The Stars that Fell

by M. L. Bullock

  The Stars that Fell

  By M.L. Bullock

  Text copyright © 2015 Monica L. Bullock

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is dedicated to Lula Mae, a true Southern lady—strong, gentle and always believing the best in all those you love.

  Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;

  I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

  —Sarah Williams, 1868

  Prologue

  Mobile, Alabama, 1851

  Hoyt Page never wanted to become a physician, but his family’s good name required him to take up a respectable occupation. Since he loathed the prospect of a lifetime of military service or the pretense of local politics, medicine appeared his only option. To his and his family’s surprise, he excelled at his craft.

  Generally, Hoyt did not care to engage people in conversation unless the topic touched on a subject he held an interest in, like astronomy or pedigree horses. Too many times, he stood awkwardly through sessions of idle chitchat only to excuse himself before he made the unforgivable mistake of yawning. However, people in pain—that was quite another story. Those he could speak with all day, listening to their list of symptoms, offering comfort and wisdom. Hoyt found he had a mile-wide streak of compassion for the sick and infirm. He himself was a healthy man and had been a healthy child, but his concern for the sick was real and nothing he intentionally cultivated. Hoyt was committed to his work and did not mind the midnight calls, the long rides and the bone-aching weariness. Even those terrifying moments when he left a home feeling powerless to heal—yes, even in those moments, he knew he was walking in his unique purpose.

  Just like tonight. He left Seven Sisters with his stiff black hat in his hands, his bag feeling unusually heavy. Every step he took away from the mansion brought him both relief and extreme regret. Jeremiah Cottonwood was an evil, reprehensible man, probably the angriest man Hoyt had ever known. Even Hoyt’s father’s temperament could not compare to Cottonwood’s. The man married Christine Beaumont, the most beautiful woman in the state, but had that satisfied the arrogant bastard? Had her wealth and quiet beauty calmed his rambunctious spirit? No, of course not. Jeremiah Cottonwood had used her with hopes of getting a son—the son he needed to maintain control of his wife’s extraordinary wealth. Hoyt’s own cynicism surprised him. He shuddered and stoked the fire, which had died hours ago in his absence.

  How many times had Hoyt visited the sheriff to voice his concerns over the treatment of Christine and her daughter Calpurnia? At least four now, but nothing had changed. What could he do? With a grimace, he recalled the conversation he’d just had with the sheriff of Mobile.

  “Come now, Dr. Page. You should leave the gossip to the ladies. It’s not seemly for a man in your position to engage in this kind of speculation,” Sheriff Rice had said as his deputy and oldest son had snickered and leaned back on his dirty boot heels. Hoyt had cast a glance at the deputy over his shoulder but continued undaunted, determined to help Christine. “Do you have any proof that Mr. Cottonwood has abused either of them?” the sheriff had asked.

  “What kind of proof do you need, sir? I know starvation when I see it. The girl is nothing but skin and bones, and her skin is sallow—both obvious signs of starvation. Her mother can’t even speak—she’s catatonic, unable to do anything by herself. Something is going on in that house.”

  “Did they complain to you, doctor?”

  “No,” Hoyt had said with a surge of desperation, “but I want it on record as the family’s physician that I made a formal complaint. I cannot sit idly by while the man starves his daughter to death. God only knows what Christine—Mrs. Cottonwood—has had to endure. Have you ever known me to gossip about a patient or any family that I have cared for? Won’t you at least investigate what I am reporting?”

  “Surely you understand how sensitive this type of matter is, Dr. Page.” Rice had stroked his greasy black beard like it was his favorite cat. His dark eyes were steady and fierce; they seemed to bore into Hoyt’s soul. Hoyt had been unnerved that he couldn’t read him.

  “I am not asking you to arrest anyone. Just investigate. Please, sheriff. I would consider this a personal favor.” Hoyt understood what that meant. The next time another fool deputy shot his toe or another one of Rice’s relatives developed syphilis, Hoyt would offer his care for free—until Rice said otherwise. No matter. It is worth it if it helps Christine!

  Sheriff Rice’s wooden chair had squeaked as he’d sprung to his feet and offered Hoyt his hand. Hoyt had shook it tentatively and thanked him. “If it will ease your mind, Dr. Page, I will do it. If I see any cause to intervene, I will. You have my word.”

  With a nod, Hoyt had left the office, hoping to make it home before the rain began to fall. That was earlier that evening—it was now near midnight. It was a fortunate thing that the sheriff had been in his office. He had felt hopeful at first, but it hadn’t lasted.

  Knowing the sheriff’s character, it was doubtful that Christine, Calpurnia and now the new baby would receive any help at all. He sat at his writing desk, wondering to whom he should write—who would help him? There was a judge, Judge Klein, who used to serve as a circuit judge. But what influence would he have here now? He sighed again and reached for the small cedar box hidden in the secret drawer of his desk. Not even his sister knew of his personal treasure trove.

  Dearest Dr. Page,

  Against the desires of my own heart, I have consented to marry Jeremiah Cottonwood. As this pleases my parents, it also pleases me. Had my father not suffered so extreme a shame at the hands of my sister, Olivia, I may have better resisted his pleas. Olivia has brought a cloud upon our name, and I dare not speak her name in public, not in the presence of a living soul.

  Even Louis agrees that my marriage to Mr. Cottonwood is the wisest course of action for our family, although he continues to respect and admire your noble character. Truthfully, he does not express much care for my intended but assures me that he will remain by my side to guide me in my new role as the lady of Seven Sisters.

  My friend (I call you this because you are still my dear friend despite this troubling news), you cannot imagine how unhappy I am at the possibility that I will no longer receive your Kind and Enjoyable Favor.

  Please forgive me,

  C.B.

  He had not written back. In fact, it had been a full year before he saw her again. It had been at the Ferguson-Mays Christmas Ball at the Idlewood Mansion. He closed his eyes and remembered that night. The Greek revival home had been full of Mobile’s elite….

  ***

  Fragrant greenery decorated the balustrades and mantelpieces, and white and red candles flickered everywhere. The dark wooden panels of the parlor gleamed, and even the servants wore fine cuffs and tails.

  Snow fell for the first time in a decade, and the gentlefolk spent a great deal of time gathered at the massive windows, watching the sparkling snow and dancing flakes in the comfort and warmth of the mansion. Two young cocker spaniels leaped up on the back of one of the couches and began barking excitedly. The partiers laughed at the entertainment, and this was the scene to which he entered. With the recent surge of influenza and other illnesses, it was a welcome picture of joy that he rarely witnessed. He handed his hat and coat to a servant and politely nodded to those who greeted him.

  Immediately, his eyes fell upon Christine. Her dark blond hair no longer hung prettily down her back in carefully combed tendrils; instead she wore it in an elegant swirl at the back of her head, as a respectable married woman would. Delicate pearls dangled from her pretty ears, and she wore an expensive dark red dress. Some women could not wear such a shade without looking pale, but Christine’s beautiful s
houlders and bright skin made her look like a crimson angel. Hoyt drew himself up straight, suddenly proud of his height—he was well over six feet and easily one of the tallest men in the room. Although he was thirty, he maintained a trim physique and a healthy metabolism. Some women found him attractive, he gathered, but he considered his brown hair and hazel eyes rather plain.

  Hoyt stared—he could not help himself. That he had thus far managed to avoid socializing with Christine had been nothing short of sheer luck. Now that he stood so close, he felt his heart melt. Yes, she had chosen Jeremiah Cottonwood over him, but how could he blame her? She, the obedient daughter of the Beaumonts, could do nothing but obey her father’s wishes. Strangely enough, that made Hoyt love her more. Her sense of duty was as fierce as his own. All this time, he had asked himself if he had really loved her, and now he knew the answer. Indeed he had, and he loved her still.

  Hoyt silently prayed that Christine would look in his direction, but she was engrossed in a conversation with one of the Maples twins. The hostess of the ball, Margaret Ferguson, suddenly stepped into his line of sight. “I am so happy to see you, Dr. Page. It has been far too long since you stepped foot in Idlewood. How long must it be? Two years? And how is your sister? Still not well? I miss my friend.”

  Returning Mrs. Ferguson’s smile, Hoyt offered Claudette’s formal apologies. “Alas, Mrs. Ferguson, she hasn’t the strength right now for a night of dancing. But I feel sure another few weeks will have her right as rain. She asks that you excuse her just this once, and she promises she will return to your side in time for the church auction in January.”

  Her smile deepened, and she gave him a courteous nod. “Of course I excuse her, poor thing. This year’s flu has wreaked havoc here too. Almost all my servants have succumbed to it, and now our boy is sick….”

  “I pray it leaves your household soon, ma’am.” Suddenly, he could hear the swell of violins and the sliding of the wooden panels that transformed the front parlors into a spacious ballroom.

  Mrs. Ferguson leaned toward him and whispered, “Would it be vile of me to ask you to check on my Charles before you leave? My husband does not trust physicians, I am afraid; however, I would value your opinion. I cannot imagine what I would do if…” She sniffled as she confessed her greatest fear to him.

  “I will be happy to examine the boy, but I am afraid I left my bag in my coach.”

  Her nervous smile reappeared. “I will ask Daniel to bring the bag up to you. Would it be possible for you to visit Charles now? That way my husband will not suspect anything. I do not think he knows yet that you are here.”

  “Of course, as you wish.”

  “His room is up the stairs, to the right. I will go find Daniel now.”

  “Leave him in my hands. All will be well.”

  “Thank you so much, Dr. Page.”

  Although with all his heart Hoyt wanted to greet Christine, he went up the stairs just as Mrs. Ferguson asked. He walked with his hands clasped behind his back, and his stiff collar felt hot and uncomfortable on his skin. He pushed open one door and found a young black woman busily folding linen. “Excuse me,” he whispered as he closed the door behind him and continued to the second door. There was a low lamp lit on a desk in the second room, and Hoyt could discern the shadows of furniture, toys and books. This must be the nursery. A light glimmered on the other side of the room, and he could hear a child coughing.

  He walked quietly through the nursery to the child’s room and noticed a draft. He made a mental note to mention that to Mrs. Ferguson. The boy rolled over in his bed and looked up at him.

  “Hello, young sir. You must be Charles. Your mother asked me to come see you. I am a doctor. Would you mind if I took a look at your eyes, nose and ears?”

  The child said nothing, but his dark eyes had a shadowy, sickly look. Hoyt’s heart went out to the poor little fellow. As he sat on the bed, a young man came into the room with his bag. Absently, Hoyt thanked him and opened the bag, looking for his liniment. He felt the child’s head—he had a fever, and a high one. Fevers were child killers. He moved the lamp closer to the child’s face and examined his eyes. The pupils were dilated slightly, and his throat felt swollen. “Oh, yes. That hurts, doesn’t it?”

  The frail boy nodded, and Hoyt continued his examination, peering into the youth’s red ears and inspecting his runny nose. Fortunately, the mucus was clear with no obvious signs of infection. Either the boy’s case was early in the going or this was not the flu. A sharp knock on the door grabbed the pair’s attention. Hoyt stood quickly, wondering what he would say if Lane Ferguson came barging in wondering why Hoyt was examining his son. The door opened and Christine entered, her soft red dress filling the small room with happy color. Hoyt’s heart leaped in his chest.

  “Who are you?” the boy whispered, his voice sounding scratchy and hoarse.

  “Why, I am Christine. I am Dr. Page’s nurse.”

  “You don’t look like a nurse, ma’am. You’re too pretty to be a nurse.”

  “How charming you are, sir,” she answered with a smile. “How is the patient, doctor?” Her dainty hand grasped the post of the twin bed as she smiled down at him.

  Hoyt’s mouth was as wide as the child’s astonished eyes. He could tell that the young boy was quite infatuated with Christine, but who could blame him? His heart beat fast in his chest, and he felt a smile stretch across his lips. “Our patient will recover as long as he gets plenty of rest and drinks all the soup his mother brings him. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, I can do that.”

  Hoyt stuffed his tools back in his bag, tousled the lad’s hair and walked toward the door. What should he do? What should he say now?

  “Goodbye, nurse. I hope you come see me again.”

  “I shall, I promise, young man. Good night.” She walked out of the drafty room and Hoyt followed her, his bag in hand. They walked into the nursery, where several tiny lights bounced and shimmered; she must have lit the candles before she entered the bedroom. Swells of music rose from the lower floor, and candlelight sparkled from the greenery-decked mantelpiece. Christine took Hoyt’s hand and led him to a tufted couch at the corner of the room.

  Hoyt’s hands were freezing, and panic gripped him. Should I take her hand or refrain? Should I…what should I do? He stared at her, not daring to touch her or ask why she had come upstairs. Just as he summoned the courage to touch her cheek and speak his mind, Christine turned her attention to the window. She made a comment about the snow—how beautiful it was, how quickly it would be gone—but Hoyt barely listened. The small talk made him impatient, and he rose to join her. Standing behind her, he quietly examined her hair, her elegant neck, the milk-white skin of her bosom. None of these had he ever had permission to touch or appreciate. How he’d fantasized about her hair falling through his fingers, her upturned face tilting toward his. Christine spun around, the silk of her dress rustling as she did.

  Here was the moment he had been waiting for! He grasped her thin arms, pulling her close to him. He wanted to rail at her, yell at her for leaving him, but he couldn’t. Her sweet lips beckoned him and he kissed her, softly, chastely at first, then more ardently.

  “What if your husband…” Hoyt couldn’t help himself. The unwanted words came tumbling forth.

  “No! Do not mention his name! Don’t spoil this, Hoyt! Let this moment be for you and me!” The two embraced, uncaring that anyone could enter the room and find them. In a ragged whisper she said, “All I need is this moment. That’s all I need. Then I can go on.”

  There was a message in her confession—a desperation that made Hoyt both protective and angry. He felt it with every inch of his being.

  Before he could seek the source of her anxiety, she whispered, “Come to me at four o’clock tomorrow, Hoyt. If you don’t come, I don’t know how I will make it. I need your strength. You have always been my friend and…even more. Promise me you will come.”

  “Where shall I meet you?”


  “Come to Seven Sisters. Ann-Sheila will lead you to me.”

  “What of Cottonwood? Won’t he be suspicious to see me calling upon you?”

  “He leaves in the morning. Tell Stokes you’ve come to check up on Ann. She’s been ill recently. He won’t suspect anything.”

  “I will come, Christine.”

  “I had better go now, before someone misses me. Until tomorrow.” She squeezed his hand and smiled at him.

  Hoyt’s heart banged happily in his chest as he watched her leave the room. He tried to gather himself, wandering around the room and pretending to be interested in the impressive selection of children’s fairy stories on the shelf next to the couch. As patiently as he could, he forced himself to wait. No one must know their intentions. Mobile society was unforgiving when it came to infidelity, but was this truly infidelity? Weren’t they meant for one another? Besides, Hoyt knew the secrets of just about all these old families—including his own. After what seemed like a lifetime, he walked out of the room and discreetly passed his bag to Daniel, who took it to his carriage.

  Hoyt danced a mere four times, drank two hot whiskeys and discreetly excused himself far earlier than his sister would have liked. The entire night, he did not speak to Christine—it wasn’t seemly to dance with a married woman unless she was a cousin or a sister-in-law. He could not bear to think he might bring her scandal or heartache.

  Jeremiah Cottonwood greeted him during the course of the evening, preening like a peacock and showing everyone the gold chain and watch his eminent father-in-law had given him. After a few drinks, he began to share bawdy jokes. He was careful not to speak ill of his rich wife, but Hoyt was sure he was tempted to do so. As far as Cottonwood believed, he was the luckiest man in the room—twice as wealthy as anyone there and four times as wealthy as his hosts. But that did not humble the man at all. Hoyt considered it a pleasure to leave his company.

  He spent a restless night in his modest two-story brick home, tossing and turning, wishing sleep would come and make the time go faster. The next day, he went out for a haircut and a shave, purchased a new shirt and came back home and watched the grandfather clock move ever so slowly. At three, he saddled up his horse and rode toward Seven Sisters. With any luck, Cottonwood would not be home and Hoyt could spend time with the woman he loved.