They Called Her Mrs. Doc. (2 page)
“Hello, Mrs. Doc!” shouted Freddie, and Philip echoed his greeting with a wave of his arm, “Hi, Mrs. Doc.”
She responded to their call and then they were running on down the clumping concrete, off on some adventure that only a boy could appreciate.
She smiled after them, thinking of the many times they or other neighborhood children had come to her with a scratch or a sliver or a pet that needed “nursing.” She wondered whom they would go to once she was gone.
Mrs. Doc.
They all called her that. The whole town seemed to have forgotten her real name was Cassandra Dell Smith, the
wife
of their former doctor. They all seemed to feel as if she belonged to them in some unique and special way. As if she had always belonged to them.
But it hadn’t always been so. Her thoughts suddenly dipped back and back, down a lane she had not traveled for many years. She saw again the young girl she had once been—and the many changes that had eventually brought her to where she sat now, on her familiar front porch on a crisp fall day, taking a break from sorting a lifetime of memories.
“Cassie Dell Winston—if you don’t invite me for this dinner, I’ll—I’ll never—never speak to you again.”
The words were spoken in jest, but Cassie knew instinctively that her longtime friend, Abigail Jordon, was serious about her request. Abigail’s dark eyes flashed and her chin set in a stubborn line as she snatched up the cushion from Cassie’s vanity bench in mock threat of swinging it at her friend.
Cassie was used to Abigail’s overreactions. She lifted her head high, red hair shining and green eyes sparkling in the rays of the afternoon sun. She tipped her head saucily and responded with a slight shrug.
“You always say that,” she replied, “but you just go on chattering anyway.” She chuckled and turned her back on the threatening cushion.
“Well—well, I’ll—I’ll never forgive you,” blustered Abigail. Cassie shrugged again. “I’ve heard that before, too,” she answered with another chuckle.
“Well—well—oh—please. Please ask your mother if I might—”
Cassie turned to Abigail and laughed. “I already have and—” she responded and was cut off by a shrill shriek of delight.
“You have—oh-h! What did she say? Did she ask my mother? Can I come?”
One question poured out on the heels of another as Abigail threw her arms roughly around her best friend and hugged her. Cassie tugged away from the embrace. “Don’t smother me!” she exclaimed in exasperation.
Abigail drew back and squealed again.
“What are we going to wear?” she gasped. “We only have three hours. We—”
“Four,” corrected Cassie. “Dinner isn’t until seven.”
“That still doesn’t leave much time. Oh-h.” And Abigail groaned.
Cassie tipped her head to one side and observed her agitated friend. “I thought you had no use for doctors,” she said with a hint of impatience.
“Well—I—I don’t—but they—they aren’t doctors—yet. You said so—but they are—they are still young men.”
Cassie nodded sagely, took a long look at Abigail, and then giggled. Soon both girls had collapsed on the organdie-covered bed and were laughing with schoolgirl abandon.
Cassandra Dell Winston was the daughter of Dr. Henry P. Winston, noted physician and educator. Not only did he have his own practice in the city of Montreal, but he taught classes of young interns at the local university. Over the years he had handpicked young gentlemen whom he felt were especially promising and invited them home to dinner. It was considered an honor for a young man to be seen as one of Dr. Henry P.’s proteges and almost always promised a shortcut on his way up the ladder of success. Several of Dr. Henry P.’s young men became prominent physicians and surgeons in the city.
Although Cassandra had eyed some of the young men in the past, she had not been of an age where she could be expected to show any serious interest. But this year was different. Cassandra Dell was now seventeen, and though her father would not for a moment have considered her old enough to show interest even yet, her mother knew that somewhere over the last year Cassandra had stepped from childhood to young womanhood.
Being the only girl in the family, Cassie was encouraged to form a close friendship with a girl her own age. Perhaps the Winstons would not have chosen Abigail to be that friend, feeling her to be spoiled, critical, somewhat snooty and immature, but Cassie and Abbie had bonded when the two were starting first grade. They traveled the years together much as sisters—scrapping one minute and inseparable the next.
When they turned twelve, Abbie had announced to the world that from now on she would answer only to
Abigail,
and she did, too. Cassie thought she was making too much of it, but she complied also.
But some things about Abigail irked even Cassie. One was the way she put on airs about her father’s profession. He was a well-known attorney, and Abigail was always making little comments about her father’s prestige in the city, the cost of her silks and satins, the maid who looked after her boudoir.
Cassie’s father was not poor. They lived in one of the best sections of the city—just down the street from Abigail herself. It was true that Abigail’s house was bigger. It was also true that they had two more household staff than did the Winstons, and it was true that her closets bulged with dresses that she hardly ever wore. But Cassie did not feel like the poor country cousin, and she resented it when Abigail made her snippy little remarks.
Still, they were best of friends, even when the one piqued the other. Now with the coming dinner, Abigail was almost fawning. Impatient again, Cassie turned her back, her chin coming up, and for a moment she wished she hadn’t coaxed an invitation out of her mother.
“There are two of them?” Abigail was asking, giving Cassie’s arm a little tug.
“Three,” responded Cassie with a casual flip of her red curls. “Three.”
“Oh,” squealed Abigail. “Just think. Three.” Shaking Cassie’s arm again, she hurried another question. “Do you know their names?” she probed.
Cassie faced Abigail, her head cocked slightly to the right.
“Oh yes. Father has us practicing the names long before they arrive.”
She turned to the mirror and brushed at an annoying freckle on her left cheek.
“Well, tell me the names,” demanded Abigail. “I need to practice, too.”
Cassie looked full at her friend. Excitement had colored the girl’s cheeks and caused her dark eyes to flash. She was really quite attractive. Cassie wondered if she had done the right thing in inviting another girl to share the dinner table. What if Abigail stole the show? What if one of the young gentlemen looked—well, suitable—and then he choose Abigail instead of her? Cassie trembled at the thought and then shook off the fear along with Abigail’s restricting hand.
“The oldest one is Dr. Corouthers. He has already graduated and is just beginning his internship.”
“Is he really
old
?” asked Abigail with a grimace, then added quickly, “You may have him.”
Cassie flipped back a straying lock of hair and gave her friend a disdainful look. Abigail did not even cringe.
“Then there is Mr. Birdwell—”
“Birdwell! What an awful name. I would never—never allow myself to become Abigail Birdwell. That’s awful. Horrible!”
Cassie reached up to draw the pins from her hair and let it spill about her shoulders. She shook her head in impatience and turned those flashing green eyes on her friend. “You do not have to stay for dinner,” she reminded the girl coolly. “And you certainly do not have to become Mrs. Abigail Birdwell.”
She sat down in front of the vanity mirror and noticed the angry flush in her face.
“Well, after all,” Abigail responded, seeing no need to apologize, “it is all in good fun. What is the name of the third one?”
“Mr. Smith,” said Cassie.
“Mr. Smith? You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”
“No, I am not.”
“Really? It’s really just—just Mr. Smith?”
Cassie let her fingers gently trace another freckle. “I assume he has a given name,” she said tartly.
“Well, I do hope Walton or Jefferson or—or—”
“Oh, do stop carrying on so,” Cassie responded, annoyance edging her voice, “or I’ll wish I had never invited you.”
A pout began to pucker Abigail’s mouth. “Sometimes you can be most old-maidish,” she said. To which Cassie replied with a clipped, “And sometimes you can be most childish.”
Heavy silence invaded the room. Cassie continued to study her face in the mirror and Abigail moved restlessly on the organdie coverlet.
“Would you rather I didn’t come?” she asked peevishly at length, her words daring Cassie to refuse her admittance.
“Oh, let’s not fight,” Cassie replied, turning to her almost reluctantly. “I told Mama that I don’t wish to be the only girl at a whole table full of men and boys. She’s already asked your mother, and you’ve been given permission. So why don’t you run on home and get ready. Be back here by seven—sharp. Mama hates for anyone to be late.”
“You’re a dear!” exclaimed Abigail and bounced up to give Cassie a quick hug. “I will be here by seven—in my prettiest silk and my emerald choker.”
Yes,
thought Cassie, turning back to her mirror,
I’m sure you will—even though you think yourself way above any of the three young men
. She knew Abigail, the “unattainable attorney’s daughter,” would still try her hardest to impress them.
Her shoulder sagged slightly as she heard her bedroom door open and close and Abigail’s light footsteps hurrying down the carpeted hall.
Cassie was certain now that she should never have invited Abigail to join the dinner party. Abigail’s dark brown eyes and almost raven black hair made a striking contrast with her creamy skin, and she had no freckles whatever. It was true that her nose was a tad long, her chin had a stubborn tilt, and her manners sometimes left things to be desired, but Cassie still felt a twinge of fear that it might be Abigail who would steal the show.
“Oh, bother!” she said disgustedly. “Why didn’t I just let well enough alone?”
Then she shrugged again. “They most likely will all be old—and boring—and—and ugly,” she consoled her image in the mirror. “Abigail is right—doctors aren’t really very good catches. Just look at Papa. He’s always busy—never home—and terribly old-fashioned.”
She heaved a sigh and rose from the vanity stool. She still hadn’t decided what she would wear—but for some reason it no longer seemed so terribly important.
The ten people at the dinner table included Dr. and Mrs. Henry P. Winston, the three gentlemen dinner guests, Cassie and Abigail and Cassie’s three younger brothers.
Cassie tried to be ladylike in manner and decorum, but it was difficult at times with Abigail surreptitiously kicking her under the table and giving her sly glances and knowing nods. Cassie was about to lose patience again when Abigail seemed to stop her twittering and settle down, content to catch shy peeks from behind long, dark lashes at the three distinguished dinner guests.
Cassie’s own head was still spinning. The “older” Dr. Corouthers had turned out to not be so old after all. In fact, he didn’t look a bit over twenty-six or seven. Still quite acceptable in Cassie’s thinking. And the younger Mr. Birdwell did not at all resemble his name. He was quite striking with a mass of wavy blond hair and the bluest eyes she had ever seen.
Mr. Smith was the quietest of the lot, seeming to speak only when spoken to. He was as plain as his name, in Cassie’s estimation—but he did have a gentle, pleasant smile and first-class manners. Cassie watched her mother chatting quite easily with him at one end of the table, while Dr. Henry P. discussed medical topics with the other two dinner guests and kept his three young sons in order with frequent stern looks.
For the most part, Cassie and Abigail seemed to go unnoticed. Cassie could not help but wonder if Abigail chafed that her beautiful creamy silk and the expensive emerald choker were ignored. As the thought crossed Cassie’s mind, she was tempted to savor her friend’s discomfiture, but quickly brought herself in check when she remembered that she, too, had been as casually overlooked. She felt her cheeks flush slightly and for one awful moment had the urge to do something outlandish just to get some attention.
Her breeding stood her in good stead. Quietly and with the best of manners she continued the meal, only occasionally stealing an upward glance at the three opposite dinner guests.
The meal was almost over and the three were making elaborate compliments to Mrs. Winston when Cassie felt eyes upon her and cast a quick glance in the direction of Mr. Birdwell, hoping to find him solemnly studying her great beauty. But Mr. Birdwell had his eyes fastened on the rosy face of Abigail. Cassie looked away quickly.
“You have only the one daughter, Mrs. Winston?” she heard a deep but soft voice inquire, and her head almost jerked up.
“One girl,” responded Mrs. Winston. “One girl and three boys.”
Cassie carefully turned her head.
“It’s rather a shame,” the same voice continued. “I’m sure the neighborhood young men wish that you had provided at least a dozen.”