boy hated being doted on by strangers. To keep him in line she promised him sweets before bedtime. Bribing children, she knew, was looked down upon by Doctor Spock but with Andrew, it was the only thing that assured proper behavior. Besides, Faith surmised, Doctor Spock had yet to be born.

  As she controlled Andrew, Faith could feel Doctor Forrester’s eyes set upon her. She wasn’t sure if it was his son’s angelic behavior or something else that prompted him to take notice. Faith purposely ignored his gaze, instead concentrating on her charge. Inside, though, she felt her stomach flutter and warmth radiating within her. Thoughts of her destined future danced in her mind. She wondered if she should be happy or frightened by it.

  The doctor’s gaze did not go unnoticed by Miss Constance LaDue who clung to the man like Saran Wrap. She was ever the proper fiancée. Dressed in a virginal white silk gown with pale pink sash, her pompadour hairstyle adorned with a fragrant gardenia, she was all sweet and prim. Her kidskin-gloved hand rested on the doctor’s arm as she batted her wispy lashes up at him.

  The girl nauseated Faith.

  As if Constance knew, she cast a superficial smile at Faith, eyes burning with the desire to have Faith dismissed as Andrew’s governess and out of her life. Faith swallowed hard. What if the girl had more influence on the doctor than she surmised? After all, the wedding was still planned. What if he did dismiss her as Andrew’s governess? How would destiny kick in? If destiny could be altered, where would it leave her? She placed her hands on Andrew’s narrow shoulders to suppress the trembling.

  “I propose a toast,” a stout, gray-bearded man announced, his robust voice startling Faith from her thoughts.

  A hush fell over the room as guests formed a tight circle around the man, Doctor Forrester and Miss LaDue. Waiters scurried, pouring frothing champagne into crystal goblets. Bubbles danced in the amber liquid, reflected by flickering candlelight and gas lamps, in the thin glass. A goblet was thrust at Faith. She grabbed it, tilting the glass, liquid drizzling down her fingers. She suppressed the urge to lick them.

  “This is a most special evening,” the man continued, raising his glass. “So much adversity and misfortune has affected our lives of late, it is with great pleasure that we gather together in celebration. The esteemed Doctor Ian Forrester and the radiant Miss Constance LaDue are formally an
nouncing their engagement. A June first wedding is planned and I’ve been assured that you all will be in receipt of an invitation. Let us lift our glasses and toast this young, well-bred couple as they embark on a new life in this new city.”

  Doctor Forrester, with Miss LaDue attached to his arm, stepped forward. Guests raised their filled glasses. After a silent moment of sipping champagne, applause resounded. Guests gushed over the doctor and his intended. Messages of congratulations and best wishes filled the room with joyful chatter.

  Faith set down her glass of unsipped champagne. She couldn’t bring the glass to her lips, couldn’t even applaud. A sinking feeling cut into the pit of her stomach. Fear and doubt and the blended scent of lavender water, roses, and gardenia made her queasy. If the doctor married the young nymphet, she would be stuck in a world where she wouldn’t want to live. The walls felt as if they were closing in on her. She was hot and clammy and chilled all at once. Realizing that no one would miss them, she grabbed Andrew’s arm and swooshed him out of the room.

  Andrew seemed as eager to leave as she. At the news of his father’s wedding, the boy broke down in tears.

  “I hate her! I hate her!” Andrew cried as Faith walked him through the foyer and up the stairs. “I hate her!”

  “That isn’t a nice thing to say,” Faith told him, though she agreed completely.

  “I do hate her! She’s not my mother!”

  “No, she isn’t. No one can ever replace your mother. She can be your friend.”

  He swiped his eyes with his hands. “I don’t want Miss La Doo Doo as my friend. I want you as my friend.”

  “I’m already your friend.”

  “Why doesn’t my papa marry you?”

  She shook her head, lips parting in a partial smile. She looked down at Andrew meeting his gaze. Wisdom out of the mouths of babes.

  • • •

  As she tucked Andrew and his ratty bear in bed, she envied his innocence. He could go to sleep knowing he was loved and had a roof over his head. Faith knew that she would lay awake worried and confused. Her future depended upon the doctor, a man she really didn’t know but was supposedly destined to marry. Ever since her first time travel adventure, she had thrown common sense out the window. Coming back seemed like the only way to escape Bradley and have an opportunity for a completely new life. Seeing Constance LaDue and the doctor had given her pause. She suddenly felt like an outsider interfering with other lives. After seeing Miss LaDue and the other ladies in their silk beaded gowns, sapphires and diamonds, she felt like the hired help. At the turn of the century, wasn’t it scandalous for society gentlemen to court and wed the household help? She was just a governess now, no longer a respected teacher and wealthy urbanite.