Mercer's Belles

by Heather B. Moore

  An image of the smooth, round curve of Cora’s face and her plump pink lips came unbidden and powerful to his mind. His stomach tightened. Had he imagined the spark of interest in her eyes, the flush on her cheeks?

  Good grief, what’s she done to me?

  Shoving his clammy hands in his pockets, Albert called on the rigid, unfailing discipline that had taken him so far in his life already. Through a bleak childhood with his stoic, harsh parents and their cold money. Through years of rigorous boxing training and long, brutal matches. Through hours and hours of bleary-eyed study to rise to the top of his class.

  One beautiful woman will not be a problem.

  There were a hundred women about to board the Continental. It’d be easy to avoid Cora Martin during the voyage.

  Very easy. This is not a problem.

  It took her another twenty minutes, but Cora finally managed to track down Dr. Barnard. He and his wife were in the hotel lounge, having coffee. Cora stood in the lounge’s arched entrance, wringing the straps of her purse as she stared at the back of the doctor’s bald head. The room buzzed with animated conversations. Waiters darted among the crowded tables, lifting silver coffee carafes and white plates above the diners’ heads. Morning sunlight poured in the tall windows framed by lovely crimson drapes. The light caused the gold-damask wallpaper to shimmer, giving the room a dewy glow.

  Despite the gorgeous room and spirited atmosphere, Cora felt only dread. All the determination and courage she’d harbored back home in Boston suddenly seemed a strange dream. She felt as awkward and unsure of herself as the day she’d married Thomas. A nineteen-year-old misfit with no parents, no family, and no idea just how empty adulthood could be. At least at the orphanage there had been other children for companions. Brief friendships. A little laughter and fun between the icy classroom and drudgery of chores. She’d foolishly thought marrying Thomas meant gaining a friend, but she’d been much more lonely in his house than at the orphanage.

  At eighteen, she’d been forced from the familiarity of Charity House for Children. The matron, Mrs. Boomer, had looked at her with tired, pale-blue eyes. You’re an adult now, Cora. We need your bed for new children. Children who will hopefully do what you couldn’t—attract parents and a new life. A deep frown had creased the woman’s round face, her chin pulling back against her ample jowls. She’d looked at Cora as if Cora were an anomaly, or worse, something broken that there was no chance of repairing. Mrs. Boomer held out a card. But take this to the man at the cotton mill. He’ll give you a job. And good luck, my dear.

  That man had been her future husband, though she’d never have guessed it those first months. Quiet, unobtrusive Thomas Martin, son of Reginald Martin, who owned a moderately successful cotton mill on the Charles River. Thomas, who’d said only a few words to her before the day he stopped at her loom and asked if she might like to have dinner. Over pot roast he’d explained that his father insisted he get married, though Thomas had little interest in family life. The business was his one and only love. But he also wanted to please his father to protect his inheritance. Thomas had said that he admired Cora’s work ethic, enjoyed how she looked, knew she had no family, and thought she’d make a suitable wife. Three months later they were married in a simple ceremony, Thomas’s austere father nodding his approval.

  Even lying in bed beside Thomas, Cora had felt more employee than spouse. His touch had been so clinical, so . . . functional. She’d heard the girls at the mill whispering about their men and the shadowy things that happened between them. But her time with Thomas had been nothing to inspire breathless laughs and flushed cheeks. She’d immediately known she was lacking in some way. That it must be her. She’d never caught the eye of prospective parents. And now, she couldn’t even stir her husband’s desires. Or her own.

  And yet . . .

  The man in the hall, Dr. Cunningham. His hand on my arm. My hands on his chest. I’m still a bit breathless.

  Cora frowned deeply, yanked her hands from her knotted purse strings. “Stop that at once,” she murmured to herself. She pinned her attention back onto Dr. Barnard, sipping coffee with his matronly wife.

  I can’t do this.

  Yes, I can. Just go talk to him.

  Cora forced her feet to move forward. She stopped directly behind the doctor, took a breath, and then tapped his shoulder. He turned friendly eyes on her, and a spark of hope kindled inside her.

  “Hello, Dr. Barnard. My name is Cora Martin. I’m an experienced nurse and midwife. I wrote to you several times . . .” The doctor’s brow furrowed with not even the slightest recognition. Her spark of hope puttered out. Cora swallowed. “Perhaps those letters never reached you. I . . . uh . . . was hoping to assist you during the voyage. I seek no pay, just the experience, and perhaps a recommendation once we arrive in Seattle. I worked on the battlefields, sir, and hope to find a surgeon to assist in the West.”

  Barnard’s expression remained neutral, but Cora saw the rejection forming in his eyes. “That’s very commendable, Miss—I’m sorry, your name again, please.”

  “Mrs. Cora Martin, sir. Widowed. I assisted Dr. Stephen Rand in Virginia. We were at the Battle of Chaffin’s Farm. I amputated seventeen legs, twelve arms, and excavated dozens of bullets on my own during that battle.” Cora glanced at Barnard’s wife, whose harsh pass of her eyes made Cora shrivel inside. The older woman’s hat was an unsettling explosion of black and brown feathers that made her head seem too big and her shaded eyes threatening.

  “That’s hardly a proper thing to speak of over breakfast, young lady,” Mrs. Barnard snipped. “And nurses do not perform amputations.” Her tone screamed, you are a liar. She looked Cora up and down once more and then turned away to primly sip her coffee.

  Just leave. Right now. Go!

  “Right,” Dr. Barnard said with a sigh. “You performed these procedures yourself? Without Dr. Rand’s assistance?”

  “That’s correct, sir. He trained me, of course, but by the end of the war I was just as capable as he at all the surgical skills required in the field. I want to continue using those skills, learn more.”

  Mrs. Barnard snorted. She leaned to her husband and in a not-so-quiet whisper said, “This woman is delusional, Charles. No woman wants to do these things.”

  Dr. Barnard squinted, considering Cora. “Mrs. Martin, I’m sorry, but I do not require a nurse for this voyage. I have a very capable assistant surgeon. We’ll mostly be dealing with sickness the first few days as the women adjust to the waves, and then I’m sure it’ll be very quiet.”

  “I see. Are you staying in Seattle, perhaps setting up practice? I could be very useful—”

  “My wife, Mrs. Barnard, assists in my office. So, I’m afraid not.”

  Cora felt the slap of Mrs. Barnard’s glare once more but refused to look at the woman. Cora couldn’t imagine that woman at a sick person’s bedside. She shuddered and covered it up by adjusting the grip on her purse. It was time to withdraw. Any more attempts to elicit a position would only make her sound desperate and pathetic. “Thank you for your time, Doctor. Mrs. Barnard. Enjoy your breakfast.” It was all she could do not to run from the lounge.

  Once out in the lobby, she picked up her skirts and hurried to the stairs, plowing through the clumps of women without the care she had earlier. Thomas’s dusty voice filled her head. I’ve elevated you from the lower tiers of society. But you must remember your place, always.

  She needed to get to her room, pack, and make the next train or boat back to Boston. Cora bumped shoulders with a man in a gray suit but didn’t stop to apologize. He called after her. She ignored him and picked up her pace.

  “Wait, Miss! Wait just one moment.”

  Her eyes burned with suppressed tears. “Please excuse me,” she threw back over her shoulder without looking at the man. But he kept up his pursuit.

  “Wait! Please.” A jovial laugh. “Good grief, you’re fast. Are you woman or gazelle?”

  Cora rounded on him. “What do
you—” She stopped when she realized it was the man who had spoken to Dr. Cunningham earlier in the hall. She couldn’t recall his name, though she was certain Cunningham had said it.

  He stopped in front of her, grinning his wicked grin. “I thought that was you. Did Cunningham treat you poorly? Is that why you’re fleeing looking simply devastated? I couldn’t let you go without offering my services.” He bowed dramatically. “Roger Conant. And if Cunningham did dismiss you he is an addled fool.” His eyes took her in with appreciation.

  Cora held back a grimace. “I don’t even know Dr. Cunningham. We collided in the hall. Nothing more. Now, please excuse me, I have to go.” Cora turned, but Conant leaped in front of her.

  “Have to go? Where? Aren’t you one of Mercer’s girls? The boat isn’t quite ready yet. We are all stuck here for a few more hours, I’m afraid.”

  “No, I’m not going on the boat. I’m going back to Boston.”

  His brow furrowed, eyes sharp with curiosity. “Changed your mind? Why?”

  Cora huffed out a sigh of frustration. “Please, Mr. Conant, leave me be.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s the reporter in me. I like to dig into things. Ask questions. You see, you don’t strike me as the cowardly type. I see a bit of adventure longing in those pretty eyes.”

  An unbidden flush heated her cheeks. She was not accustomed to men flirting with her. But her pride was riled. “I’m not a coward, Mr. Conant. Just a realist. And this was a huge mistake.”

  “Why?” He flattened his palm to the wall, barring her way past him. “Oh, come on. Indulge me, please. Tell me your story. Perhaps I can help.”

  Cora studied his face. He seemed genuinely interested, which only confused her. Part of her wanted to shove him and run, but nothing about that was proper, so she took a breath to call on her patience. “I’m a nurse, and Dr. Barnard doesn’t need a nurse as I had hoped. So there is no point going on the journey.”

  “You’re not here to snag a husband?”

  “No, sir. I’m a widow and have no intention of marrying again. I want to use my nursing skills, help others.”

  “I see.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Are you a good nurse?” There was a challenge in his tone, daring her to tell him the truth.

  “The best, if you must know. As good as most surgeons.” She bit her lower lip. Know your place. That was arrogance.

  “I believe it.” His face lit up, followed by a throaty chuckle. “Your name, almighty nurse?”

  “Mrs. Cora Martin.” She felt a tug of pride from the look of admiration in his eyes. She wanted to enjoy it, but a tiny voice of warning told her Roger Conant was nothing but trouble.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Martin, is Dr. Barnard the only doctor in the country?”

  Cora scoffed, folded her arms.

  Roger went on. “I’ve heard there is great need for medical people in the West. So why run home when you can come with us? Who cares if you can’t work for Barnard; he seems a bit of a stiff anyhow. And that wife of his . . .” He rolled his eyes and then grinned. “Opportunity awaits, madam. How can you turn away from that?”

  Pressing her teeth together, Cora hated that he was right. And that she’d been acting impulsively, childish even, by thinking of running home. I decide who I am, Thomas. I’m free of you.

  “Ah. I see it.” He leaned toward her. “A change of mind.” Conant dropped his arm, smirking with satisfaction. “I know I would very much enjoy your company on the long voyage.”

  He took a step closer, and Cora’s throat constricted. Her awkwardness returned in a sudden fell. She stumbled back a couple steps, uncertain how to react to his interest. She’d rather he went back to challenging her skills. She’d rather stitch up a deep wound than flirt with a handsome gentleman. She pulled her hands to her chest, gripping her purse. “I . . . uh . . . I had better check my room.” She stepped to the other side of the hall. “Make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. Excuse me, Mr. Conant.”

  He let her pass. “See you soon, Mrs. Martin.” His tone was arrogant, self-satisfied.

  Cora glanced back to see him strolling down the hall at a leisurely pace, hands in his pockets. She let out a shaking breath as she ducked into the safety of her room.

  The S.S. Continental

  Albert stood on the main deck of the impressive ship that would carry Mercer’s ambitious party. He’d hurried around to the opposite side of the pier to avoid the crowd and looked fervently toward the open sea. He had a fondness for boats, a fascination that had started as a young boy when his father took the family abroad for the summer. During the long voyage across the Atlantic his father had walked him around the ship, pointing out each part and explaining how the steam engine functioned, and he had even found a way into the engine room. With all its levers and knobs, gray steel, and oil residue, Albert had felt like he’d stepped into another world. One he didn’t want to leave until he understood every piece. He felt the same kind of zealous fascination for the human body.

  So he was quite pleased to be standing on a fine screw steamer, with three wide decks, ample lighting and ventilation, and the chug of the stroke pistons warming up in her belly. He looked forward to getting to know the ship better and increasing his skills as a surgeon.

  The Continental had been expected to set sail at eleven this morning, but it was now almost three in the afternoon. Albert’s legs ached. He’d spent the last several hours walking the New York streets to avoid the Lovejoy Hotel and Cora Martin. Waiting impatiently to be underway.

  With a huff of breath, Albert crossed his arms and let his eyes roam the harbor. It wasn’t the delayed departure that had him so irritated; he still couldn’t get Cora Martin out of his head. She kept drifting into his thoughts, riding on the current of his mind, always coming to the surface. With those intelligent, radiant eyes and warm hands.

  Albert harshly tugged at his tie and collar, suddenly too warm despite the crisp January air. He pulled off his coat and draped it over the railing, bracing his hands on either side. Other people had found their way to this side of the deck. A tingle at the back of his neck made him turn. Cora stood several yards down the railing, her face upturned to the breeze, eyes closed. He froze, unable to take his eyes off her. Her deep-green coat and dress were a marvelous complement to her pale skin. Most of her rich-brown hair was tied back into a black netted snood, but she didn’t wear a hat. He watched the sun play with the highlights along the crown of her head. And once again, it was the expression on her face, the position of her body that transfixed him. She reminded him of the heroines in his grandmother’s stories. Seated by the fire, the children at her feet, Grandma Dolly had recounted daring adventures, favoring gritty tales of the Vikings and their conquests. One of her favorites had told the sorrowful tale of a shield-maiden, a woman who’d lost everything dear to her and was forced to fight for her home. A warrior as powerful as any man. An image of Cora, shield braced on her forearm, hair wild around her shoulders, and blood on her hands burned sudden and powerful in his brain.

  Albert blinked in shock. He wasn’t much for fantasy and imagination. At least, not since those days at his grandmother’s hearth. He was a man of science, disciplined and practical. He pressed his eyes closed, forcing the brazen image away.

  What is wrong with me?

  When he opened his eyes, his gaze slammed into Cora’s. She’d finally noticed him, and the displeasure in her expression brought a sharp ache to his chest. She narrowed her eyes slightly, thoughtfully, and then spun on her heel and disappeared around the corner. Albert took a few steps after her before he reined in his senses. With a grunt, he snatched his jacket off the railing and went in the opposite direction to find the doctor’s quarters.

  Focus on your work. Just focus.

  Cora’s heartbeat tripped over itself. Her foot caught an uneven spot on the deck, and she stumbled, cursing under her breath—a bad habit she’d picked up listening to the men on the battlefield. A gentleman and his wife scowled at her, but she hurried past
, ignoring their silent reproach. Finding Dr. Cunningham—Albert, as she thought of him despite hardly knowing him—standing in the winter sun, no jacket on, hair askew from the breeze, and eyes closed, had a strange cocktail of adrenaline pulsing in her veins. She’d caught him with his body turned toward her and his eyes closed as if bracing himself against some twisted pain. She’d instantly wondered if he’d been a soldier on a ship during the war and memories had come back to haunt him. She’d felt compelled to go to him, to smooth the contours of his face with her comfort. But then he’d opened his eyes. The intensity directed at her had been more than she could stand.

  Did I imagine it? I must have. I’m being ridiculous.

  “Ah, the courageous Nurse Martin decided to join us after all.”

  Cora jerked to a halt to find Roger Conant standing in front of her, looking smug and dashing with his black derby hat angled over his eyes. She shot back an expression of annoyance. “Yes, I did. Thank you for the advice. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Why are you always about to run off?” He stepped closer, leaned forward slightly. “This is a boat. Not many places to be alone.” His tone, though intended to be playful, soured her stomach. He went on, “Besides, this is an historic occasion. Why would you want to miss it by hiding belowdecks? Stand with me and wave to the dulcet crowd.”

  Not waiting for her to agree, he took her arm, looped it through his, and towed her along to the rails. He found a small opening in the crowd and wedged them into the tight space, pressing her forward into the rail. People pressed in on both sides of her, Roger behind. Trapped. Cora gripped the rail so tightly her knuckles ached. Her stomach turned, and her pulse raced uncomfortably again. The crowd below blurred into a wash of colors.

  I’m not trapped. I’m fine. I’m fine.

  “How sad to be one of them?” Roger said close to her ear, nodding toward the people on the pier. “The ones left behind. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Much better to be the ones leaving, don’t you agree?”