Jane pulled a slip of paper from her pocket. “As long as you’re out, here’s a grocery list. Might as well walk to the market.”
Henry stuffed the list in his pocket and ushered Robby outside.
Robby kicked a rock across the pavement. It bounced and rolled until a flowerpot stopped its course. “I’m sorry.” His tone was anything but sorry. “I was just trying to have a little fun.”
“I understand.” Henry strode along the sidewalk. “You’ve had a rough go of it, and I’m very sorry. But I want you to grow up an honorable man, and that means I have to teach you how to be honorable by being so myself.”
“What do you mean?” Robby thrust his hands deep into his pockets.
“Honorable men don’t behave in a way that frightens or hurts others. They want to protect the people closest to them.” Henry prayed for wisdom. Life lessons were far from easy to share when he had much to be ashamed of himself. When he was guilty of hurting the person he cared about most.
“But I didn’t hurt nobody.” Robby kept his focus on the ground. “It was only a little garden snake.”
“You’re right. The snake wouldn’t have hurt anybody, but it did frighten Miss Jane.”
A smile crept over the boy’s face, displaying empty space from the front tooth he’d lost the day before. “It sure did.” His words whistled through the fresh gap.
What would Henry do with him? How could he reach a child who thrived on mischief-making? They walked in silence for a moment. The best way to teach a child was by example. But in a short amount of time, Henry had not had many opportunities. He reached into his pocket for the shopping list. When he pulled it out, an envelope came along with it. His letter to Stella, confessing his deceit.
No time like the present. “I’d like to make a deal with you, Robby.”
“What’s that?”
“I help you become an honorable man, and you help me do the same.”
Robby’s brow wrinkled. “But I thought you were holerable. Or whatever that word is.”
“Honorable.” Henry stopped and faced the child. “It means someone a person can look up to or respect because they do the right thing. You understand?”
The boy nodded slowly. “But you do the right thing.”
“Not always.” Henry knelt on the sidewalk. “I lied to a friend.” He clenched his jaw. “Well, I didn’t tell her an outright lie, but I let her believe something that wasn’t true and I didn’t set her to rights. That’s just as bad as lying.”
Robby’s eyes widened. “What are you gonna do? Tell her?”
“I wanted to tell her the last time I saw her, but she was gone before I had the chance.” Henry lifted the envelope for Robby to see. “I wrote her a letter.”
“Let’s mail it.” Robby’s eyes brightened, then he bit his lip. “Do you think she’ll forgive you?”
How had this scamp managed to voice the heart of Henry’s fears so succinctly? Would Stella forgive him? How could she trust him again? She would never see him as respectable or worthy now even if she was able to look past his lowly station. “I don’t know.”
“You gotta try.” Robby grabbed his hand and tugged him to the street corner. A mailbox sat in all its imposing glory. Robby pulled the handle, opening the cavern. “Go ahead. Stick it in there.”
Henry sighed. Though he’d rather Stella never knew the truth, he had the children to think of. If he expected Robby to do right, the boy needed to see respectability in action. Henry pushed the letter into the opening. “There. It’s done.”
Robby let go of the handle and let the flap close with a metallic crash. “You’re very holerable.”
Henry squeezed Robby’s shoulder, and they started toward the market. “I’ve got a long way to go, and so do you. Just promise me you’ll knock off the pranks.”
“I’ll try.” Robby shrugged out of his grip.
Henry glanced heavenward. That was the best he could hope for.
As they neared the market, a street vendor smiled from her booth. Despite the lines around her mouth and eyes, the glow of health brightened her cheeks. Dried bunches of lavender and other herbs dangled from overhead, perfuming the air.
Henry breathed deep. The scent of the lavender soothed his frazzled nerves.
“You look stressed.” The woman at the booth tied a ribbon around a sprig of dried yellow flowers. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
Henry began to shake his head, but halted. Stress. What if Stella’s migraines were a result of overwrought nerves, not a faulty digestive system? “I don’t need anything for myself.” He stepped closer to the booth, motioning for Robby to join him.
Robby rolled his eyes but complied.
“I have a friend who suffers from migraine headaches. Is there some herb or tonic that might help her?” His gaze roved the unfamiliar bundles.
“Can you tell me her symptoms?” The woman rose and pulled a wooden crate full of herbs from beneath the tablecloth.
“She’s mentioned flashing lights that block her vision. Lots of pain. Sometimes nausea.” He searched his brain. There was something else. What was it?
“Does she experience numbness on one side of her body?”
“Yes.” Henry snapped his fingers. “The right side, or the left—I don’t remember for certain. Does it matter?”
“The side in particular doesn’t have significance.” She lifted a bundle of small dried flowers with yellow centers and wrinkled white petals. “The earliest recorded migraine headache occurred in Egypt about 1200 BC. They stand apart from more common headaches due to the optical flashes, numbness, and nausea that often accompany the pain.” She handed him the bundle. “This is feverfew. Ancient Greeks used it for pain management and fevers, but it is an effective migraine preventative as well. Have your friend crush the leaves and steep them in hot water. A cup of this tea every morning can reduce the frequency of her headache days. It’s not a cure, but it may give your friend a bit of relief.”
Henry sniffed the dried flowers, nearly choking. Revolting. Stella’s refined taste might shy away, but if this foul-smelling herb offered relief, she might gulp it down.
“The tea doesn’t taste as strong as the herb smells.” The woman’s smile lines appeared again.
It was worth a try. Henry nodded. “I’ll take one, please.” He could give it to Stella as a peace offering when she returned. Despite Dr. Hazzard’s glory stories of the miraculously healed Mrs. Barnett, the whole idea of Stella’s digestion causing her migraines seemed more and more ludicrous each time he mulled it over.
He met the woman’s gaze as she slipped the bundle of feverfew into a cloth bag. “My friend … she’s at a clinic in Washington, and a doctor is treating her with fasting. This doctor says that all the body’s troubles stem from poor digestion.”
Robby focused on the ground, bent, and picked something up.
“This wouldn’t be Linda Hazzard you’re speaking of?” The woman’s smile slipped. “Her practices are dangerous. I lived in Washington not long ago. A friend of a friend of mine, Mrs. Elgin Cox, checked into her clinic. She didn’t check out alive.” Her jaw grew rigid. “Linda Hazzard—I refuse to call that fraud a doctor—she said Mrs. Cox had taken too many medications in her youth and it shrank her intestines, so she was past the point of healing when she arrived. I don’t pretend to be a doctor, but I’ve studied medical books for the last twenty years, and there is no basis for her assertions from a medical standpoint. The woman is a menace, and I’m certain that if not for Linda Hazzard’s radical treatments Mrs. Cox would be alive today.”
Dread formed a frozen ball in Henry’s gut. Were the old Buzzard’s treatments something worse than ineffective? Could they be dangerous—life-threatening?
The woman added a bundle of lavender to the bag with Stella’s herbs. “If you’re concerned for your friend, you’ll warn her to get as far from Linda Hazzard and her make-believe medicine as she can before it’s too late.”
Henry handed
her some coins, worry chewing through his brain like termites on wood. “I’ll send her a telegram and offer to fetch her.”
Robby tugged on his arm. “Come on, Mr. Henry. I found a dime.” He held up a dirt-coated coin. “I want to get Miss Jane a flower to say I’m sorry about the snake.”
Henry forced a smile. There may be hope for Robby yet. “That’s a wonderful idea.” He took the bag from the woman’s outstretched hand.
“I snuck some lavender in there for you.” She patted his hand. “My, but you look tired. Put a sprig under your pillow and you’ll sleep like a cat.”
“Thank you.” Henry crammed the bag into the pocket of his suit jacket. At this rate, his savings would dwindle quickly. But if these herbs helped Stella, they would be well worth it.
She waved to Robby, who ran toward a flower vendor. “Be quick about that telegram. It is true, Mrs. Cox may very well have died of natural causes.” She shook her head. “But she might not have. I could have an active imagination, but check on her.”
Henry’s chest constricted. He’d send a telegram on the way home. If Stella’s reply carried even a hint of unrest, he’d get to Olalla as fast as wheels could take him.
Chapter Nineteen
Stella glanced around the cabin. Light peeped in between cracks in the lumber, and the scent of fresh pine somehow intensified the ache in her stomach. Threadbare curtains dressed small windows positioned high on the walls.
“This is your home away from home, Miss Burke.” Dr. Hazzard wiped her hands on her skirt. “The perfect place to find healing.”
Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, Stella pasted on a smile. “Thank you.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a folded slip of paper. “Would you give this to Rollie for me? I promised Henry I’d keep him updated on my progress.”
The doctor took the note and nodded. “Of course.” She moved toward the door, slipping the note into her apron pocket. “Your treatment schedule won’t change, so be punctual. If you need anything in the meantime, I’ve hired a new nurse, Gretchen. She can help you.”
“Has Sarah gone?” Perhaps Dr. Hazzard had let her go after the incident with Claire. If Margaret Conway got wind of the truth, she’d bring the place down on the doctor’s head.
“She has found employment elsewhere.” The answer was clipped, inviting no response.
Stella tucked her lip between her teeth.
“I’ll leave you now.” Dr. Hazzard opened the door, letting sunshine stream in. “Don’t forget to walk the trails at every opportunity.” With that, she latched the door.
Stella heaved a sigh, her shoulders slumping. If Henry ignored this message as he had the last, she may be tempted to abandon decorum altogether and scream. Not a ladylike response, and Jane would scold her. But she wouldn’t mind a good scolding from someone who loved her, unlike Linda Hazzard, whose eyes took on a delighted twinkle at every chance to assert her dominance.
But dwelling on hardships would only invite despair. Stella scanned the room. The small bed covered by a patchwork quilt sagged in the middle, and a simple table with two chairs, a pitcher of water, and cups stood along the wall by the door. A dresser sat in the corner, but there would be no use in unpacking. Not with Henry arriving in two days’ time. The icebox was glaringly absent. How had she ever thought herself capable of doing without food for so many days?
A picture on the wall arrested her attention. She cringed. Against an ivory backdrop, a boy sketched in blue gazed at her. Thick curls covered his head, and while he smiled, there was something sinister in his expression. Like the witch from Hansel and Gretel. Who could imagine a woman living in a house made of sweets to be anything but sweet herself? But she was a cannibal. While this little boy bore the look of a cherub, his eyes told her that evil frothed beneath the surface.
She rubbed her temples, slumping into a chair. Was she losing her mind? Seeing frightening images in innocent pictures? She glanced at the sketch again, but the demon child sent another shudder down her spine.
The child in the picture had curls like the little girl in the alley. What was her name? Rose? No. That was her sister’s name. Another flower. Lily? Daisy? Stella smiled. Daisy. The little sweetheart had the same curls, but a different temperament entirely from the hobgoblin in the artwork.
The three dirt-smudged faces replayed in her mind. What had become of them? Had their parents returned? Though the boy, Robby, had said they were looked after, there had been no evidence of adult care.
Stella’s stomach complained. As she poured herself a cup of water, the pitcher gurgled. With four walls closing in on her and only hunger and the frightening picture for company, she took a sip of water then rested her face in her hands. Sue might have died in this room, in that bed.
Flashes of light paraded across her eyelids.
And her headaches were no better than before. Tears prodded her eyes. Despairing thoughts invaded, reminding her of the stubbornness that had brought her to this point.
She tapped her fists against her temples. No. If she succumbed to despair, this place would be even less bearable. But how could she force her mind to focus on other things when hunger and fear had built such a consuming fire within her? What would Mother have done? She’d been sick for months before breathing her last, but never once had a cross word passed her lips. Mama had always been cheerful, even on her worst days.
Stella closed her eyes. Think. How did Mama thrive in the midst of pain? Others. Mama had always helped others. She’d said that when her mind and hands were busy helping, her own problems would shrink.
But how could Stella help anyone here in the middle of the wilderness? Who could she help? She’d been too late to help Sue. When Henry came for her, she could have him take her to the alley where they’d met Robby, Rose, and Daisy. If their parents hadn’t come, she’d take them home and care for them until she could work out arrangements for a children’s home with her secret friend. If only she could do something for them now.
She sipped her water until the glass was empty. “I could always pray for them.” Prayer seemed like such a small thing. But her mother’s verse dashed through her mind again. God had fashioned the heavens with a simple command. He had ordered the seasons and scheduled the tides. Stella’s heart swelled to bursting. Prayer was a gift. Any help she could offer the children would be limited, but God … He could do anything.
She knelt beside the bed, elbows resting on the quilt, and bowed her head. “Dear Lord, I’ve been thinking about Robby and Rose and little Daisy. I think they lied to us.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “I don’t believe their parents are coming back for them. Please take care of them. Don’t let them be hurt. Bring someone to take them home, and if it’s not too much to ask, let me see them again to know they’re all right.”
When she lifted her head, sun streamed through the window. Mama had been right about so many things. Stella’s heart felt lighter, and her problems faded into the background when she focused on others rather than herself.
Her stomach begged for food as she stood. It wouldn’t be long now. Dr. Hazzard would make sure her wayward son took her telegram to the cable office. Henry would take her home, and she would eat to her heart’s content. Strawberry ice cream didn’t hold the luster it once did. Not enough substance. Broiled steak with parsley butter and a baked potato sounded more to her liking. Her mouth watered. Eggs and toast with sugar and cinnamon. What did it matter? She would happily stop at a pub along the road and eat a bowl of stew.
Whatever she ate first, it must be something she could chew. Something that would settle in her stomach like a rock and remind her what it was to feel satiated. No more orange juice and certainly not lima bean broth.
She opened the cabin door and stepped into the beautiful summer afternoon. Might as well start walking. Other than sleeping, sipping water, and being stared at by that frightening devil baby in the picture, the cabin offered nothing by way of recreation.
Her shoes crunched along the path.
Birds chirped from the trees, and a rabbit scuttled into the underbrush lining the property to her right. Movement, a flash of gray, in the woods slowed Stella’s steps. Was someone running through the forest?
Another streak of activity. Stella squinted to catch a better glimpse.
Tilda emerged from the woods, met Stella’s gaze, and stopped, thrusting her hand behind her back. What did she have? Even if Tilda had found Spanish doubloons, no one at Wilderness Heights would care—except maybe Dr. Hazzard and her family. No, the patients craved only one thing. Food.
Had Tilda found food?
Stella ran toward her, mouth watering.
“What do you have there?” Stella reached for her arm, feeling like a scavenger hunting for its next life-sustaining meal.
Tilda jerked away, and the scent of yeast wafted to Stella’s nose. Her stomach begged for a taste.
“You have bread?” Stella licked her lips, which suddenly felt dry.
“Please don’t tell Dr. Hazzard.” Tilda’s voice was strained, her eyes wide. “I was starving. And I’d heard from Doris in the cabin next to mine that the shopkeeper in Olalla has bread she’s willing to share.”
“I won’t give you away. Only let me have a bite.” Stella bit her lip, tears smarting behind her eyes.
Tilda motioned with a jerk of her chin for Stella to follow her into the woods.
Stella stepped beneath the tree cover. The temperature cooled in the shade, and the odor of moss and mold nearly squelched the heavenly aroma of fresh bread. Maybe it wasn’t fresh, but what did that matter when true hunger rattled her bones?
When Tilda pulled the small roll from behind her back, Stella fought the urge to lunge for it and swallow it whole. If Tilda was willing to share her blessing, that would be a poor way to repay kindness. Stella swallowed away the dryness in her throat.
With trembling fingers, Tilda tore the roll in half and handed one of the segments to Stella. “Here.”
Stella snatched the bread from her hand and nibbled the edge, employing every bit of self-restraint she could muster. Once this was gone, who knew when there would be another? She may have to wait for Henry to eat again, so best to savor this morsel. Oh, never had a food so simple tasted so much like manna. She closed her eyes, chewing slowly. “Oh, Tilda. Thank you.”
The Purple Nightgown Page 15