Healing Sarah (American Homespun Book 3) Page 2

  Everything else she could leave in the classroom over the summer. The half-erased row of letters annoyed her. At just nine inches over her five feet, Timmy, er, Dr. Dawes, wasn’t as tall as Samuel Wilson, but he should be able to reach them.

  “Dr. Dawes—”

  “Tim.”

  Birds would fly north for the winter before she called him Tim. “Would you mind erasing M to Z for me?”

  As she suspected, he reached the letters with ease. “Anything else?”

  Sarah shook her head. “No, I have everything I need.”

  “Allow me.” Tim tucked the books under one arm, and Sarah had no choice but to follow him out of the school.

  Although a light rain fell as they left, the dark clouds threatened a deluge at any moment. Timmy, Dr. Dawes, Tim—nothing sounded right in her head—tucked her books in a box under the seat before helping her up into his buggy.

  He handed her a large oilcloth. “The open buggy allows for speed but is not always the most convenient in inclement weather.” He untied the horse and guided it back a few steps before joining Sarah. “I am afraid you will need to direct me.”

  “Oh, Em––Mrs. Wilson’s place is just north of the church on the opposite side of the street. After her husband died, she wanted to be closer to the center of town for her midwifery, and with her twins, John and Joe, working the farm, she thought it would be better to have a place of her own. That was before Joe left.”

  Tim drove to Swanson’s store first. “I won’t be but a minute.” He dashed in and came right back out. His sister had left a quarter hour earlier. As they turned up High Street, the rain began to fall in earnest. “How long have you lived with Mrs. Wilson?”

  “I moved in with her my last year at Bradford Academy. Lucy had her twins, Benjamin and Bessie, that summer, and even with Samuel’s additions, the house became crowded. Besides, moving in with Mrs. Wilson allowed me to go all three terms, not just fall and spring.”

  “Have you been teaching ever since?” Tim slowed the buggy at an intersection.

  “No, I worked with Mrs. Wilson for a couple of years and filled in as a teacher for a term or two both here and at the academy. Then, with the war, a position opened at the school. With men in short supply, the board couldn’t be so picky about who they hired, and I got the job. They have a hard time keeping the female teachers for two terms, so the fact I finished my third year qualifies me for veteran status.” Sarah hoped she’d answered him adequately as she didn’t want him asking the questions most of her acquaintances glossed over.

  “That’s right. My sister only taught two terms. George wanted to marry a month ago, but they promised her a four-dollar bonus if she stayed.”

  Sarah cringed. No one had ever offered her a bonus, and no one ever would.

  Three

  The promised deluge arrived, obscuring the houses on either side of the street. Tim stopped the carriage in front of the house Sarah indicated. Despite his questioning, she hadn’t been very inquisitive herself. Which had been fine with him. People were bound to ask why he had stayed away so long. He was sure that would be the question of the hour when he returned home, followed by “Why don’t you set up practice here?”

  He hurried around the buggy to help Sarah down. “Run up to the porch. I’ll get your things.” He wrapped the oilcloth around her books before sprinting to the porch himself.

  Sarah opened the door and motioned for him to follow. Soon they both stood dripping in the entryway.

  Mrs. Wilson called from the kitchen. “There you are, Anna. So nice you didn’t make her walk in the rain, James.”

  James? And why had she called Sarah Anna? A tug on his sleeve interrupted his confusion. Sarah mouthed “Please” before motioning him to follow her into the kitchen.

  In a voice louder than a sergeant, Sarah addressed Mrs. Wilson. “What are you making? It smells wonderful.” Sarah unbuttoned her long jacket but did not remove it.

  Emma set a third bowl on the table. “You will join us, won’t you? It is far too rainy to drive all the way home right now. You can put your horse in our barn.”

  Tim looked at Sarah, and she pointed to a small structure behind the house. “There should be room in there,” Sarah whispered.

  Tim took one step and paused. “Who are James and Anna?”

  “My parents.”

  Sarah’s parents? He had no memory of Sarah’s parents, as she had been raised by her sister. That meant Anna and James must have been dead for twenty years or more. Tim shook off the thought as Sarah nudged him toward the door. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  He wasted no time getting the horse under the roof of the two-stall shed. A goat and pig eyed him as if trying to decide whether they should protest his invasion of their space. He didn’t bother returning to the front door, opting for the kitchen entrance instead.

  Mrs. Wilson looked up at him. “Who are you? Why didn’t you knock? Is it your wife’s time?” She hurried to the corner and grabbed a leather bag not unlike the one he used to store his medical implements.

  Frantic footfalls echoed on the floor above and down the stairs. Sarah rushed into the room wearing a faded gray dress, her unbound brunette hair streaming down her back and past her waist. “Emma, this is Dr. Timison Dawes, Miriam’s brother. Do you remember him? He used to go to school with us.”

  Mrs. Wilson turned to study him. Tim had the uncomfortable feeling he should be cowering. “Aren’t you the boy my Mark thrashed for kissing Sarah?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” If Mark could read his thoughts now, he would have another black eye. But to touch Sarah’s hair might be worth the risk.

  Mrs. Wilson turned to Sarah. “He hasn’t broken his word, has he? Told the twins he would never touch you again.”

  Sarah led Mrs. Wilson to the table. “No, Emma, Dr. Dawes has been a perfect gentleman.”

  “Doctor?” Mrs. Wilson pulled out of Sarah’s grasp and came to stand nearly toe to toe with Tim. “Doctor? Are you the one who said I was unfit to deliver babies? I’ll have you know I delivered you and your siblings!”

  Sarah wrapped an arm around Mrs. Wilson’s waist. “Dr. Dawes just arrived today. He is only here for Miriam’s wedding.” Sarah turned them both to the table. “I am starved. Why don’t we eat?”

  After settling the older woman at the table, Sarah stepped out of the room, then returned with her hair bound in some sort of net. Shame. He had rarely seen hair like melted chocolate sweetened with honey. Her hair had gotten him into trouble more than once. How long had it taken her to get the ink out of the ends of her braids all those years ago?

  Sarah took her place at the table, looked to Mrs. Wilson, and began to pray. When the prayer concluded, both women relaxed.

  “Did you see Mrs. Larkin today?” Sarah shouted, asking about their neighbor across the street and Emma’s good friend.

  “No, that boy of hers has smallpox and they are under quarantine.”

  Tim hadn’t seen any notices since coming to town. Sarah’s brow furrowed, and she gave him a quick shake of the head. “Today was the last day of school. I heard Noah Larkin placed first in arithmetic.”

  “That is good. I thought the child would die of smallpox a few years back. He is such a good boy. He promised to come kill my old rooster. I think it is time that old bird was made into a good meal.”

  “Are Lucy and Samuel planning on staying after church?”

  “I hope so. I like the new minister.”

  Sarah nodded and looked out the window, then at him, her words no more than a whisper. “It looks like the rain is stopping. Are you finished?”

  He wasn’t, but he placed his bowl in Sarah’s outstretched hand.

  “I’ll be right back, Emma. I am going to show Dr. Dawes out,” she shouted.

  Tim followed Sarah to the hallway.

  “Thank you for playing along. I never know exactly where she is in her memories. When you came in, she mistook me for my mother. If you had left sudd
enly, it would have been harder to coax her back to the present.”

  “And smallpox?” Tim took his hat from the stand where he had set it.

  “We had an outbreak a year or so before the war.” Sarah sighed. “Emma’s confusion becomes far worse when associated with memories of family, so I try to keep conversation to the neighbors and things like that.”

  “So she has been like this for a while?”

  Sarah nodded. “A year or so, but it has been worse this spring. I am sorry to delay your return home.”

  Tim gave her a slight bow. “My pleasure.”

  Sarah’s answering smile made the odd detour worth every minute.

  Shutting the door behind Tim, Sarah let out a sigh. He had been kind to stay, but after such an odd experience, she doubted he would come again. Which was for the best. Seeing him made her want to forget every vow she’d ever made. Marriage was not an option. She took another deep breath before heading back into the kitchen.

  “Anna, I am so glad you came back.”

  It took longer than normal to settle Emma this time. Sarah often wondered if she should let Emma stay back in her memories or help her face the reality that often the people Emma was addressing were no more than ghosts.

  Some events were painful for both of them to relive. Tonight, before coming completely to herself, Emma recalled the messenger who’d brought the news of Mark’s death. After sobbing through two handkerchiefs, Emma had retired for the evening, leaving Sarah to pull her own emotions together. Each time this happened, his death felt too near, as did all the memories. How could she ever move forward when she kept reliving the past with Emma? It had been three years since the messenger had knocked at their door. Emma had lost a son, but Sarah had lost more.

  Until tonight, she hadn’t realized that the little details of her time with Mark were fading. Had he smelled faintly of soap like Tim? No, there had always been a bit of fresh-cut hay, even in the winter months, identifying Mark. When they were young and played blindman’s bluff, she’d found him by following his scent. Odd that going in the barn no longer brought memories of Mark. But on night’s like this, Emma’s pain brought back memories of her pain too.

  For a moment in the carriage sitting next to Tim, she thought she might follow Lucy’s advice and find someone else to love. But love bred pain. Another reason she was better off a spinster. After all, she had had her love. There were many girls who had yet to find the opportunity for love. As Mrs. Garrett often loudly pronounced as she left church each Sabbath, men were in short supply.

  Sarah locked the doors and removed the key, hiding it under the silver sugar bowl. Emma had wandered out a couple times during the night over the past few months. Both incidents had occurred after Emma experienced one of her particularly draining spells. Sarah rather not risk that tonight would be one of those nights.

  Sunday she would talk with Samuel. The Wilsons needed to know their mother was getting worse. Sarah dreaded the conversation, as John would insist he was right to request Emma come live in her old home, and Sarah along with her, as his wife.

  But visits to the house Emma had raised her children in often resulted in episodes like tonight’s. Sarah wondered if Emma had been out to the old house while she was at school.

  Sarah took extra care in banking the fire and extinguishing the lamps. The thought of not being able to find the key in case of an emergency lurked at the back of her mind. The Wilson brothers would never forgive her for keeping that secret if a fire killed their mother.

  The evening meal concluded, the family retired to the parlor. Miriam and mother were bent over a table, consulting a list.

  Ichabod noticed Tim first and laid aside the book he was reading. “Tim?”

  A predictable cacophony of hugs, questions, and offers of food followed. Tim accepted the leftover roast chicken and answered his family’s queries between bites, avoiding the stickier questions when possible. He simply had no intention of staying as long as Mother wanted him to. Fortunately, no one asked when he had arrived.

  A knock on the door announced the arrival of George Wells. Tim didn’t know the groom well, but he would be ever in his debt for changing the subject to the upcoming wedding. Tim took the opportunity to slip away to his old room.

  A hastily set fire burned low in the Franklin. Usually the stoves lay dormant this time of year.

  The wind scraped the branches against his window. It would be easy to climb out and escape the questions Mother would reiterate until he answered them to her satisfaction. There had been a time when Tim had put the tree to very good use to avoid grammar tests and lessons on the family’s shipping business.

  His stepfather had threatened more than once to fell the tree. But it shaded Mother’s withdrawing room, and her needs prevailed. Instead, his stepfather had nailed the window shut in July. At the time, Tim had thought him the vilest man on earth.

  But Tim had been face-to-face with evil more than once in the last few years, and not always from the troops on the other side of the line. He’d seen the scars left by fathers who had done far more than nail a window shut or deny supper. Every sin Reverend Woods had ever warned against and some he never imagined had been lain before Tim in the camps and fields of war.

  By the time Tim realized his stepfather should be revered rather than hated, it was too late to forge a friendship, as his mother was widowed again. His half brother, Ichabod, only seventeen, had taken over the Marsh shipping business. His stepfather had been generous with Tim, leaving him a partnership in the will if he ever wished to quit doctoring. Ichabod had all but begged him to join him on the docks.

  He had to admit that escaping the medical field was tempting after experiencing the carnage of war. But on his list of things worse than a field hospital was the dockyard. He had no desire to enter the shipping trade. Not after seeing it kill his father all those years ago. The new steamboat had been a colossal failure. Designs had improved over the years, thanks to men such as Robert Fulton, but Tim rather stay firmly on land.

  He ran his hand down the window, tracing his reflection. He couldn’t see any further into his future than he could through the glass.

  Four

  “Oww!” Sarah wrung her hand and stuck her finger in her mouth, the pain easing as her finger cooled. She tried again to get the pudding pan out of the brick stove. The center of the dessert jiggled, and the edges had turned a brown bordering on black. No point in cutting it. Sarah tipped the pan over the slop bucket. “Well, Peggy Piggy, you’ll eat well tonight.”

  For once the bread had turned out, not that she dared slice it to make sure. For years she had heard her sister and Emma praise the fireplace her grandfather had built nearly eighty years ago, but her food turned out only marginally better there. It seemed as if the pigs were the only ones who appreciated her efforts. Her thirteen-year-old niece cooked circles around her, though fifteen-year-old Lettie cooked only marginally better. But at least most of Lettie’s food remained edible. Lucy and Emma had spent countless hours trying to teach Sarah the basic domestic skill. At least as a school teacher she could buy bread if she couldn’t make it and she didn’t ruin porridge or boiled eggs too often.

  Sarah took the slop bucket out before Emma could return to see the evidence. Stomping to Peggy’s pen, she fumed. Two days ago she’d burned the bread, and so she’d used the crumbs and half a pound of the few carrots they had left in the cellar to make the pudding. She shouldn’t have left out the orange-flower water. Too bad the Universal Cook couldn’t tell her how to find an orange flower. Returning to the kitchen, Sarah resisted the urge to toss the cookbook in the fireplace. Instead, she set it on the shelf.

  The book was one of the few things Mark had given her. He teased her as much as the other Wilson brothers did about her cooking, but he also showed faith in her. She caressed the spine and was transported back to the Sunday after she’d graduated from Bradford Academy.

  Mark had waited until they could be alone—not a small
feat. Emma had managed to use the occasion to get most of her children and grandchildren together, as usual claiming Sarah as her own. As the sun set, Samuel insisted he get the little ones home early. And Mark had volunteered to see her home before Daniel could offer. That night cemented her preference for the youngest Wilson brother.

  She had known since the day of Lucy’s second wedding to Samuel that she would marry one of his brothers and one day be a Wilson too.

  Mark slowed the carriage as they crested the hill near the farm where she had been born. He pulled the book wrapped in brown paper out of its hiding place.

  “I wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. I know we all tease you since we can use your gingerbread as cobblestones, but I know you’re capable of most anything you set your mind to. Maybe you’ll learn better from a book.” Mark shoved the parcel into her hand.

  Nervousness radiated from him as she untied the strings. Her heart dropped. She’d hoped for the next volume of the Romance of the Pyrenees series. She longed to read it but had been unable to borrow it from either of her fellow students who owned a copy. She thumbed through the book while trying to phrase a gracious response. Sarah reread the line “To Dress a Turtle” and giggled.

  Mark shifted in his seat.

  Sarah looked up. “Mark, this is perfect. There are so many recipes. There is even one for turtle. Can you imagine what might happen if I tried it?” Her giggle gave way to a full laugh.

  Mark joined her.

  Sarah leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek.

  Mark turned his head.

  Her first kiss as a woman had been pleasant. She touched her lips with her fingers. The memory hovered near the surface, but the sweet warmth of that night six years ago had faded away.

  She would keep the cookbook. Even if it didn’t help culinary skills, it held memories of her first and only love.

  Tim tossed the letter from a fellow doctor on the table, troubled that Dartmouth wouldn’t be hiring for months. Not that he’d seriously considered anything farther north. Massachusetts was cold enough. If he confessed to his mother that he had no idea what his future held after the wedding, she would insist he stay. Every letter since the war had ended had been filled with pleas to come home. In the last five years, houses he didn’t recognize had sprung up in the fields where cows had once grazed. A new church and school attested to the growth in the area, and Dr. Morton had repeatedly insisted there was more than enough work for another physician in town.