Healing Sarah (American Homespun Book 3) Page 4

  Miriam tilted her head. “At least keep him away from Parmelia if he does stay. She wants him worse than she wanted my job.”

  “No such thoughts on your wedding day. Shall we go down?”

  Miriam shook her head. I am meeting George at the servants’ entrance. I don’t think I could live through the long goodbyes. I’ll be—I mean, we’ll be—back in a week to get our things for the move west. You will come and see me off?”

  “Of course.”

  “Hug my mother for me.” Miriam slipped out of her room and down the servants’ stairs.

  Sarah went to watch out the window as her friend met her husband. They stopped to kiss before getting into the carriage. Sarah blinked back a tear and left the bedroom.

  Why is a guest up here? And sneaking into the servants’ stairs? “Have you seen Miriam?”

  The woman stopped and turned to face him. Sarah. “Dr. Dawes, I didn’t see you. Your sister left just now for Boston with George, or is it Cambridge?”

  “What are you doing up here?”

  “Miriam asked me to assist her in changing dresses. I assure you I have not been pilfering the linens.”

  Tim reached the doorway where she stood. “I never thought you would. But why are you using this stairway?”

  “These are the stairs Ichabod brought me up and the same your sister left by. As I assume my coming down the grand staircase would be noticed and raise questions, I figured I’d better leave as I came.” Sarah turned down the stairs again and then stopped. “Did your mother send you looking for Miriam?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I suggest you go announce that the couple has slipped away without saying their goodbyes.”

  Tim started to follow her.

  Sarah stopped again and pointed to the other end of the hall. “I believe the announcement is best made from the grand staircase.”

  Tim watched her retreating form and felt as if he had been dismissed. It seemed Sarah Wilson was the only unmarried female in town who didn’t want to be around him.

  Too bad she was also the only one whose conversation did not border on the inane.

  Six

  Grabbing the broom from the corner, Sarah swept a few nonexistent crumbs into an imaginary pile and debated whether she should walk home after all. The sun was hastening its decent, and she hadn’t seen Tim for the past half hour. The day’s unusual warmth remained, and her spencer would be adequate for the walk.

  Only a couple slices of cake wrapped in brown paper and tied in the lighter of the blue ribbons Tim had purchased remained on the sideboard. Emma had already taken one home for them. But the thought of the dried-currant-and-nut confection made Sarah’s mouth water. Her stomach rumbled. Like the rest of the wedding guests, she had not eaten after the ceremony, politely saving the packets of cake and sweets to enjoy at their homes.

  She wiped the sideboard again and contemplated slipping a packet into her reticule for the walk home. She picked the smaller of the packets up and studied it. Would it be missed? Cleaning up, she had seen almost an eighth of the enormous cake still sitting in the larder. Moving the packets to the side, she scooped a single crumb into her palm. A voice behind her caused her to jump.

  “I won’t tell. You are probably starving.” Tim reached around her and picked up one of the packets.

  Sarah whirled around, a hand over her heart. “Dr. Dawes! You should have made your presence known!”

  “And miss your debate over pilfering a slice of the wedding cake?”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “I know.” Tim handed her the larger piece. “Take it. We have more than enough to last us the week. Even Ichabod will be sick of it.”

  Sarah cradled the cake in her hand, having left her reticule with her wrap.

  “Come, let’s see if there is something more we can eat before I take you home. Cook and Mrs. Reynolds have abandoned the kitchen. They deserve a week’s holiday.” Tim led the way back into the empty kitchen. He opened cupboard doors and looked in a couple of jars. “Cheese and a few molasses cookies?” He offered her a handful of the cookies.

  Sarah balanced the cookies atop her cake. Tim unwrapped the cheese and cut two wedges. He handed her one. “Well? You had better eat. I’d rather you not faint on our way home. I’ve managed to dodge two girls attempting just that in my presence today.”

  “I would never—” Sarah felt the heat rising. Did he assume she would play the empty-headed school girl trying to catch his eye?

  “Of course you wouldn’t. But you haven’t eaten all day, and, like all women, your corset is most likely tied too tight. And you have been working hard. If you were to faint, it would not be some ploy to gain my attention. You would be embarrassed, and, no doubt, Mark or one of the other Wilsons would come thrash me.”

  Sarah swallowed the lump in her throat. “Mark is dead.”

  The smile on Tim’s face disappeared. “My apologies. I had not heard. I thought it was Daniel who had passed.”

  “We’ve not had word from Daniel for more than a year. He was a seaman. Emma assumes the worst, but his brothers continue to hope he was lost at sea and will yet be heard from.” To avoid further conversation, Sarah took a large bite of one of the cookies.

  Tim looked around the room. Sarah wished she had not brought up Mark’s death, but she had assumed he’d known. Everyone knew. She took another bite. Discussing Mark on her friend’s wedding day seemed inappropriate.

  “Do you have a wrap?”

  The words barely penetrated the thoughts swirling in her head. Sarah pointed to the back of a chair. “I moved my spencer in here when I dusted the small parlor where the women left their wraps. The handkerchief on the table is not mine. I suspect its owner will show up to claim it soon. Her name should start with a P.”

  “P? How do you know?”

  “It is embroidered on the corner.”

  “How many women were here today who would monogram P on their handkerchief?”

  “I can only think of two—Mrs. Palmer, the new reverend’s wife, and Parmelia Page, the teacher who will be taking your sister’s place.” Sarah didn’t tell him she found it carefully tucked in the corner of the horsehair chair.

  Tim examined the cloth. “Perhaps we should deliver it on our way home. I doubt it belongs to the reverend’s wife. She cried during the ceremony, and this one looks unused.” Tim put the cloth in his pocket and picked up the wrap. “Shall we go?”

  He held the short jacket as if he expected to help her with it like one would a child. For the briefest of seconds, his fingers brushed her arm, and a tingle raced through her. It couldn’t be. Their conversation about Mark must still be affecting her. She composed herself before turning to face him. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Why is it you insist on calling me doctor?”

  “It is your title, is it not? Why would I call you otherwise?”

  “Everyone else around here calls me either Tim or Timmy.” He opened the back door to usher her out. “One woman called me Timison today.”

  Sarah suppressed a smile. “You didn’t call her out for the slight, did you?”

  Tim took the packet of cake from her and offered a hand to help her up into his buggy. “I haven’t called anyone out over my name for years.”

  Sarah settled herself in, laying the packet of cake in her lap. “Oh, my reticule!” She started to stand, but Tim held up his hand.

  “Where is it?”

  “I left it hanging on the chair in the kitchen.”

  Tim crossed the yard in bold strides. He certainly looks fine in his fancy suit. What a thought!

  Tim returned with her bag and a small package. “Your reticule and your ribbon.”

  “Thank you. But do let me pay you for the ribbon. I am giving it to my nieces, after all.”

  “But I am giving it to you.”

  Sarah tried to ignore the warmth in his voice. He’d played the flirt well even as a child, and it captivated her. Not that she admitte
d it then—nor would she now.

  With the slightest movement of the reins, he coaxed the horse into a walk.

  Sarah searched for a safe topic. “I still cannot believe anyone would dare call you by your given name.”

  “Timison? I don’t mind it as much now, but I prefer Tim.”

  “I suspect she was one of Mrs. Garrett’s granddaughters, as she is a stickler for proper names. But I assume she would have instructed them to call you Doctor.”

  “Where does Miss Page live?”

  “In the boardinghouse Widow Webb runs, around the corner from Emma’s.”

  They turned a corner, and Tim slid an inch closer. Accidental probably, but it made her feel unsettled in a way she hadn’t felt for a long time. Perhaps it was a result of the wedding and remembering Mark, or maybe he just had that effect on all single women. No wonder they were all trying to stake their claim on him. But she wasn’t one of them—not even with those soft-brown eyes and the faint scar on his cheek, which added to the slightly roguish air he’d carried even as a seven-year-old. The wheel hit a hole. Sarah bounced into Tim’s arm but quickly slid back.

  “Sorry.”

  “No problem. I should watch better.”

  After a moment of riding in silence, he offered, “My sister loves the embroidered painted-silk picture thing you made her.”

  “You mean the remembrance? I wanted to give her something she could take with her. I assume she can frame it in Ohio. It is rolled up and should hardly take up any room in her trunk.”

  “Where did you learn to paint silk? You captured Miriam and George’s likeness expertly.” Tim shifted in his seat, and this time she was positive he had moved closer.

  “The preceptress at Bradford, Miss Hassltine, taught us how to paint the watercolors on silk and then enhance them with embroidery. Occasionally someone commissions one for a wedding or funeral. It is enough to keep me busy in the evenings. Since Emma—I mean Mrs. Wilson—no longer needs my help in her midwifery. And it brings in some extra money.”

  “Did she need your help often?”

  “She took me as often as she could. She was training me to take her place, but husbands don’t like trusting their wives to a ‘woman who has no experience herself.’” Sarah didn’t add that Emma had been forbidden to use her skills unaided.

  “Did you like midwifery?”

  How could she not? Each new baby was such a joy. Of course, those who did not survive or whose mothers who did not brought the deepest of sorrows. “Most of the time.”

  Tim looked at her with an intensity that made her turn her head to hide her blush. “One of the doctors who taught us believed women would make excellent physicians. What do you think?”

  “I think that if we were allowed in medical school, it would be a benefit to all. Doctors would stop the practice of bloodletting forever.”

  “You do not believe it helps?”

  “How can it? When a person loses too much blood, whether from an accident or childbirth, they become weak or die. It does not make sense that removing blood from an ill person does anything other than make them weaker still. If anything, they need more, not less.”

  “You are not the first person to express such an opinion, and in most cases I am inclined to side with you. Despite our modern age, there is still so much we do not know.”

  “I hope we learn how to keep so many women and children from dying during childbirth.” Sarah toyed with the strings of her reticule while her emotions calmed. Even though she knew her mother had been ill prior to delivering James Jr., it was still the premature birth that had killed them both. And eight years ago, Lucy had nearly died after giving birth to the twins.

  “That would be a very good thing.” The carriage rattled across a bridge, making conversation impossible for a moment.

  When they reached the other side, Sarah asked, “Do you enjoy being a doctor?”

  “In general, I believe so, but not in times of war. I went straight from Harvard to the war. There were days when I longed to deal with a child with the grippe or a woman whose child was born without one of the diseases plaguing her profession. Then it was a mercy to see the child die. But I still hated it almost as much as performing amputations.”

  Sarah gasped and sat back.

  Tim looked as chastened as she had ever seen a man look. “My apologies. I should not have spoken thus. Sometimes the atrocities of war fill my mind so.”

  “I am not unfamiliar with that of which you speak. It seems when midwives gather, we do much the same thing.”

  “Still, I should not have spoken of such things.”

  Sarah laid her hand on his arm, and for a moment she forgot what she intended to say. “Do you think you will enjoy being a doctor now?”

  “I think I will if I can find a place to settle down. Mother wants me to look for something here on the North Shore.”

  “Could you just set up shop, so to speak?”

  “I wouldn’t want to take patients from other doctors. It is hard enough to earn a living or support a family for many doctors. It is best to be partners if there are multiple doctors. In Boston, Dr. Warren is building a general hospital, the third one ever in this country. I hope for an invitation to work with him, although the building is far from complete.”

  “Samuel studied under a Dr. Warren. Is it the same?”

  “I don’t think so. Dr. John Collins Warren is about the age of Samuel, so he must have studied with the father, who died last year. I had forgotten Samuel studied medicine. He didn’t finish, did he?”

  “No. It isn’t much of a secret now, but Samuel faints at the sight of blood. Even the smell is enough.” Sarah suppressed a giggle.

  “That would make being a doctor or surgeon very difficult. He is one of the best woodworkers around. I am sure he would have been excellent in surgery.”

  “He has a talent for bone setting.”

  “Useful to know.”

  They rode in silence for a minute. A chill wind blew through the trees, and Sarah shivered. With how unseasonably warm it had been today, the unexpected drop in temperature caught her off guard.

  Tim reached under the seat and pulled out a blanket. “Would you like this?”

  Sarah nodded, afraid if she spoke her teeth might chatter. He pulled to the side of the road and unfolded the blanket. Their hands touched as she took it from him, and they both froze. Sarah tugged the blanket away, the warmth flooding her having nothing to do with the wool cloth.

  Tim lifted the reins, and they resumed their journey.

  Seven

  If he had been ten, the temptation to kiss her would have won out. In the dimming light, her blush had nearly caused reason to fade.

  It had been a long time since he had allowed himself to feel anything for a woman. Of course, most of those he’d been around the past few years were either the devoted wives of soldiers or women of questionable morals. Either way, it served him best to ignore the fairer sex. Until he knew his plans, he wasn’t going to look for a wife, especially not in a woman the Wilson men still protected.

  Tim recognized the boardinghouse from his last trip to Sarah’s.

  “Her name is Miss Page?” Tim slowed his horse and stopped near a hitching post.

  “Yes, Parmelia Page.” Sarah moved to get down.

  Tim raised his hand to stop her. “I’ll only be a moment. You’ll stay warmer if you don’t get out.”

  At the door he lifted the brass knocker only once. Movement on the other side kept him from tapping a second time. A stooped woman dressed in black from her cap to her boots opened the door.

  “Male visitors are allowed on Tuesdays, Fridays, Saturday evenings, and Sundays after two o’clock. Today, if you have forgotten, is Wednesday.” She started to close the door.

  Stopping the door with his hand, Tim spoke through the crack. “My apologies. I am not here to visit but, rather, to return a lost item.” He held out the handkerchief. “I believe this may belong to Mis
s Page. It was found as we cleaned up after my sister’s wedding.”

  The door opened again, and the old woman extended her hand.

  “Oh!” A high-pitched squeal sounded from the dim hall behind the woman. “My favorite handkerchief! I worried that I’d lost it on my walk back this afternoon.”

  Tim recognized the speaker as one of the women who’d swooned to attract his attention. He doubted she’d lost her handkerchief at all.

  “Well, Parmelia, thank him so he can leave.” Judging by the direction of the woman’s wrinkles, her frown was a semipermanent facial feature.”

  “Just five minutes, Mrs. Webb. He rode over here just to return it.”

  Tim stepped down a step. “Actually, I—”

  Mrs. Webb cut him off. “Two minutes. Here at the door.” She retreated into the hallway. Tim wondered if she made use of her dark dress to lurk in the nearest shadows.

  “Oh, Dr. Dawes, how kind of you to track me down.” Parmelia stood closer than necessary, her eyelashes fanning an odd little rhythm.

  Tim handed her the cotton cloth. “I’m pleased to locate the owner on my first attempt.”

  “Oh, you guessed it was mine?” The eyelash fanning increased in speed.

  “No, Miss Marden guessed the handkerchief’s origin.”

  “Sarah?” Miss Page’s voice squeaked a high, grating note, and the lashes stopped for several beats. “She recognized it?”

  “Only guessed.” Tim turned to leave. Two minutes was much too long for this transaction.

  A hand on his arm stopped him. “Oh, I do need to thank you properly. Perhaps if you come by Saturday evening. I am cooking, and I could save you a piece of my mince pie. Everyone says it is the best they’ve ever eaten.”

  Dislodging her hand, he took another step down the stairs. “There is no need to thank me further. My mother is very jealous of my time when I am home. Good evening, Miss Page.” He turned and descended to the street.

  He heard Miss Page following him. “Oh, who is—Why, Sarah, I didn’t realize. Whatever are you doing out so late? Shouldn’t you be caring for Widow Wilson? Everyone says she—”

  Tim cut her off before she could finish saying something hurtful. “Miss Marden was good enough to help my mother after Miriam and George departed. We are en route to her home now. If you will pardon us.”