But Miriam was suffering, and she’d told him exactly what she needed. “The most peaceful sound on earth.”
She deserves a measure of peace.
He grabbed the handle of his cello case and quickly returned downstairs. If he didn’t give himself time to think, he wouldn’t change his mind.
Father hadn’t left the entryway. “I thought you said you don’t play when other people are around.”
“I don’t. But Miriam finds comfort in it.”
“Ah.” Father nodded. “Your ‘flowers and butterscotches.’”
Gideon propped the case up against the wall beside the recovery room door. He pulled a chair from the dining room and set it in place. He hesitated. “Do your offerings ever do what you hope they will?”
“Yes.” Father’s tone was empathetic. “At least, temporarily.”
Gideon carefully lifted out the cello. He sat in the chair and rested the instrument against his legs and shoulder. He pulled his bow from the case and tightened its hairs. One deep breath proved insufficient, so he took another.
He pulled the bow across the strings. A few curious heads peered around the parlor doorframe. He paused to quickly tune the instrument, then drew the bow across the strings again. Tansy and Paisley both stepped out of the kitchen. Some children stepped into the entryway.
Please let this be worth it. He slowly, carefully, played “Gentle Annie,” the song Miriam had specifically requested. Though he played it to offer her peace and reassurance, he found it worked its magic on him as well. He could almost forget his growing audience, his concerns over his parents, the uncertainty of Miriam’s situation. The music soothed him.
He had finished his second Stephen Foster tune when the recovery room door inched open—not enough to see Miriam on the other side, but enough to know she was listening.
Quick as that, his enthusiasm grew.
A small hand tugged on the leg of his pants. Ginny Cooper looked up at him with wide, hopeful eyes. “Can you play ‘Dan Tucker’ on your giant fiddle?”
Giant fiddle. Wouldn’t Mother be horrified by that? She had approved of the cello because it was dignified. How quickly this six-year-old girl had found something familiar and safe in something so new and unknown.
“I’m afraid I don’t play that tune well, Ginny.”
Her gap-toothed smile only grew. “It don’t have to be pretty. We just want to dance.”
Eagerness spread over all the children’s faces. They had been stuck indoors too long, unable to run and jump and release their pent-up energy.
He bumbled his way through the requested tune and a great many others suitable for spinning and hopping and whatever dance steps the children chose to concoct. Father even joined in the revelry, spinning children up in the air to great squeals and pleadings for another turn.
The entryway and the doorways of the dining room and kitchen were filled with children’s laughter and enthusiastic singing along as more adults joined in.
He’d tucked this instrument away for years, thinking it a liability, but it was quickly proving one of the most useful tools at his disposal. In a mere thirty minutes, his houseful of dreary, frustrated patients had transformed into smiling, laughing children again.
But had it helped Miriam? She hadn’t emerged from the room, but neither had she closed the door again. He wanted to ask her how she was holding up, but it was not something he dare do with so many little ears listening in.
He let his cello rest against his shoulder and his arms hang down at his sides. “You have worn me out, children.”
A general moan of disappointment rippled through the room.
“Perhaps if you are good and do what Miss Dunkle asks, I’ll play some quieter tunes for you before bed tonight.”
Miss Dunkle called their attention to her. “You heard Dr. MacNamara. Everyone back into the room you’ve been assigned, whether that is the parlor or the dining room.”
The children dragged their feet back to their rooms.
Ginny stepped up to him, smiling brightly. She clasped her hands together and spun in a circle. “I love your giant fiddle, Doc.”
“I’ve always been fond of it myself.”
“Will you really play it for us again?”
“I promise.”
She skipped back to the parlor, energy and happiness in her every step.
“I love your giant fiddle as well.” Miriam’s quiet voice tiptoed across the short distance between her door and his chair. “I thought you didn’t play for the town.”
“I don’t.” He set the cello carefully in its case.
“Then why the concert?”
He loosened the hairs of his bow. “I was playing for you. They happened to overhear.”
“But you didn’t want anyone to know about your cello. You swore me to secrecy.”
“You needed the music today, Miriam.” He set the bow in the case. “There was no other means of giving it to you.”
The door opened further, enough for him to see her silhouette. He still couldn’t see her face, couldn’t gauge her feelings.
He latched the cello case, then turned to face her.
She took a small step past the door. “Everyone will know about your music now.”
“I know.” He moved closer to her. The thread between them felt so fragile, he feared it would snap and she would slip away again. “I had no idea my telegram to Dr. Parnell would cause all of this. I swear I didn’t.”
Her gaze dropped, as did her voice. “I know.”
They stood near enough for him to reach out and brush his fingers along her cheek. The moisture he found there made his heart ache. “I don’t know that I can make any of this right again.”
“I don’t think it can be made right.
He let his hand drop to hers. “I can play again if you would like.”
She shook her head.
“Are you hungry? I’ll get something for you to eat. Or tired? I’ll make certain you’re left in peace so you can rest.”
Again, she shook her head.
“What can I do? Please, Miriam. I cannot bear to see you so unhappy without doing something to help you.”
She leaned against the doorframe. “Everything rests on convincing my father to care what happens to me, something I’ve never managed.”
“We’ll all help.” He rested his shoulder against the wall next to her. “You aren’t alone in this.”
“Dr. Blackburn said he isn’t either. I haven’t sorted that bit out.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “It worries me, though.”
Gideon slid his arm around her waist. She leaned into the one-armed embrace.
“He has this way of making me wonder if . . . I know I’m not mad. I know I’m not. But, somehow, he makes me question myself.”
“I have medical training too, Miriam, and I know he’s wrong. The man I worked for at St. Elizabeth’s, whose specialty lay in this area, would have denounced his diagnosis as well. Every other doctor who worked with him would too. We all would. I will remind you of that any time you find yourself doubting.”
“Do you promise?”
He kissed her forehead just above the eyebrow, then on the bridge of her nose. She turned into his embrace and pressed her open hand directly over his heart. She’d done it before, and it never failed to send his pulse racing. He placed his other hand over hers, keeping the connection between them.
Their lips hovered not even a breath apart. It was a torturous, wonderful sort of agony. An uncertain promise. A fragile hope.
Then she—she—closed the minuscule distance. She kissed him.
He wrapped his arms fully around her, reveling in her warmth and the feel of her in his embrace. He returned her kiss with fervor, and she melted against him. He rained kisses along her cheek and her jaw, before returning once more to her
lips.
But something changed in the next instant. She stiffened. She backed the tiniest bit away.
“Miriam?”
She shook her head and slipped further back. “This will only make things more difficult if my father doesn’t side with us—with me.” Tears filled her eyes.
He wished he could promise her everything would be well in the end, but there was only one reassurance he could fully offer. “I won’t give up, Miriam.”
He raised her hand to his lips and gently kissed her fingers.
Outside the recovery room, the front door opened. Gideon knew the squeak of those hinges. “Who wants notes from their families?” Father’s voice called out.
Chaos erupted. Dozens of little voices cheered and shouted.
Miriam’s eyes turned away, and a gentle smile tugged at her lips.
“That was a bit of genius, you know,” he said to her.
“I hoped it would lift their spirits. They’ve been tucked in here for so long.”
“Most of them can probably leave tomorrow,” he said. “These notes will help see them through the night.”
“I hope there’s one for Rupert.”
“I’m certain the Fletchers would not have passed up the opportunity.”
Father appeared in the doorway. He grinned at Miriam. “You have one as well, sweetheart.”
“Really?” Her suddenly excited gaze jumped from Father to him and back. “Who would be sending me a note?”
“It appears that you have, during this epidemic, won the hearts of this entire town,” Gideon said. “I have no doubt any number of families would happily send you all the notes you could possibly read.”
Father handed her the note. “Miriam” was written across the front of the folded piece of paper.
“It really is for me.” She bit back a smile, but her eyes danced.
“Read it,” Gideon said with a laugh.
Father met his eye. A quick nod of understanding passed between them. He stepped out to distribute the rest of the notes.
Gideon returned his attention to Miriam. Rather than the joy he expected, she was pale and shaking. Her eyes registered shock. Fear.
“Miriam?”
The paper trembled in her hand. “It’s from my father.”
“Your father?” How was that even possible?
“He is here.” She took a quavering breath. “He came with Dr. Blackburn.”
Blackburn’s unidentified companion.
“We’re too late,” she whispered. “We’re too late.”
Chapter 32
Gideon hadn’t ever sat on a war council, but seeing the grim faces at his dining room table, he felt he could imagine what one might have looked like. Those children who had not grown ill, or had experienced only minor symptoms, had been released to rejoin their families that morning. The house was quieter than it had been in a very long time. Miriam was as well.
“‘Dr. Blackburn and I are very concerned,’” Paisley read Mr. Bricks’s note aloud. She stood near the door, Cade beside her with his arms tucked affectionately around her. “‘Someone with your condition should not be away from the help you require. You should not be imposing upon these good people. It is time you returned with him where you belong. His patience is holding, but mine is growing thin.’ It is signed ‘Carlton Bricks.’”
“Not ‘Father’ or ‘Papa’ or something like that?” Gideon asked.
“I suspect he doesn’t like the reminder that he is related to me,” Miriam said quietly. Hers was not a tone of defeat, but one of absolute weariness.
Father set his hand on hers. “You are a joy, sweetheart. Do not let him convince you otherwise.”
“It is not my convictions that matter at the moment,” she said. “Everything depends upon him.”
“Unless Ian had some miraculous information,” Gideon said, turning to his father.
“He agrees that her legal options are limited.” Father quickly perused the telegram that had arrived that morning from Gideon’s oldest brother. “He suggests Gideon gather testimony to contradict Blackburn’s diagnosis. But he warns that casting doubt about her madness may not be enough to prevent her from being confined to the asylum.”
Mother looked horrified. “She can be kept there even if multiple doctors believe she is not mad?”
Father nodded. “Ian says that a man can commit any of his female relatives for nearly any reason. If Miriam’s father believes she belongs in an asylum, he can send her there. And only he can authorize her release.”
Mr. Larsen had said the same thing. Gideon didn’t like hearing it confirmed. He couldn’t sit still any longer. Pacing seemed his only viable option.
“How do we best press the man?” Cade was always one for cutting to the heart of a matter.
Everyone looked at Miriam. “Few things are as crucial to my father as his sense of importance, and how he is perceived. He has worked very hard to improve his standing among people of status. He wants nothing more than to be admired and revered in the way he admires and reveres those he views as his superiors.”
Mother casually entered the conversation. “I believe your eldest brother’s upcoming run for a seat in the state legislature is also of particular concern to him. And your younger sister is on the verge of a very advantageous match.”
“I didn’t know about either of those,” Miriam said. “I haven’t spoken to my family in years.”
“Your older sister’s husband is in line for a promotion at the bank where he works,” Mother added. “Your mother is angling to be made a matron of the women’s opera society.”
“She has always wanted to be,” Miriam said.
“My friend, Julia Cockling, suspects she will achieve it soon, provided nothing untoward occurs.”
Gideon, who’d been rendered mute by shock, found his voice at last. “How in the world do you know all of that?”
Mother gave him an exasperated look. “I arrived here to find that my son had attempted to marry a stranger, one who had refused him but still managed to get a position working for him, and who was clearly from a background of some affluence in, as she told me herself, New York City. There were a great many gaps in what I knew. I sent some telegrams.”
“Telegrams?” Cade repeated dryly. “So Gid gets that talent from his mother.”
“Hush, Cade,” Paisley said, though she smiled unrepentantly.
Gideon rubbed the back of his neck. “A family with aspirations in politics and society would be very keen to avoid anything they might find . . . embarrassing.” How he hated using the word, but could think of no other way to accurately describe how the Brickses seemed to view their daughter.
“Precisely,” she said.
Father squeezed her fingers before speaking. “We could press the point that, this far West, you would have no impact on their social aspirations whatsoever. I can’t imagine you have any plans to rejoin them in New York.”
“None, whatsoever,” she said firmly. “They showed me years ago that I don’t have a place among them. I won’t go begging for one.”
Gideon nodded as he paced back to the table. “If we all go to the restaurant tonight and, over dinner, confront him about—”
“Won’t fadge,” Cade said. “A man who’d lock up his daughter so she won’t make him look bad—his view of things, not mine, Miriam—will only feel more justified in that choice if a group comes down on him all at once because of her.”
“And I would guess threats would make him defensive, as well,” Paisley tossed in.
Miriam nodded, her shoulders drooping. Gideon hadn’t always been on the best terms with his parents, and he had known the misery of feeling like a disappointment in his mother’s eyes. This, however, was an agony he could only begin to understand.
The conversation wasn’t proving reassuring. “If th
reats and logical arguments won’t sway him, what else do we have?”
“You have me,” Mother said. Her chin tipped at a confident angle. “I know I’ve been rather useless since my arrival here. I will admit I am out of my element. But, swaying people who place more importance on how they are perceived in the eyes of those with influence and standing than on almost anything else . . . Well, that is something for which I have a decided knack.”
Father met Gideon’s eye. “She’s not wrong.”
Mother clasped her hands on the tabletop in front of her. She looked to Miriam, then Gideon. “The four of us will have our supper at the restaurant tonight, where Mr. Cooper tells me Mr. Bricks can be found every evening. Dress sharply, Gideon. It is crucial that he understand our own family’s position.” Her attention returned to Miriam. “Have you a dress other than the gray ones you’ve worn these past couple of weeks?”
Miriam shook her head.
Mother made a sound of pondering. “I do believe it is important that you look the part of a society miss, no matter that he has placed you in the position you are in. He must be able to imagine you as part of the world he aspires to.”
Paisley jumped in. “You can borrow the blue one of mine that you wore to the social. You looked beautiful.”
Mother met Gideon’s eye. He nodded emphatically.
“Perfect,” Mother said. “We will all assume our best manners, dress to the nines, and put on airs so thick and unmistakable that he will think he has somehow returned to the bosom of Eastern society without realizing it. Then we will make absolutely certain he knows that we firmly consider Miriam as worthy of that society but aren’t entirely sure about him yet.”
“The idea is a little distasteful,” Gideon said.
“I know.” Mother appeared empathetic, yet she did not back down. “But these are the things that are important to him. We must play his game, Gideon, but we will play it better.”
Healing Hearts Page 21