The Doctor's Lady (5 page)

He locked his arm over hers and prevented her escape. “I won’t ravish you. I promise.”

“I didn’t think you would. It’s just that—”

“This turned into a pretty big mess, didn’t it?” His muscles tightened.

“Why don’t we put an end to it right here?” She jerked her hand, trying to free it.

But he pressed harder, holding her captive, enjoying watching her spark come to life. “We can’t disappoint your mother quite yet, can we? Or you either.”

In the cool evening air, the white clouds of her breath came in short bursts. “Of course you won’t disappoint me.”

“Are you sure?” Even though his tone teased, a chamber of his heart stopped pulsing in anticipation of her answer.

“God’s called me to India.” Her voice was clipped. “I’ve had a setback today, but He’ll open a way for me yet.”

“The Board isn’t going to let you go by yourself.”

“They might—”

“You’re gonna have to get married, just like I have to.”

She blew an exasperated breath. “Well, I’m not marrying you.”

“That’s good, because I wasn’t planning to marry you either.”

“I figured you wouldn’t.”

The soft resignation in her tone halted his breath.

“I completely understand.” She tugged her hand away and headed in the direction the others had gone.

Her velvety cloak swished in finality, and she lifted her chin as if to defy him. But before she could conceal her hands within the fur of her muff, he caught a glimpse of her trembling fingers.

Surely she didn’t think—

“Wait.” He charged after her.

She picked up her pace.

“You misunderstood me.” With his long stride, he easily caught up to her. “Yes, Dr. Baldwin did tell me about your condition.”

Her boots slapped the slush on the street. “I said I understand. Why would any man want to marry a woman who can’t give him a namesake?”

“Plenty of men wouldn’t care.”

“Well, I’d like to meet just one.”

He grabbed her arm and dragged her to a stop.

“Dr. Ernest!” She glared at his hand.

He turned her until she had no choice but to meet his gaze. The shadows of the evening lurked in her eyes.

“You want to meet a man who doesn’t care about a woman’s fertility?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Well, you’re looking at one. God’s given me a passion and a calling to the natives of the West. I figure that’s all I need.”

Her eyes widened. Framed by long lashes, they were the kind of eyes that could easily make him forget his own name if he wasn’t careful.

“Listen.” He glanced to where the others had stopped in front of the Whites’ home, and then his gaze trailed over to the other elaborate homes that lined the street. The shack he’d lived in as a child would fit into the front parlor of some of them. “All I’m trying to say is that I can’t marry you, but it’s not because of your infertility.”

“If that’s not it, then why?”

“Children!” Mrs. White called. “Come now. You can talk more inside, where it’s warm.”

Priscilla waved to her mother. “We’re coming.” But she didn’t move.

“Not that I want to marry you,” she continued. “Not at all. But if not for my condition, then what reason could you have for declining my mother’s offer? Certainly not because I’m a
fine
lady.”

He shrugged, then cupped his hands and blew into them for warmth. “You seem to be sincere and kind and eager—but those qualities won’t help you survive the challenges of living in a foreign land.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she regarded him for a moment before finally speaking. “How am I to believe you when you are the only one who has ever made such a declaration? Everyone else has always encouraged me in my pursuit of missions.”

“Haven’t you wondered why so many women missionaries die on the field?”

“No. I haven’t wondered in the least. I’ve only considered my sisters in Christ heroic for their willingness to joyfully sacrifice their lives.”

“Priscilla Jane White,” Mrs. White called. “You hurry now before you catch your death of cold.”

She started forward.

He matched his pace to hers. “Maybe they’re not heroic so much as they are foolish, going to places and climates that are harsh for the healthiest and facing privations that would tax even the strongest.”

“It would seem your standards are too high for everyone.”

“Perhaps not for everyone. Maybe just for young gals who aren’t used to doing hard work.”

“Oh good. Then that isn’t me.” Their footsteps slowed as they neared the Whites’ double-storied home with its tall Greek Revival pillars set in a stately row across the front. “Because, first of all, I’m not a ‘gal.’ And second, I’ve done plenty of hard labor in my life.”

“Where I come from, knitting socks isn’t considered work.”

She stopped and turned on him so abruptly he stumbled backward. “I am well acquainted with all varieties of work. I don’t know too many other women who work as hard as I do.”

The sparks in her eyes mirrored the specks of stars beginning to flicker overhead.

He grinned. “Oh, and organizing prayer meetings doesn’t count either.”

She clenched her fists and huffed. “You’re—you’re—”

“Telling the truth?”

Her eyes were even bigger and helplessly beautiful when she got her dander up. He braced himself for her claws.

But instead of spitting at him, she drew herself up, took a breath, and composed her delicate features into a mask of gentility. “You might be telling the truth, Dr. Ernest. I might not know all of the realities of mission life. But thankfully, I can trust that the One who called me will help me through the trials.”

The sincerity of her words wiped away his mirth and replaced it with growing admiration. She might be foolish, but she was sincere.

Mrs. White called to them again. “Continue your conversation inside.” She stood on the front porch and turned to John and Richard, who stood next to Dr. Baldwin. “Now, you two savages run along to the back of the house and use the pantry entrance.”

The boys backed away from the front door.

“Wait.” Unease trickled through Eli. “Why can’t John and Richard come in with us?”

“They’ll be taking their meal in the kitchen,” Mrs. White responded. “I see no need for them to traipse through my house when they can enter and exit through the rear door.”

“And why won’t they be eating at the table with the rest of us?”

Mrs. White sniffed. “Well, of course they won’t. They’re savages.”

“They’re young boys, human beings—in need of your kindness and goodwill.”

“And I am showing them kindness, in the kitchen.”

Eli shook his head in frustration. Why were his supporters willing to throw their money at missions but not willing to truly love the people they were bent on saving? “If John and Richard are savages simply because of the color of their skin, then I must be getting close. After months of travel, I’m about as dark as they are.”

“It has nothing to do with the color of their skin, Dr. Ernest.”

“Then what is it? Their language? Their customs? What makes them so savage?”

Priscilla laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sure what Mother meant to say is that John and Richard are more than welcome to eat wherever they would feel most comfortable, and that we would be happy to have them join us at the dinner table.”

He didn’t realize how tense his body had grown until the softness of her touch penetrated his thoughts.

“Thank you, Miss White. But if John and Richard aren’t welcome in your mother’s home, then I don’t consider myself welcome either.”

“Oh, pishposh.” Mrs. White opened the door and held it wide. “Priscilla’s right. If you insist on having the heathen boys dine with us, I shall make an exception.”

Eli backed away and nodded at John and Richard to come with him. Over the winter with him in the East, they’d learned enough English to understand Mrs. White’s rudeness. Even if they didn’t know what she was saying, they could recognize the snub by her tone.

“Come now,” Mrs. White said.

“No thank you.” The woman was too proud and controlling. He couldn’t stomach the thought of sitting through a meal with her, especially if he had to endure any more of her matchmaking charade. He didn’t have time to waste on those kinds of games, not when he had so little time left to finalize his plans.

For an instant he scrutinized Priscilla, the smooth skin of her cheek, the tantalizing stretch of her neck, the delicate curls by her ear. He would never see her again after tonight, so why not give himself the pleasure of a last long look at one of God’s finer works of creation?

“Good-bye.” His gaze traveled to her eyes.

She lifted her long lashes. “Must you really leave? Mother didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Why, Miss White.” His insides fluttered, as though her lashes had tickled him. “I thought you’d be happy to see me go, as uncivilized as I am.”

Her eyelashes came down, hiding the depths of her thoughts. When she looked at him again, her eyes shone clear. “I believe you are a good man, Dr. Ernest. And I will pray that God blesses your mission in the West.”

“You’re not going to beg me to stay and marry you?”

She cocked a brow as if she didn’t quite know what to think of him.

It was time to go before he did something foolish. “Good-bye, Priscilla White.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he turned and strode away.

Mrs. White’s appeals followed him. Even Dr. Baldwin’s call urged him to stop. But through it all, Priscilla’s soft-spoken good-bye was the only word he heard. It was only one word, but it had all the finality and force of a slamming door.

And for some reason, the slam reverberated through him and jolted him all the way to his bones.

P
riscilla sat with her pen poised above her diary, the ink nearly dry. The page of her little book was empty, reflecting the hollow ache in her chest.

She’d retired to the study after arriving home from her long day of teaching, hoping for a moment of privacy in which to capture her troubled thoughts. But Mary Ann had followed her into the dim corner of the house and settled herself into one of the room’s overstuffed armchairs.

Usually she was glad for Mary Ann’s mature company after a day spent in the presence of children. She’d rejoiced after her sister’s marriage to Reverend Lull, when their parents had suggested the young couple live in the extra bedroom vacated by their brother, who was away at seminary training. Priscilla had been glad for the precious extra time she could spend with her sister.

But now . . . it appeared that she’d have plenty of time with Mary Ann and the rest of her family . . . likely forever.

“What do you think?” her younger sister asked. “Is it big enough for the baby, or do I need to add a few more rows?”

Priscilla shifted in the stiff chair at the massive desk. Loaded with books and ledgers for maintaining household accounts, with its honeycomb of shelves, drawers, and compartments, the desk was her favorite escape.

She swallowed her wish to tell Mary Ann to leave her be and instead glanced at the blanket her sister was knitting. The dull light from the oil lamp highlighted the even rows of soft white yarn.

“It’s beautiful,” Priscilla said. And so was Mary Ann, with her swelling stomach and her glowing eyes.

“Is it long enough?”

Tears pricked the back of Priscilla’s eyes. “It will be absolutely perfect,” she said, shifting her gaze away from the painful reminder of what she could never have.

It was at times like these when her barrenness hurt the most, when she had to work hard to remind herself that God had other plans for her. Better plans.

If only she could stop the longings, stop the desire to experience the flutter of new life in her own womb. If only God didn’t surround her with constant reminders.

She blinked back the blur in her eyes and let her gaze linger on the family Bible on the round table in the center of the room. Sitting on an elegantly crocheted doily, the enormous book with its silver-edged pages reminded her that God was at the center of their home
and
her heart. He would never desert her and would yet provide a way for her to go to India.

“If only the baby’s kicking didn’t keep me up at night.” Mary Ann’s knitting needles clicked together rhythmically.

“It won’t be long now. Then you’ll be holding your sweet baby in your arms.”

“I suppose it is just getting me used to being up at night. All my friends tell me how little sleep they get during those first few weeks after the baby is born.”

“Well, don’t worry. It looks like I’ll be here to help you.” Priscilla turned back to her blank diary page.

Some days she wished she could tell her sister the truth. Maybe then Mary Ann would show more sensitivity. But Mother had insisted they keep the subject private—even from family—not wanting to chance any disgrace that her barrenness might bring to their impeccable reputation.

“You’re quiet this forenoon,” Mary Ann remarked. “I realize yesterday’s letter must have been quite a shock. But certainly you’ll feel better about the matter in a few days.”

“Perhaps. At least I hope you’re correct.” The pity in her sister’s voice only stirred the restlessness in Priscilla’s chest. She didn’t want Mary Ann’s pity. She didn’t want pity from anyone. Especially regarding her infertility.

Mother was right. It was better to keep her condition private. The pain of her longings was burden enough. She didn’t need to add embarrassment and humiliation.

“Terrible news!” Mother called from the entryway. The front door closed with a rattle that shook the walls. An instant later she appeared in the doorway of the study. “I’ve just returned from Dr. Baldwin’s and have terrible news.”

Her face was red, and Priscilla prayed it was from the cold wind and not anger.

“I intended to make amends with Dr. Ernest and invite him and his savages to join us for dinner tonight, since he stomped off so childishly last night.” Mother untied the ribbon under her chin and removed her bonnet.

Priscilla didn’t need to hear the rest of Mother’s terrible news. She already knew.

“And what do you think Dr. Baldwin told me?” She patted her hair and smoothed the loose strands.

Priscilla stared at the elaborate bookcase next to the fireplace. It overflowed with leather-bound classics and reference books. On the bottom shelf sat the stack of yellowing issues of the
Missionary Herald
she’d collected over the years—all the numerous articles about India that had birthed in her the desire to go and help poor and depraved souls.

But what about the many obituaries that lauded the services of the women who’d given up their lives? Had Dr. Ernest been right about their foolishness? About her?

“Dr. Ernest departed from town early this morning,” Mother continued, “without leaving any word of where he was going or when he would be back.”

Mary Ann gasped. “Oh no!”

“I can’t believe the audacity of that man.” Mother slipped off her heavy woolen cloak. “How are we supposed to make the wedding arrangements now?”

Priscilla shifted her gaze away from the news articles that seemed to be mocking her. “You need to accept the fact that Dr. Ernest doesn’t want to marry me. He made it quite clear I wasn’t the type of woman he’d ever consider.”

Mother draped her cloak over a chair. “He was attracted to you, and he’ll marry you.”

“Maybe I was wrong to believe Providence was leading me into missions.”

“I’ve prayed all my life that God would have a special place for each of my children in service to Him,” Mother said. “Now that Mary Ann has married a minister, she’s doing her part. Edward is considering the divine calling and theological seminary. You must do your part too, Priscilla.”

Mother never mentioned their younger brother anymore. None of them understood why the Lord had chosen to take him home to heaven so early. His death had only seemed to fuel Mother’s need to see the rest of them in service to God, as if that would somehow save them.

“Perhaps I shall continue to serve the Lord here in Angelica, as I always have,” Priscilla said hesitantly.

“Nonsense.” Mother plucked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “With your academy education and your spiritual training, you’re an exemplary candidate for missionary work. And if the Lord has decided not to use you in India, He can most certainly use you somewhere else. Like the West.”

Priscilla shook her head, but the sternness of Mother’s glare stopped her protest. “Just think how highly people will regard you for embarking on such a journey. And think of the benefit to our family’s reputation.”

“I’m not serving the Lord for personal recognition—”

“Of course you’re not. Nevertheless, heathen
everywhere
need to hear the gospel, including those in the West,” Mother continued. “And since Dr. Ernest is willing to take you as you are, we’d best take advantage of this opportunity.”

Priscilla pressed her lips together. It would do no good to argue with Mother. Besides, Mother would soon see for herself that even if she wanted to go west, Dr. Ernest wasn’t interested in her—not in the least.

Rushville, New York

Y
ou’re the stupidest idiot I know,” Eli’s stepfather said as he scraped at the hide and didn’t miss a stroke.

Eli leaned against the vat of tanning liquor and kicked at the slime of loose flesh pooled at his feet. What had possessed him to think he needed to stop by home?

“Them Indians don’t want no help, and you’s just gonna get yourself killed.”

The beaming knife grated against the bristle of the hair and meat that remained on the wet hide. His stepfather’s tool scuffed with an even rhythm borne of years of experience, but the young beamers at the other benches struggled with choppy movements against the wet pigskins and cowskins.

“’Sides, you know I need you here.”

“Come on, Walt.” Eli held back a groan. “I’m a doctor. I won’t ever take over this place, even if I wasn’t heading out to the West.”

How many times did he need to tell his stepfather that he didn’t want to tan leather for the rest of his life? Just because he’d worked off and on at the tannery over the winter while raising funds for the mission didn’t mean he was planning to continue.

“It don’t take nothing to be a doctor.”

Eli shook his head and clamped his jaw shut.

“Any old quack can hang out a sign and be a doctor. But this . . .” Walt straightened and waved at the dark narrow room. Although his stepfather had recently added several large vats and hired more operators, Eli couldn’t see anything but the flecks of dried blood and flesh on the walls and the puddles of putrid meat that littered the floorboards.

“This here is the business of the future.” Walt puffed out his stomach, his shirt and apron coated with gristle and blood. “We been trading our boots and shoes as far away as New York City.”

“I’m not here to argue with you again—”

“You’re too stupid to argue with me. You think you’s smart, but we all know you can’t read worth spit.”

The gastric juices in Eli’s stomach churned, stinging as sharply as Walt’s words. Even if Walt wouldn’t admit it, they both knew Eli had worked himself to the bone to better himself.

He pushed away from the vat. He shouldn’t have come. Walt only pestered him more with each visit, his sisters were long gone, and his ma didn’t care if he lived or died. Why couldn’t he just let go of his hope that she’d ever forgive him?

Tentatively, he lifted his hand and skimmed his finger down the long scar along the edge of his cheek. It was a constant reminder of how he’d failed her and Pa—a reminder he didn’t need, not when his mind refused to let him forget.

“I always warned you not to waste money on school. Who needs it anyway? I never been a day in my life and look at me.”

Eli looked at Walt’s hands, red and raw, covered with the slime of the hides.
Yes, look at you.
Eli swallowed his sarcastic response.

“Watch what you’re doing.” Walt shoved the beamer next to him who’d stopped his work to watch Eli. The force sent the young man slipping backward, and he landed with a smack on the wet floor.

Walt shook his head. “Idiot.”

“Guess you still think you can knock everyone around.” Eli had to leave before he did or said something he’d regret. He walked over to the beamer, reached out a hand, and heaved the man up. “You all right?”

The beamer nodded and grabbed his knife, then bent his head over the hide stretched across his bench.

Eli gave him a friendly slap on the back and started toward the door. “Look, Walt, I need the wages you owe me. And I came to see if you’d donate boots for the trip. That’s all.”

The acrid stench of decaying flesh swirled with the bitterness of finely ground hemlock bark used in the tanning solution. Even though he’d grown up with the reek of the tannery in every pore of his skin, he didn’t want to spend the next week trying to erase the odor from his clothes and hair.

“Fine. You go collect your wages and have one of the men make you a pair of boots,” Walt called.

Eli was almost to the door. Something in his gut told him to leave while he could, even if it meant he had to purchase the boots out of his own money.

He elbowed aside his hesitation. “I need four pairs.”

“Four?” His stepfather’s voice rose on the edge of disbelief. “Why do you need four? You plannin’ to trade ’em to the Indians and make a profit?”

“One pair is for me, and the others are for my traveling companions.”

Walt’s mouth hung open for a moment before he clamped it shut and stared.

“For the missionary couple joining me in Pittsburgh. And for . . . my wife.” Even as the word slipped from his tongue, annoyance coated his salivary glands. He still hadn’t found a suitable woman.

“Wife? What wife?” Walt snorted. “Someone else beat you to her bed.”

“I’m not talking about Sarah Taylor.” Eli’s mind scrambled to find words that wouldn’t invite further mockery. If Walt knew the truth—that he’d failed to find a replacement and that his whole trip was in jeopardy—he’d never hear the end of it.

“I got a girl up in Angelica,” he rushed. “A pretty little thing and rich too.”

For a moment, Eli wanted to knock himself over the head. What was he thinking? When he’d ridden away from Angelica, he’d vowed never to think about Priscilla again.

But after a week of hopeless leads, Priscilla White was starting to look better every day. He hadn’t worked this hard to let all his plans and dreams slip away simply because he couldn’t find a woman.

“You’re a lyin’ idiot if you think I’m gonna believe you.” Walt leveled his knife against the hide in front of him.

“You just have those boots ready by next week.” Eli started through the door and called over his shoulder, “You can give them to us as a wedding present.”

Outside, he blew a long frustrated breath. He flexed his arms and fingers, trying to release the tension. What had he just done?

He kicked at the cord of hemlock bark stacked on one side of the doorway. Surely he hadn’t just practically married himself to Priscilla White. Not when he’d promised himself that if he had to saddle himself with a wife, he’d make sure she was strong and independent.

He twisted, and this time his boot connected with a fresh bundle of hides waiting for a lime bath to loosen the hair.

“Lord Almighty, what other choice have you given me?” He lifted his face to a sky covered with a sagging dirty blanket of clouds. He wished he could wrangle them aside and get a glimpse of the wide open heavens he’d seen out west.

Why had it been so much easier for him to think and pray when he’d slept under the stars? There the Almighty’s will had been as clear as a reflection in a mountain pond. He’d known without a doubt that God wanted him to be the one to establish a good relationship with the Indians of the Northwest—to reach out the hand of friendship and help before others came west and devalued and destroyed them.