The Winter Rose (116 page)

Believe in me now. Believe in us. The three of us.

Meet me where the sky touches the sea.

Wait for me where the world begins.

1907

Juan Ramos, stationmaster at Point Reyes, crossed his arms and
checked his wristwatch: 5:12 p.m. They'd be here any second now. He
craned his

neck, the better to see up the Mesa Road. He had a clear view. The
streets, bustling during the day, were empty now. The farm wagons, laden
with cans of milk and tubs of butter, and the fish carts, stacked high
with crates of salmon, trout, oysters, and crab--all bound for San
Francisco--had returned home hours ago.

As his minute hand clicked to 5:13, he spotted them--two straight-backed figures in a trap--the English doctor and her daughter.

Juan Ramos knew the lady doctor. All the locals did. She'd opened a
clinic on the Mesa Road, and she never turned anyone away. Those who
could pay, did. Those who could not brought her butter and cheese, fish,
tortillas, eggs, and fiery pepper sauce.

She'd come here a year ago, and had taken over a huge parcel of prime
ranchland that bordered Limantour Beach. It was seven miles out of town
on a winding, hilly road. Another Englishman, a speculator, had bought
it back in 1900. There had been talk of a lavish resort then, of rich
people coming up from San Francisco by the trainload, of renovations
made to the station, of new businesses needed to service the wealthy,
but it had all turned out to be just that--talk.

Rumor had it the speculator had gone bankrupt and that the doctor had
bought the land from him. Some said she had money of her own and would
build a great mansion, but so far she'd been content to live in the old
clap-board farmhouse that stood on the property and leave things much as
she'd found them.

On weekdays the doctor attended to her patients, and her daughter
attended the local school. On Saturdays and Sundays they did not come
into town during the day--not even for church--but were usually seen,
skirts hiked up and knotted, walking along the beach, picnicking on the
spit, or exploring Drakes Estuary in a rowboat. Yet, no matter what day
of the week it was, no matter what the weather or the season, Juan knew
that come evening they would always be here, the two of them, waiting at
the station.

The doctor drove past him now, guided the horse to its usual spot,
and alighted. Her daughter did the same. They didn't bother to hitch the
animal. He stood placidly, used to this nightly ritual.

"Evening, Dr. Baxter, Miss Charlotte," Juan said.

"Good evening, Mr. Ramos," the doctor and her daughter replied.

The little girl walked into the station but the doctor stopped to talk. "How are your mother's hands?" she asked.

"Much better," Juan said. "The arthritis barely troubles her now. She said the pills you gave her are working miracles."

The doctor smiled. "Good, I'm happy to hear it. You must make sure she keeps on with them, Mr. Ramos."

Juan assured her that he would, then watched her as she walked from
the foyer to the platform, as she did every evening, to meet the 5:15
from San Francisco.

Day after day they waited, but the person they waited for never
appeared. The doctor and her daughter would linger until the very last
passenger had disembarked, until the conductor had blown his whistle and
slammed the carriage doors, until the train had pulled out of the
station.

He'd asked her once for whom she was waiting. "Mr. Baxter," she'd replied. "My husband."

Juan believed her at first. He thought that she had come out here
ahead of her husband. To set up the house for him. He believed Mr.
Baxter would come because the doctor so clearly believed he would.

But then days had passed. And weeks. And months. A year. And still
Mr. Baxter did not come. The women of the town began to talk. Some said
he would not come for he'd been killed in a war. Others said he'd
deserted her. A few were certain he'd been killed prospecting.

Juan began to feel sorry for the doctor. He wondered if perhaps she
was not quite right in her mind. It was hard for him to see the hope in
her eyes, and her daughter's, as the train pulled in. Harder still to
see their disappointment when no one called out their names and no one
came rushing to embrace them.

"Perhaps tomorrow," the doctor would say, as she and her daughter walked by him on their way home.

"Yes, perhaps tomorrow," Juan would reply.

He found it difficult to keep believing in Mr. Baxter, but he found
it more difficult to stop believing in him. To do so would have been to
admit that the hard and simple things of life--love, hope, faith--were
foolish and counted for nothing.

The 5:15 steamed in now, and for a few moments, Juan forgot the
doctor and her daughter as he waved at the engineer, barked at the
porter to look lively, and took the nightly mail bag from the conductor.

He did not, at first, notice the thin, haggard man who got off the
train after everyone else. The man was handsome, but gaunt. He walked
with the help of a cane. There were lines in his tanned face. They made
him look older than he was.

He did not see the doctor go pale. He turned only when she cried out.
And then he saw them both--mother and child--run to the man and throw
their arms around him.

He saw the man close his eyes and bury his face in the doctor's neck,
saw him bend down to the girl and kiss her. But he didn't hear the
doctor ask him what happened, where he'd been, how he got here. Or hear
him tell her that it was a damned long story. He didn't hear the doctor
say that she had plenty of time to listen to it--the rest of her life,
in fact.

Juan did see the conductor handing down Mr. Baxter's bag. A porter moved to take it, but he ordered him away.

"Please, sir," he said to Mr. Baxter. "Allow me."

The doctor introduced them and then Juan followed them out to the
trap. Charlotte scrambled into the back. The doctor climbed into the
driver's seat. Mr. Baxter climbed in beside her, slowly.

Juan put his bag in the back, then waved them off. He was still
standing on the pavement as they pulled away and he could hear Mr.
Baxter say, "This is just like the fairy stories you used to tell me. A
long time ago. In Arden Street."

And the doctor reply, "It's even better, my love. You won't believe
how beautiful your new home is. It's the sea and the sky. Fresh salt
air. The morning sun streaming in through its windows. It's everything
you ever dreamed of, everything you wanted."

"The story ends happily, then?"

The doctor leaned over and kissed him. And then she kissed her daughter. Not caring who saw her. Not caring who heard.

"It does, Mr. Baxter," she said. "It has."

I would like to warmly thank Catherine Goodstein, MD, for generously
sharing her insights on why one chooses to become a doctor, and her
recollections of her own medical school days--both of which were
invaluable to me. Dr. Goodstein's compassion, intelligence, and strength
are all attributes I bestowed upon the character of India Selwyn Jones.
India was also inspired by two pioneers of western medicine: Elizabeth
Blackwell, the first woman to earn a medical degree in the United
States, and Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, the first woman to gain medical
qualification in Britain. In 1840, when Dr. Blackwell earned her degree,
and in 1870, when Dr. Garrett Anderson earned hers, a large portion of
society felt that a woman who wished to practice medicine was at best
unnatural, at worst indecent. Condemned by the medical establishment,
politicians, and the press, these two brave women fought tirelessly for
the right to become doctors. After they won that right, they paved the
way for future generations by founding medical colleges for women. Dr.
Blackwell also opened the New York Infirmary for Indigent Women and
Children, which employed female doctors and nurses.

I am indebted to the librarians and archivists at the Wellcome
Library, the Royal College of Physicians Library, the Royal Free
Hospital Archives Centre, and the House of Commons Library--all in
London--for their knowledge, expertise, and patience. London's wonderful
Science Museum provided a wealth of information on medicine and medical
implements of the early twentieth century, as did Harold Speert, MD, in
his books on the history of obstetrics and gynecology. Thanks also to
Alex Dundas for answering many questions on mountaineering, past and
present, with passion and precision.

I am grateful to my agent, Simon Lipskar, and my editors--Leslie
Wells in New York and Susan Watt in London--for their enthusiasm,
guidance, smarts, and talent. And most of all, I am thankful to my
wonderful family for always encouraging me and always believing in me.

About the Author

Jennifer Donnelly is the author of The Tea Rose and the children's
book A Northern Light. She lives in Brooklyn and Tivoli, New York, with
her husband and daughter.

also by Jennifer Donnelly

The Tea Rose

A Northern Light

Credits Design by Fritz Metsch

Copyright

THE WINTER ROSE. Copyright � 2008 Jennifer Donnelly. All rights
reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By
payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive,
non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book
on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,
downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced
into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any
means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter
invented, without the express written permission of Hyperion e-books.