The Love Note

by Joanna Davidson Politano

“Good day, Mr. Gresham.” I graced him with my most winning smile and a curtsey. “I’ve come to assist your mother as her nurse.”

  Golden eyebrows arched over the man’s face. “You may return the way you came.” His posture brooked no argument as he backed into the room again, flipping through the envelopes. “My sincerest apologies, but we are not in need of a nurse. Good day.” The door closed on the end of his sentence.

  I blinked at the dark paneled wood so unexpectedly shut in my face. Shock rippled as I turned back toward the foyer with a hard, angry pivot. But returning home, the contract . . . shock curled into dread. Fear.

  In a moment of lightheaded panic, I saw a sleek stallion through the narrow window ahead, a horse bucking wildly against his harness. A tall, brawny man lunged to grab the bridle and wrangle him back down.

  A creature in bonds who was meant to be free. If I returned, that was my fate, as well. Yet what could I do? Closed doors behind me, dead ends ahead—and an unfinished love story in my pocket.

  My hand curled around it. No. I would not be forced. I would not concede before I’d even begun to fight. I’d been brushed aside my whole life, and becoming a doctor would change that. The only way to achieve that goal was to succeed right now.

  Squaring my shoulders, I forced back the swirling panic and spun toward the study. I rapped hard and the door opened. Burke Gresham’s cravat had been loosened as if he were about to retire with his feet up in the smoking lounge. He stopped opening his mail and cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t accept refusals lying down, do you?” His pointed stare seemed to demand an explanation as to why I was wasting his valuable time.

  “Your mother sent for a nurse weeks ago, and I’ve come to fulfill her request.”

  “This isn’t the sort of case you believe it to be. I’m saving you a world of trouble by sending you on your way, believe me.” He turned away, silver letter opener slicing through another envelope.

  “I’m well-versed in practical medicine and have a wide scope of experience. More so than most nurses, thanks to my father.” He frowned, but I pressed on, fighting an impending sense of meekness. “I’ve trained at Miss Abernathy’s in Kent, assisted under Miss Florence Nightingale in Crimea. I’ve made the highest marks . . .”

  His gaze flicked past me to the clock in the hall. He was not amused. My thoughts disintegrated as sand slipping through the hourglass, and I scrambled to catch the last grains.

  “I’ve studied the newest methods of care, and we have—”

  “Argh!” He hurled the letter opener onto his desk and clutched his palm, as it oozed with dark red blood.

  As he fumbled about for a handkerchief, I stepped forward and flipped a clean wrap from my bag, pressing it to the gash, then dabbing the injury with iodine. “You really ought to cleanse that weapon before you go brandishing it about.”

  A pointed stare of annoyance hardened his features. “I had no intention of using it on my hand. Now will you kindly take your leave?”

  “Mr. Gresham.” I wrapped his injury and spoke with quiet calm, as if he did not have the power to change the direction of my life. “One day you will be in her place, and I pray your children will embrace you with all your infirmities and needs rather than casting you into some lonely room of the house.” I couldn’t erase the memory of that white face in the upper window.

  Something flickered deep within his green eyes. Regret, maybe guilt. His jaw flinched.

  “If you’ll only allow me to help, I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised with my care.” I tied the bandage and stood back, arms folded.

  He flexed his fingers. “This will be more complex than binding cuts. Are you aware of the type of woman you’ve come to serve?”

  “I’ve seen her from afar.” I stoppered my iodine bottle and replaced it in my bag as he attempted to usher me out.

  “She’s a challenge on her best day, and now . . . well, she’s become downright impossible. Too impossible for the likes of you.” He stepped back, preparing to shut me out once again. “Good day, Miss Duvall.”

  I jammed my boot against the closing door. “I happen to specialize in impossible.” I met his gaze, daring him to challenge me. I sensed a foothold in the silence that followed. “Please, at least let me try. I’m known for turning patients around in quick order, convincing them to cooperate better than any doctor.”

  His jaw flinched and he studied me. “Is that right? Complete cooperation?”

  “And for being utterly forthright and plainspoken in every way, which can only be an asset to you both.”

  “I see.” Burke pursed his full lips, head angled. “Very well, Miss Duvall, we’ll let you try.” He tucked his good hand under my elbow. “Come with me. But don’t bother to unpack.”

  I inhaled with a smile, and a lovely cedar and black tea aroma greeted me as we turned down a long passage, the homey scent smoothing the edges of my tension. I parted from Burke to collect my carpetbag as we passed the door but paused at the sight of something now tucked into the ribbon of my hat—lacy pink petals.

  My smile flickered. Gabe was here!

  I held a satin petal to my lips and smiled at the memory of the charmingly awkward horse trainer fumbling the name of the little flower—“Ammenome.” “No, anemone.” Years ago, he was the only adult to let me follow him about, to tolerate me prattling on in my girlish way. Where was he now? I’d ask him about the letter. Gabe Gresham, brother to Burke yet so vastly different, knew more than anyone suspected because he so seldom spoke but heard everything.

  “Right this way, Miss Duvall.” Burke beckoned me down a narrow hall that seemed to disappear into a bleak eternity.

  In the gallery, I glanced up at the balcony where the ancient woman of mystery had looked down upon me. “Who is the woman I met earlier?”

  Burke turned with a question darkening his brow.

  “I saw her observing from a balcony, with a lace cap and—”

  “Ah, her.” Burke stood beside me in the gallery, arms clasped behind his back. “That’s only Crazy Maisie, our ancient aunt, who roams about muttering nonsense. You mustn’t mind her.” He waved me on, and we ascended the stairs.

  “You’ll find your patient takes tea at half past three, two sugars and the red-and-gold filigree cup. She loves red, by the way, and if you don’t care for the color, you’d best develop a speedy appreciation for it. Expect to rise early and stay up late, as she detests sleep, as well as anyone who falls prey to it longer than her. Though you will find her ‘resting her eyes’ throughout the day to make up for it. She has written several volumes of verse, for which you should demonstrate great appreciation. She’ll want to break the happy news of their authorship to you herself, so naturally it’ll come as a complete surprise.”

  “Naturally.”

  “She fancies herself another Longfellow, with all her verses.”

  “Longfellow, the poet?”

  “No one is superior, in her mind, to that revered man of poetry. Now, she’s never one to make light of her ailments, real and imagined, and you will be expected to do likewise.”

  I pinched my lips shut, heeding Stepmother’s advice—keep that tongue in your head!

  We climbed the stairs, and I stared into the painted faces of all three Gresham children, my childhood playmates, and my mind wandered pleasantly, drawing warm memories to the surface. First Burke, then solemn Gabe, and delightful Celeste. We turned down a long, carpeted hall, and there, deep in the shadows of the gallery overlook, hovered a hauntingly beautiful girl with dark hair spilling down her back, large violet eyes watching us from her hiding spot.

  Her.

  She was far too young, but my chest ached with certainty. Somehow she had to be the letter writer—or at least connected to the whole thing. No one else in this entire family could be. They were far too modern and busy to birth such deep and poetic thoughts, much less write them down. Yet this young woman held untold depths behind her lovely face, as if she’d witnessed centuries of families and
wars and deaths. She’d been observing us in the gallery, that much was clear. What I didn’t know was why—or who on earth she was.

  Her gaze was hard. Accusatory. Especially when it was directed at me.

  Burke sailed past the shadowed corner where the ghostly girl lingered, sweeping us along down the hall. “You’ll stay in the little room off of your patient’s bedchamber. I assume that will be acceptable.”

  “Quite.”

  “Any questions?”

  Only about a million, but just one I dared voice. “This might seem odd, but I’d like to know who owned the little writing desk that now sits in my room at home. It was sent to Father in gratitude about two years ago for work he did here.”

  He frowned. “The little teakwood affair with carved ivy?”

  I nodded, unable to even swallow as I awaited his reply. That girl. It’s hers. What’s her name?

  “Why, that didn’t belong to anyone, really. It sat in the morning room, and everyone in the family did their correspondence there.”

  We turned a corner and desperation dogged me. I just wanted a glimpse, a little taste of her story. Something to let me know if she matched the letter. “One other question. You’ve taken in a girl, it seems. Is she a ward, or a cousin?”

  His polite smile faded, and he stared at me as if I were mad. “A girl? There’s been no girl about the manor since Celeste was small.”

  The answer jarred me into silence for the remaining few seconds we had alone together, for we’d already reached the closed double doors.

  three

  The words that fill a house seep into the pores of the walls, creating the atmosphere in which you carry out your life. I will choose only a man who speaks vivid color and life into my home.

  ~A scientist’s observations on love

  He ushered me into an outdated but tasteful sitting room, with drapes shielding it from the blessing of sunshine. Only a dying fire lit the long room, glowing over the impeccable old furniture that smelled of turpentine.

  Then I spotted Golda Gresham, stately and poised as she leaned forward in her striped chair, gripping the carved arms. Age had caught up to this woman no older than my own parents as if she’d never even tried to outrun it, and a hardness had settled into fine parentheses around her mouth. The fire crackled and popped behind her, throwing garish shadows over her unwelcoming face, and the red teacup sat on the table beside her.

  Burke addressed her. “You’ve finally managed to summon a nurse, it would seem. May I present to you Willa Duvall, daughter of Doctor Phineas Duvall. Miss Duvall, your new patient.”

  Golda Gresham rose in all her red and gold glory, and I could not look away, any more than if she were Queen Victoria herself. Slow, measured treads brought her to the center of the dark room that seemed to hold its breath at what she might say. “So. Some poor little thing has finally braved the position.”

  She had the same commanding presence as her gregarious son, yet with a fraction of the volume—which somehow made it even more effective. “I rather expected a woman of some experience.” She looked me over as an antique broker from Christie’s might, assessing every flaw that detracted from a piece’s value and cataloging her finds.

  A chill passed over me and a dusty old memory crept to the surface. I had, at ten years old, dipped into a philosophical discussion on romance with Burke’s younger siblings, Celeste and Gabe, as I faced the reality of walking my own father down the aisle for his second wedding.

  “How would I know anything about love? There’s not an ounce of it at Crestwicke.” Celeste, who was normally one of the few Greshams with any sense, said this to me from atop her tall black horse. “You’ll see when you hang about the house someday. They’re simply too busy for it.”

  “No one carves out time for such a thing—that’s why it’s called ‘falling in love.’ You simply fall, right into it.” I smacked my leg. “One can’t help it. Don’t you agree, Gabe?”

  Her brother Gabe dipped his gaze, and I could see from his profile that I’d earned one of his rare smiles. “Sounds dangerous.”

  “Oh, it is. Wonderfully so. But it’s nothing a person can help, any more than falling out of a barn loft.”

  “Crestwicke doesn’t have those sorts of people,” Celeste mused. “The people here all remain on solid ground, I’m afraid.”

  “I pity all of you if that’s true.” I looked up at the great ivy-covered house on the cliffs sprayed with the sea below and felt a sudden release from lifelong envy. Marriage was only an acceptable fate if love was involved. No amount of wealth could make up for the lack of it.

  Celeste sighed, looking up at the grand old estate. “When one is rich, one cannot afford to marry for love.”

  Yet the somber house swelled with deep, authentic love pulsing just beneath the surface, romance buried in shadows, kept away from practical eyes and sharp tongues. I could feel it. Someone had fallen in love the way Alice fell into that rabbit hole. I would find them, and the letter would be delivered—it was merely a matter of time.

  I touched the apron pocket that held the letter. How I wanted a taste of such love myself, like a girl holding out her tongue for the delicate swirling snowflakes. Perhaps that taste would come from a distance, as I reunited the couple. What a delight if it was meant for the woman now poised before me, with a lost love in her past that had folded her so tightly into what she was now—and the letter would unfurl it all.

  “You will begin your duties immediately?”

  “Of course. I sent word of my arrival, but perhaps it hasn’t come yet.” I set my valise down to tug my gloves off by each fingertip. “I’ll begin with a thorough examination, then I’ll ask a few questions about your symptoms and . . .” I fell silent at her look of patronizing amusement, head tipped just so. She twined her lace-covered fingers and waited.

  A cat. That’s what she reminded me of. I could picture her tail flicking back and forth as she watched me, her every movement weighted with grace. Even her eyes, stunning blue slits that were drawn up in a lovely slant at the corners, watched me with feline detachment.

  I’d never been much of a cat lover. My nature more closely resembled a dog, with my bounding eagerness, fierce loyalty, and habit of crashing headlong into things.

  She sipped her tea, gaze always on me over the gold rim of the cup. “Why is it you believe you’re here, Miss Duvall?”

  And now she was playing with me, batting me about and watching to see what I’d do.

  “To monitor your chronic health concerns and ensure—”

  “Burke, have you told her nothing?”

  His low voice came from behind. “I didn’t want to take the pleasure away from you.”

  She lifted a red volume from the table beside her, fingering it tenderly, then handed it to me as if it were a scepter. “I need your assistance to perform . . . these.”

  My eagerness ground to a swift halt. “Perform?” Perhaps she had misunderstood my profession.

  “It’s her throat, you see.” Burke crossed his arms, eyes snapping with mischief. “There’s something the matter with it when she attempts to sing. It tightens on the high notes, gives out on the long notes, general fits of coughing and then a bit of swooning. She needs a nurse to attend her as she practices to help her overcome these . . . ailments.”

  I raised my eyebrows, uncertain how to take the direction of this conversation. I glanced toward the closed doors. Where was Gabe, anyway? He knew I was here, but he hadn’t shown himself yet. Oh how I needed his quiet smile to defuse the tension, to explain in commonsense terms what was happening in this increasingly odd situation.

  Burke settled a condescending smile on his mother. “Come, show Miss Duvall the problem and we’ll see what can be done about it.”

  She straightened, a tower of silk poplin and lace, and glared at him. After a reverent pause, she breathed deeply, chin raised as if looking up to a heavenly sphere from which she would draw her music, and released a somber melody that stretch
ed out, reedy and thin. Soon she became lost in it, seeming to forget we were there. Her cheeks grew flushed and her low voice wavered over the tones.

  Her singing wasn’t intolerable, at least to my untrained ear, but neither was it pleasant like the full-bodied voices of opera or even pleasant like a second-rate parlor singer. It rose to higher notes, grating on my senses, then shattered at its peak when her voice broke. With a few delicate coughs, she cleared her throat and looked about for tea.

  My official diagnosis was swift and complete: an overabundance of time and wealth complicated by an utter lack of skill and vainglorious delusions. I shoved those ungracious thoughts aside with a gnawing guilt, and a great deal of unease about my future here.

  Burke leaned toward me. “Well now, Miss Duvall, you did promise honesty in all matters. I eagerly await your assessment.” Now he looked amused. His lips curled into a wicked smile. Apparently no one had openly discussed the fact that she simply wasn’t a singer, but that shouldn’t surprise me. It was the Gresham way of doing things—every unpleasant thing was either ignored or paid out of existence.

  “Well?”

  I looked away, my instincts at odds with each other. I had promised this family my forthrightness, yet I felt the dire need to tread carefully and protect my new position. I took a breath and settled on another virtue in which I prided myself—thoroughness. One never pronounced a judgment before performing an examination. I turned to the patient. “Open, please.” That should buy me a few moments to think, anyway.

  She cleared her throat and opened her mouth. I pulled a small mirrored instrument from my bag and held a light up to it, peering into her throat. Then I massaged the outside. There didn’t seem to be polyps, or anything truly preventing a prime vocal range. Not every throat, it would seem, was meant to create music. With Stepmother’s warning weaving through my thoughts, I pondered and smoothed out every word before releasing it. “It appears the larynx has become inflamed, possibly from strain, which might cause it to tighten around the vocal cords, minimizing its ability to project. With the natural thickening of the vocal flap that comes with maturation—”