“Sit and have more toast. Mary, fry some eggs,” Mr. Rourke said. He put on a coat and left and came back around mid-morning. He escorted the boys home and promised that if they behaved, their aunt would not hurt them again. His words proved true.
He also made a bargain with Peter. Peter was to collect the eggs every day, even from the hens that laid their eggs in the woods, and Mr. Rourke would pay him every month. Both he and Ed spent a great deal of time at the Rourke house after that, helping Mr. Rourke with the fish, fencing, gardens, or whatever he needed. That summer he’d learned to be a man. It was also the blossoming of his relationship with Mary. She kept him grounded.
Mr. and Mrs. Rourke treated him like they would a son. His mother and father were faint shadows in his past, ghosts of a promise that could have been—promise of new generations he’d hoped to carry on with Mary so many years ago. His great-aunt died when he was fifteen, and with no real roots, he chomped at the bit to leave for something better, something to offer Mary.
The first year he was gone and during his time on one of the many merchant ships out of St. John’s, he’d apprenticed with the ship’s doctor. In the beginning, it was mostly out of necessity because they’d picked up twenty-three men from an ice floe who were cold, hungry, and frostbitten. There were too many for the ship’s surgeon to handle, so Peter had volunteered to help. He’d seen Mrs. Rourke working on broken arms and legs and had helped her. Now he remembered what he’d learned. They’d saved all the men and brought them to the hospital in St. John’s to finish their recovery. It had felt good to save lives. For the next two and a half years he’d worked his way from apprentice to a full-fledged ship’s surgeon. He had natural skills as a healer and lots of practice.
Both he and Ed had travelled the Atlantic from the Caribbean to North Africa before ending up on the SS Frisia, a passenger liner running between America and Europe. Peter had landed the job as the ship’s doctor and planned to work on the ship for a year before sending for Mary. Ed worked with the ship’s engineers. That’s when his plans went off course.
He still remembered the hurt he had caused Mary on his last trip here—nine years ago. The look of sadness in her eyes when he told her about his pending marriage was a scar he still carried. He should have told her the truth, but couldn’t; he was too damned proper, and it wouldn’t have been fair to her. She had a chance of a life without him. He sought news of her on rare occasions when fishermen from John’s Pond came into St. John’s. But out of respect for Martha and little Eddy, he’d refrained after the first year. He was married with a child, and he had to play the part.
A knot formed in his stomach, and he almost fell overboard when the boat tapped off the pier. He hadn’t been paying attention—he had to do better than that; he had a job to do.
The boat had been engaged by the government for a doctor and two constables—they had landed at Admiral’s Beach to begin investigating the case. He had overheard them talking about an attempted murder on the SS Abyssinia but hadn’t caught many details.
When word had reached the city regarding the accident at sea, he had finally forced himself to do what he had wanted to do for years and offered to return and help. The last time he’d volunteered on a ship had not turned out so well for him. He hoped this time would be different.
The captain shouted orders at the crew and motioned for him to disembark.
Mary’s house was only a few steps away, but he couldn’t bring himself to go find her. Maybe she was married. Maybe she wasn’t there anymore. He hadn’t thought of that, preferring to think she would be where he had left her—at least he’d selfishly hoped she was. Peter stepped out on the weathered planks on the wharf, recognizing and nodding at people he hadn’t seen in many years. He knew he should head toward the church, and so he turned in that direction.
Later he’d drop in to talk to Mrs. Ange to see if she could rent him a room until all the injured had been handled. Mrs. Ange never gossiped, so she might not be forthcoming about Mary. There would be lots of people moving between the church and store. He’d find out if Mary was here and if she was married or not. There’d be talk for sure once the townsfolk heard he was “home.”
Startled awake at the sound of hurried footsteps, Mary pushed back the curtain to see who it could be. Momentarily dazed and confused as to what she was doing on the chair and who was before her on the daybed, it took her a few seconds longer to react. She jumped to her feet in an attempt to keep the visitor in the porch. Too late: Meg stormed in.
“Mary, Mary, I have something to tell you,” she managed to get out between gasps for air. “You will never guess who is staying at Mrs. Ange’s store!”
“Meg, calm down.”
Winded, Meg stopped and caught her breath; she still hadn’t seen the man on the daybed. Mary tried to steer her back toward the porch, but Meg wouldn’t budge.
“Peter’s here!”
“What? Who?”
“Peter Nolan, your Peter. He’s down at the church tending to the sick. He’s a doctor and arrived on the supply boat to help Dr. Parker. Mary, are you hearing me? Peter’s here,” Meg panted, taking Mary by the shoulders to ensure she was listening.
Mary was shocked and stunned. How could this be? For fear her legs would give way, she reached out to grab the back of the chair and turned it to sit down. Her heart raced, and she felt a strange warmth threaten to consume her. “My God, Peter is here,” she whispered aloud as her breath left her. She was sure the air had been sucked out of the room as she struggled to breathe.
Meg was focused solely on Mary. But suddenly and instinctively she grabbed Mary’s clothing and tried to pull her to safety away from the stranger. “Mary, who is that? Where did he come from?”
Although it felt like she was in a dream, Meg’s voice startled her back to the present. “I don’t know. I call him Pat,” she said flatly, as if it made all the sense in the world.
“Mary, have you gone completely mad?” Meg shouted, reaching for Mary’s forehead.
Mary swatted her hand away. “Meg, I’m fine. I’m helping this man out.”
“But Mary, he could be the murderer that everyone is talking about.”
“What murderer? Nobody was murdered, from what I heard.”
“Nobody knows that yet,” Meg said, upset that Mary was not taking this seriously. “I’m going to get Brian.”
Mary sprang from her chair and blocked the door.
“Meg you’re not going anywhere. You hear me?”
Meg looked quizzically at Mary, sure her friend had lost her mind. Mary related how she had found the stranger and was trying to patch him up. Listening intently, Meg was unconvinced of why Mary was here alone with him.
“So, nobody knows he’s here?” Meg asked.
“No. Just you now. And I want to keep it that way. Meg, I think of you as a friend, and as a friend, I want you to trust me.”
Meg eyed Mary for a considerable length of time. “Okay, Mary. I trust you, but I don’t know if I trust him. I won’t say anything, but I’m staying here with you.”
Mary thought about the offer and nodded. It was probably a good idea. Meg could help with the stranger until they could get him on his feet, and find out who he was and why he was here.
Tired and more vulnerable than she ever remembered feeling, Mary realized how difficult it had gotten for her to trust anyone. Being alone for so long, with only herself to rely on, sharing her privacy was giving Meg something that she held sacred. It scared her.
Meg promised not to talk about the stranger. She assured Mary her trust wouldn’t be misplaced and that she would be back as quickly as possible.
Tired from her efforts with Pat and emotionally drained from hearing the news of Peter’s return, Mary sat by the stranger’s side, her mind consumed by Peter Nolan. Laying her hand on the stranger’s forehead, she was relieved the fever seemed to be com
ing down, which would give her a much-needed spell from her ministry.
She momentarily panicked when she heard footsteps on the path, thinking Meg had betrayed her confidence. However, it was Meg returning alone with a few articles of clothing, enough to last a few days.
Meg still wasn’t happy with the situation, saying over and over that she was there because she didn’t think Mary could protect herself. But once things were settled in an agree-to-disagree sort of way, Meg poured the last of the tea and, sitting next to Mary, handed her a cup as if a truce had been declared. They both sat in silence, gazing at the stranger.
“Why did you call him Pat?” Meg asked, breaking the stalemate.
“I wanted to call him Peter, but I couldn’t. But he is my ‘patient.’”
“Oh,” said Meg, as if it made perfect sense. She gently laid her hand on Mary’s shoulder. “You can’t bring them back, you know.”
Mary abruptly turned to face her. “What are you talking about?” Her words came out more harshly than she had intended.
“You did what you could.” Meg paused. “I heard my parents talking. The community laid that terrible sickness on your mother and then left it with you when she died. We all let you down, not the other way around. We should have done more.”
“And what kind of outcome would that have brought?” Mary asked. “Many more would have died—like in North Harbour, when the families tried to take care of their own.”
“People were afraid. You were probably afraid, but you were given no choice. Now you have a choice. You don’t have to do this by yourself.” Meg reached out and squeezed Mary’s hand. “I’ll help you.”
Mary thought about what Meg had said. Was she keeping the man here so he wouldn’t unleash some sort of sickness or ill will on the community? Was she being a martyr? She was too tired to really want to know the answer.
They sat sipping tea in silence. Only the cracking of the fire and the stranger’s laboured breathing filled the room as they both stared at the man. Mary’s thoughts strayed. At the last drop of tea she finally got up the courage to ask about Peter.
Meg began with how Peter had shown up at the church and helped Dr. Parker with the more critical patients. People from the community came to watch him work and see if it was really him.
“How long has it been?”
“Nine years,” Mary replied, knowing exactly what Meg meant.
Meg told Mary that Peter had then gone to the store and asked Mrs. Ange for a room. Mrs. Ange had been hesitant, but as Peter had come to tend the injured, Mrs. Ange reluctantly agreed. He’d left shortly after that to go to North Harbour to help the few people who still needed attention there.
Mary listened intently. A doctor. He was a doctor. What would she do if she saw him? Where was his family? What did he look like now? Would she know him? So many questions, but she almost couldn’t bear to know the answers.
Her patient groaned. The noise pulled her back to the present. Mary asked Meg to get a cup of juniper tea to spoon into him, and then he drifted off again.
“How do you know what to do, Mary?” Meg asked.
“I don’t know. It comes natural to me. Mom said I had a knack for healing. I was always around her when she was tending to people. I wanted to know everything. She taught me so many things. Da brought me lots of books on medicine and remedies, and I was interested enough to keep it in my head. I like it.”
Meg felt so much older than her fifteen years when she was with Mary. Between the two of them they kept the fire low, the lamp lit, and the teacups filled. They continued to tend to the stranger’s needs into the night. He was awake for longer periods of time but still delirious. He mumbled a few times about his father and about some man named Pearce, but they couldn’t quite make out what he was saying.
Long after the sun had set, Mary told Meg to go to bed. She said it was best if they stayed together and that if anything were to happen, she had placed her father’s twelve-gauge under the bed. Not that she was expecting anything, but she couldn’t be sure. She brought up some stones and placed them under the covers. Meg, still not entirely confident with the situation, hesitantly complied.
Mary assured her she would be up soon. The juniper tea had helped bring down the man’s temperature, so the cooling cloths were no longer necessary. Since the patient was sleeping, she decided to get some rest and get up early and start again.
She attended to her needs and climbed into the bed, trying not to disturb Meg, who was facing the wall and already breathing evenly. Mary wedged the stool against the door. She heard a mumbled “good night” as she settled in for the night. Sleeping fitfully, she dreamed of Peter, the stranger, and the gun in the flour barrel.
7
It was just breaking dawn when Mary heard strange sounds on the stairs. Startled, she scrambled to reach the shotgun under the bed. Then Meg peeped in around the door.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize the stairs creaked so much. I was doing well until I got to the second step. I didn’t mean to wake you,” she whispered. “I’ll tend to the stranger and shout if I need something. You get some more rest.”
Exhausted, Mary fell back into a doze—an unfamiliar luxury afforded by companionship.
She awoke abruptly when she heard the damper scrape on the stove. Forgetting for a moment that she wasn’t alone, she almost reached for the gun once again. She pulled on a dress and wool stockings and went down to the welcoming warmth of the kitchen.
Meg was making tea. The stranger still slept. Mary breathed a sigh of relief when she checked his forehead. His eyes fluttered open at her touch. Again Mary looked into the deepest blue eyes she had ever seen. She smiled and straightened up.
“I thought you were an angel, but you’re real,” the stranger murmured, his thick accent unfamiliar: thawt.
Meg was immediately at her side with the broom, ready to strike. “Don’t you try anything.”
He smiled, his lips dry and cracked. “Hold on now, miss. I mean you no harm.”
Danol tried to lift himself to a seating position, but his right arm was stiff and sore and throbbed at the effort.
Mary laid her hand on his bare chest and gently pushed him back. “Take it easy. You’ve got quite the cut,” she said. The muscles moved beneath her hand, and she pulled back quickly, as if she had been burned. It wasn’t the fever. She suddenly felt a spark of awkward intimacy. He carefully lowered himself back on the daybed while Mary fixed the pillow beneath his head.
He twisted his neck to look at his wound. “I’ve got to get out of here!” Danol said, almost to himself.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Mary scolded. “You’ve lost a lot of blood and have had a fever for a few days. You’re too weak to leave.”
“Who did the doctoring?”
“I did,” Mary said. She suddenly felt the heat rise in her face.
“You were lucky Mary found you,” Meg said.
“It’ll leave a scar but should stay closed if you don’t give it too much working in the next day or so,” Mary said.
“I’m not worried about a scar. Gives a man character, don’t you think?”
“You’re safe here,” Mary assured him. “We’ve told no one and kept you here in good faith. However, if you attempt to harm us, we will scream and the town will come running.”
“I promise I won’t be the cause of any harm.”
“We need to know why you’re here and why you didn’t go to the church with the rest of the injured.”
“It’s a long story, and best if you don’t know.”
“We’ve got all day and nothing but time,” Mary said.
“First I need to know how many died on the ship,” he said. His voice was strained with concern.
“We’ve not heard that anyone perished. Survivors have all gone to different places, and there are constables on their way here within t
he next few days with more news.”
Mary believed she saw relief in his eyes.
“So, you didn’t start the fire?” Mary asked.
“Start the fire? Me? Of course not. My God, all those people. But I know who did—the same man who gave me this present,” Danol said, pointing to his arm. “Why would you think it was me?” Mary told him that there were rumours of a man fitting his description starting the fire, and he wondered aloud why she hadn’t reported finding him.
“You didn’t look the type,” she replied, and smiled. She saw the tension leave his body as he relaxed into the pillow. Then, pointing to Meg, she said, “Anyway, I have protection. I’m Mary, and this is Meg. What’s your name?”
“Danol. Danol Cooper.”
“Finally, a name. I’ve been calling you Pat.”
“Really? I thought Pat was your husband, but I couldn’t hear him talking.”
Meg laughed behind her, causing Mary to laugh as well.
Danol closed his eyes, saying, “You’re right, I’m not as strong as I think I am.”
“Get some rest, and when you wake up, we’ll get some food into you.”
Danol was asleep in an instant. The girls left him alone and went about some much-needed chores—Mary having learned the hard way that letting things pile up led to complications.
Mary quietly asked Meg if she would put some bread in to rise before her yeast spoiled in the pantry. Mary brought the yeast cake, flour, and other ingredients to the kitchen and let Meg prepare the rest. If Meg saw the gun, it would frighten her and she might go tell Brian.
With the bread-making out of the way, Mary fetched the aluminum washtub and scrub board and set them near the stove. It was a beautiful day. With the sun getting high in the cloudless sky and the gentle wind blowing, the clothes would dry soon after they were hung out.
Being Mary Ro Page 8
