by Janette Oke
“Ya think . . . ?” Marty began and Anne nodded. Surely Arnie would have to agree to see his own mother.
Arnie did come. His face looked drawn, his expression distant, but he nodded agreeably while seeming to steel himself against whatever Marty had come to say.
He sat down at the table with her and accepted the cup of tea from Anne. Marty made small talk about the weather and the children and asked a few questions about his stock. Arnie appeared to relax some.
Marty reached out a hand and laid it on Arnie’s. She had to be careful, very careful in what she said. She knew Arnie so well.
“Arnie,” she said, and in spite of her resolve, the tears began to form in her eyes. “Arnie, you have always been the tenderest member of the family . . . have felt things the deepest . . . an’ said the least. I . . . I know how the hurtin’ of young Abe has brought ya deep pain. We have all suffered—we love the boy—but you have suffered the most.”
Marty paused. Arnie’s eyes were fastened on his cup, but he had not withdrawn his hand. Marty took courage and went on. “We miss ya, Arnie—you an’ the kids—an’ Anne. We need ya—as a family we need ya. It’s jest not the same when yer not there. The family isn’t . . . isn’t whole anymore. We all feel it. It hurts. Real bad. It’s not as God intended it to be.”
Arnie stirred and Marty was afraid she was pressing too far . . . too fast. She withdrew her hand and sat silently for a moment. Then she said carefully, “We’ve pushed ya . . . an’ we’re sorry. We haven’t been . . . been thoughtful of yer feelin’s like we shoulda been. We know thet ya can’t stand to see anyone ya love suffer.”
Then Marty changed direction, her voice taking on a new lilt. “Well, we won’t push anymore. We’ll promise ya thet. Abe is a dear, good boy. We got no shame concernin’ ’im jest the way he is. An’ maybe thet arm will git better ’stead of worse. God has done such miracles before. But whether He chooses to heal our Abe or not won’t make any difference to how we feel ’bout ’im. He’s ours . . . an’ we love ’im an’ miss ’im.”
Marty waited for some response on Arnie’s part, but he said nothing. Anne was standing by her kitchen cupboard crying softly, silently.
“Would ya come back, Arnie?” Marty pleaded. “Would ya come back to yer family? To yer church? We love ya, Arnie. We need ya. Please. Please come home.”
Marty’s tears were flowing unashamedly as she made her plea, and suddenly Arnie’s face convulsed, and he laid his head down on his arms and let the sobs shake his body. Marty leaned over to hold her broken son. She soothed and comforted and stroked his hair much as she had done when he had been a child. Then she kissed his cheek and slipped into her coat. She had done all she could.
Arnie did come back. He came to church the next Sunday, though he sat stiffly in the pew. The children were thrilled to be back, and Marty noticed a more peaceful look in Anne’s eyes.
Arnie also joined the family at Clare’s house for dinner. Marty had warned all of them that not one word should be said about the young Abe and his need for corrective surgery. Everyone was very cautious about the words they spoke—so much so that the conversation often lagged. At times the tension in the air was so heavy that one felt choked by it.
The family was back together—at least bodily. But it wasn’t the same, not the same at all. They all tried so hard—too hard—to make things seem as they had always been. The chatter, the teasing, the concerns over one another’s affairs—all meant to bring back the feeling of family—all failed miserably in doing so. There was a strain about it all that seemed to draw more attention to the fact that there was friction, not harmony, in the family circle. The unity had been broken. The bond had been weakened. They were not as they had been.
Marty talked to Clark about it on the short walk home. She longed for the old relationship to be restored, but she was at a loss as to how it could be done. She didn’t have any answers, and there seemed to be so many troubling questions. Marty wept again as she walked.
Belinda, too, suffered under the strain of the family rift. It weighed heavily upon her as she went about her daily nursing duties. There were times when she wished she could get out from under it all, even for a brief season. She often thought of asking for some time off so she might go out west for a visit, but she always dismissed the idea. Luke needed her. It sounded like in just a few months they might get their new doctor, and then she would be free to take some time for herself. She would hang on until then.
Rand still called when he was free. He had taken Belinda to see the Kirby house on a number of occasions. Belinda thought it was beautiful and was amazed that Rand could build such a lovely home. Rand smiled at her praise, his eyes saying more than he dared to say in words.
Once the Kirbys were established in their new home, there was no longer that small diversion. Rand was busy working on another house for the town grocer but not nearly as grand as the Kirbys’.
Belinda got through the days as best she could, finding pleasure in the company of her young nephews and little Ruthie. Children, she often thought, they seem to somehow put the world to rights again. If only we could be more like children.
Belinda ticked off the long winter days one by one, looking forward to spring. But one morning the unexpected broke into the routine of their days. A message was sent from the local station that someone traveling the train had taken suddenly, seriously ill and the doctor should come at once. Luke left hurriedly, telling Belinda to prepare for the patient in his absence.
Belinda at once set about making up a bed on a cot in the surgery. She had no idea what the problem was or if the patient was male or female, young or old, but she did the best she could to be ready.
An older woman was rushed from the train to the surgery, lying quietly in the back of Tom Hammel’s wagon. Belinda had never seen anyone quite like her before. Her clothing was very stylish, though the elaborate hat had been laid aside to accommodate the makeshift pillow. Her face was ashen in spite of powder and rouge. A fur wrap lay loosely about her shoulders. She looked to be tall and thin and very regal looking even in her present state, and Belinda felt herself quiver with excitement, in spite of her deep concern for the patient.
Thirteen
The Patient
For the next several days, Belinda’s time was taken up with the careful nursing of the woman. Twice Luke feared they were losing her, but each time she managed to hang on to life. Her condition was diagnosed as a stroke, and Luke was concerned that there would be some lasting paralysis to her right side. Belinda hoped not, and daily as she nursed the sick woman she prayed that she might totally recover.
Three days later a gentleman arrived at their door. Abbie had answered the knock. Luke was out in the country making a house call, and Belinda was sitting with her patient. She could hear the conversation from the next room.
“Good day, madam,” the man said properly, and Belinda could visualize him doffing his hat.
Then he continued. “I understand that Mrs. Virginia Stafford-Smyth is being cared for at this address.”
“That’s . . . that’s right,” responded Abbie. “She was brought in to us from the passing train.” The name of the woman appeared on her luggage and was one of the few things they had managed to learn about her—that and her Boston address.
“I came to see her,” said the man simply.
Abbie hesitated. “She’s . . . she’s very ill. My husband—the doctor—has not allowed visitors.”
Belinda could not help but smile. No one in the small town even knew the woman, much less was interested in visiting her—however, Abbie was following Luke’s usual orders in such circumstances.
The silence that followed alerted Belinda to the fact that Abbie might need some help. She checked her patient and rose from the side of the small cot in the already overcrowded little surgery.
“May I help you, sir?” she asked politely when she reached the door. “I’m Mrs. Stafford-Smyth’s nurse.”
“Oh yes,”
said the tall man, standing erect with his bowler hat firmly in gloved hands. He looked relieved to see someone with a position of authority.
“I’m Windsah. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth’s butlah,” he explained in precise eastern tones. “We received a telegram that she had been taken ill. I’ve come to take charge.”
A butler! thought Belinda. Whoever would have thought we’d ever see a real one way out here? Excitement coursed through her, but she kept her professional demeanor and answered firmly, “Dr. Davis is in charge of Mrs. Stafford-Smyth at the present. I’m afraid ya will need his permission to see the patient. She’s been very ill.”
“Oh, deah!” said the man a bit impatiently. Belinda had never heard an accent like his before.
“I came all this way on that abominable train,” he explained. “And now you say I can’t see Madam.”
“I’m sorry,” said Belinda. “I’m sure the doctor will allow ya to as soon as he returns, but until then I’ll have ta ask ya to be patient.”
“Very well,” agreed the man and lifted his bowler hat toward his bald pate. Then he hesitated and lowered it again. “I suppose there is accommodation for one in this town?”
“A hotel,” responded Belinda. “Over three blocks and down Main Street.”
“That little building called the Red Palace or some such thing?”
Belinda allowed the flicker of a smile. “The Rose Palace. Yes, that’s the one.”
“I noticed it on the way ovah,” said the man. “It didn’t appear to be much of a spot. Palace indeed!” He clicked his tongue in derision. “I suppose it shall have to do.” Then he turned to go, placing his hat on his head as he did so.
Belinda stood looking after him, wondering about it all. After seeing the usual farmers and local townspeople as their patients, it seemed so very strange to be nursing a woman who had her own butler. And it seemed more strange that a butler should be coming to “take charge” of her. Where were her family members? Didn’t they have time to look after their own?
But Belinda had little time to ponder it all. She turned back to the bedside of her patient.
“Mrs. Stafford-Smyth,” she said softly. “Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, do ya hear me? Windsor was just here to see you. He has come all the way from Boston—yer home.”
But as in the past there was no flickering of eyelash or indication that Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had heard.
“Keep talking to her,” Luke had said. “Maybe one of these times we will break through.” So as Belinda nursed her charge, she talked. But to this point there had been no response whatever.
When Luke arrived home he was told about the strange visitor and, after checking the patient, went to see if he could locate the man. Belinda was sure he would have no problem spotting him in the small inn.
He indeed had no problem and was soon home again, Butler Windsor in step beside him.
Luke brought the man directly in to see the patient, and Belinda stepped aside to allow him access. He bent over her solicitously, and Belinda saw his face drain of color.
“She is in a bad way, isn’t she?” he said in a hoarse whisper.
He straightened up, shaking his head. “I had hoped the telegram was exaggerated.”
He then looked around the room, his eyes taking in the cabinets for medications and instruments, the spotless table that served as Luke’s surgical table, the two high stools, the small desk and one oak chair and the corner basket where waste materials were gathered. He looked back again at the cot with its snowy white sheets and woolen blanket.
“Oh, deah me,” he murmured. “Madam shouldn’t be in a place like this.”
Surprised at his own frankness, he hastened to explain. “Whenever Madam has been ill, she’s always been in a hospital—in her own private room.”
“There is no hospital in our little town, I’m afraid,” explained Luke. “This is the best we have to offer.”
“How beastly inconvenient!” the man exclaimed, and Belinda turned to hide her smile.
“She should nevah have gone on this trip to begin with,” he persisted, “but she would have her own way. Madam can be so stubborn at times.” He shook his head in exasperation as though he were speaking of a wayward child.
“Well, nothing to be done about it now but to make the best of it, I warrant.”
He turned back to Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, his face showing his concern. “How long did you say she has been like this?” he asked.
“She was brought to us on Tuesday,” Luke informed the man. “She had taken ill on the train and they stopped to deliver her to me.”
“And she was like this from the beginning?” he asked further.
Luke nodded his head. “There has been very little change,” he offered.
“Beastly!” said the man again.
As Belinda slipped from the room, she heard Luke begin to explain Mrs. Stafford-Smyth’s condition to the butler and heard his tongue-clicking in return. He was a funny fellow, but he certainly did seem genuinely concerned about the elderly woman.
Belinda busied herself in the kitchen and soon carried a tray of tea things to the parlor. Putting them down on the small table next to the sofa, she returned to the room where the elderly woman lay.
“Excuse me,” she said softly, “but I thought ya might like a cup of tea.” She looked knowingly at Luke and nodded her head slightly toward the door. The man looked as though she had just offered him a ticket back to civilization.
“Oh my, yes,” he agreed. “It is long past propah teatime.” He followed Luke from the room.
Belinda poured two cups of the strong, hot tea. Their guest accepted one appreciatively, breathing deeply of the aroma from the cup. She then passed him a plate of Abbie’s gingerbread, and he accepted a slice with a slight nod of his head. Belinda, glad to have been able to help restore some order to his world, excused herself and went back to her nursing duties.
Windsor—Belinda did not know if it was his first name, his last name, or all the name that he had—spent the next several days at the local hotel until he was assured that Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, his “charge,” was going to recover. He often came to the little room where her cot had been placed and visited with Belinda while she cared for the elderly lady.
Belinda found him most enjoyable in spite of his stuffiness. To her amazement he even had a sense of humor—of sorts. He turned out to be deeply committed to Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, and Belinda could not help but admire that in him.
Still, Belinda did wonder if his frequent visits had something to do with the fact that she always served him tea. The hotel’s, he complained, was only lukewarm and weak as rainwater.
Belinda smiled and made sure that the pot was boiling, the teapot heated, and the tea given a long time to brew.
Belinda did not discover much about her patient from the tight-lipped butler, who made clear he considered it poor breeding indeed to discuss one’s employer. However, he did give out bits and pieces of information in their chats together over teacups.
He had worked for Mrs. Stafford-Smyth for forty-two years, beginning in her employ as a young man and serving no other. Mr. Stafford-Smyth had been a busy city lawyer, but a heart attack had taken him to an early grave.
“Has the family always lived in Boston?” Belinda asked.
“Oh, indeed, yes,” answered the butler quickly, as though to even consider any other locale would be a travesty to all that was held sacred.
“Does Mrs. Stafford-Smyth have a family?”
The man sat silent for some time as though weighing whether the question should be considered too personal to answer, but at length said quite simply, “She had two children. She lost one in infancy and one as an adult. She has two grandsons—but they are abroad.”
Belinda understood from his terse answer that she was to pry no further.
It was on their third day of vigil together that Mrs. Stafford-Smyth roused slightly. At first she seemed totally confused. She pushed at Belinda and looked about her in bewilde
rment and some fear. Belinda was glad the butler was there to move to her side. The woman quieted when she saw him and settled back again on her pillow.
“Madam must rest,” he said gently but firmly. “You have been very ill,” and he took her hand and held it until she relaxed again.
Belinda offered the woman some liquid, and she accepted a few sips willingly. One of Luke’s greatest concerns was that they had been able to get her to swallow very little.
She did not stay awake for long, but from then on she roused every few hours, and each time she seemed a bit more alert.
Eventually she was able to make her requests known and after several days was even able to form words, though her speech was labored and slurred.
It was at that point that she was moved to a room at the local hotel, and after conferring with Luke and then with Mrs. Stafford-Smyth at length, Windsor decided that he needed to return to Boston to look after the affairs of her house.
“Don’t worry . . . nurse will care for me,” the lady managed to say, and Belinda understood that she was expected to stay in her employ. But even Belinda could not nurse twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. So Mrs. Mills continued on the night shift and Flora Hadley on the occasional day.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth improved slowly but steadily with each new spring day. Luke was pleased and thankful that she was getting her speech back so quickly—but then Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was not at all like her silent butler and she practiced continually. She loved to chat, and she engaged Belinda in conversation most of her wakeful hours.
“What did he tell you about me?” she asked one day, and Belinda knew that she was speaking of Windsor.
“Very little,” Belinda replied as she fluffed a pillow. “He seemed to feel thet butlers should be seen and not heard.”
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth began to chuckle. “Exactly!” she said. “Exactly! That describes my Windsah perfectly.”
Belinda smiled at the word “my.” Just how does Mrs. Stafford-Smyth mean the word? she wondered.
