“Lionel, you are somewhat old-fashioned, I suppose.”
“Spoken like a freethinker, which I devoutly hope you are not.”
“No, not a freethinker, but I do enjoy a spirited discussion of contemporary issues.”
“At the appropriate time, my dear. In private.”
It wasn’t exactly like being muffled. Perhaps he would be open to serious conversations so long as others were not involved. She mentally shook her head. She was a long way from home.
After Lionel departed, Lily retreated to her room and picked up the most recent letter from Fannie. As she read, a wave of homesickness caught her by surprise.
Dear Lily,
I have much to tell you, but first, I hope you know how much all of us miss you. Yet we revel in your accounts of the places you are going and the sights you are seeing. It is a joy to picture you in your fine gowns living in the comfortable home you describe. How generous of your aunt and uncle to treat you with such affection!
Your father and Rose are in good health and spirits. Will and I continue to thank God for our blessings. Indian activity has subsided during the winter, so we are able to spend more time with one another. Yet the weather has taken its toll on the men, and I am very busy at the hospital. But, oh, Lily, how I love learning about medicine and being of help to your father, so devoted to his patients.
Lily laid the letter aside and gazed out the window at the bare branches scraping against the mansion’s exterior. An ache of longing filled the pit of her stomach. The hospital. Once, she had felt useful, valuable. Her next thought struck her with the force of a blow—when had she experienced that kind of fulfillment here in St. Louis? She had been so caught up in the whirlwind of Aunt Lavinia’s social agenda that she had not taken time to reflect on what she might be missing. In memory came the sights and smells of the hospital, the gratitude of her patients, her sense of satisfaction in her duties.
How could any number of exhibitions of paintings with Lionel compare?
* * *
Saturday morning as Lily was getting dressed for her outing with Lionel, Aunt Lavinia entered the room, shooed the maid away and perched on the crewel-covered bench at the foot of Lily’s bed. “Tell me, dear, how are you enjoying our winter pastimes?”
“From The Taming of the Shrew to yesterday’s band concert, I count myself among the most fortunate of young ladies, thanks to you.”
“It is you who have given us the pleasure. I know Mathilda would be enormously pleased with how you are blooming in this setting.” With her bejeweled fingers, she adjusted the large cameo hanging from her neck. “She would be pleased, as well, with the attentions of Lionel Atwood.”
Intent on inserting her earrings, Lily waited, sensing her aunt had more to say.
“He seems very fond of you.”
“He has been most kind.”
Lavinia cleared her throat. “Perhaps he is more than fond.”
Lily wheeled around. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I wasn’t going to tell you, but perhaps it will be helpful for you to know. He has spoken with Henry.”
Lily drew a quick breath. “‘Spoken?’ Surely you can’t be serious...”
“Yes, I believe he intends to ask you to marry him.”
Lily gasped. “No. I mean, we hardly know each other that well.”
Lavinia waved her hand in dismissal. “You know him as well as any bride can know her intended before the wedding. My dear, any true marital relationship develops after courtship. Most brides take their husbands on faith.”
Lily was appalled. Take a husband on faith? It sounded no better than an arranged marriage. “Aunt Lavinia, I am at a loss for words...”
“How many young women of your set will envy you your good fortune in bewitching Lionel. Why, I can see it now. A late-May wedding. The peonies will be in bloom and roses, too. A reception in our garden, and—”
“It’s too soon.” Lily could scarcely breathe. “I need more time with Lionel. I must sort out my feelings.”
Lavinia rose to her feet. “Nerves, dear. We all have them, but, rest assured, you could not make a more promising match. What a delight it will be to host your wedding, and, of course, we must invite your father and sister.”
“Stop!” Lily tried to soften the panic in her voice. “Lionel hasn’t even proposed yet.”
Lavinia smiled confidently. “He will.” Her aunt stood, kissed her on the top of the head and repeated the ominous words. “He will.”
After she left the room, Lily sat, hands folded in her lap, studying her reflection in the dressing table mirror. She hardly recognized the woman staring back—hair curled atop her head in the latest Parisian fashion, diamond earrings twinkling in the morning light, the rich peacock-blue fabric of her dress showing off her tiny waist. She glanced at her hands, pale and smooth, her nails buffed just so. Nothing about her reflection recalled the dedicated nurse enduring the hardships of life on a military outpost. She turned away from the mirror and stared into space. Did she even know who she was anymore?
* * *
The day was bitterly cold, but clear, and the bare mounds of the Flint Hills stretched to the horizon. Caleb and his father worked side by side digging stones for a pathway between the house and barn. The team of horses hitched to the wagon waited patiently as the men slowly hefted flat rocks onto the bed. Near noon, Caleb watched his father remove his hat and wipe away the sweat on his brow. The man was no longer young, but still worked like a strapping lad. “Let’s stop for lunch, son,” he said.
From the wagon seat, Caleb retrieved the packet containing slices of fresh baked bread slathered with apple butter, beef jerky and a chunk of cheese and settled on a nearby boulder next to his father. They ate in silence until his father spoke matter-of-factly. “You’re having the nightmares again.”
Caleb lost his appetite. When he had first returned home, the dreams came intermittently, but had ceased in recent weeks until the night before when they had returned with a vengeance. “I had hoped no one noticed.”
His father chewed on his jerky. “I reckon you came by them honestly. A man can’t witness what you undoubtedly have and remain untouched.”
Fleeting images of bloodshed passed through Caleb’s mind. “I can’t forget.”
“Nor should you. I had hoped, though, that you would find peace with regular physical exercise here in God’s country.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Are you so sure? Sophie tells me you might have something else on your mind. Someone.”
Caleb grimaced. Count on Sophie to spill the beans, although he suspected Seth also might have blabbed. “I’m dealing with it.”
“Heartbreak is a difficult thing.” His father gazed beyond the wagon, seemingly in another world.
Minutes passed while Caleb worked up the nerve to ask the difficult question. “Why didn’t we ever talk about Ma?”
His father’s jaw clenched. “I couldn’t, son. Maybe it would’ve helped us all if I’d been able to.” His gnarled hands restlessly folded the oilcloth that had held their food. “But, you see, a part of me died with her. I loved that woman beyond reason. Nothing in my lifetime will be worse than losing her, except now if I lost one of my children. I have tried to be the best father I can be to Sophie. She is precious to me, but everytime, everytime I look at her, I see your mother and remember that awful night when she breathed her last.”
Caleb studied his father’s face, set like the very rock upon which they sat, and he understood that the man’s tears had been there all along, dammed up by his need for control. “She was a wonderful mother.”
“And a blessing as a wife.” Then his father wrapped an arm around Caleb’s shoulders and uttered words Caleb knew he would never forget. “Son, if you have found that kind of love, go after it. Your agitated spirit will never find peace until you become one with the woman God has sent you to love. Never mind where she is or what has come between you.” Then his father abruptly stood and
finished in a husky voice. “If you love her, fight for her, son. Whatever it takes.”
Caleb got to his feet and breathed in the pure fresh air of the prairie. Whatever it takes. He knew now, more powerfully than ever before, that Lily was his other half, and fight for her he would, no matter what the challenges. Come spring and better weather, his and Sophie’s plan had to work.
* * *
The art exhibition was breathtaking. So engrossed was Lily in examining each painting in detail and then standing back to admire the totality of the artist’s concept, that Lionel grew impatient, often withdrawing his watch from his vest pocket to study the time, as if by that act he could hasten their departure. They had arrived at his club at the height of the showing, but now the crowds had dwindled and winter dusk was settling in.
“Could we go now, Lily?” He stood with his back to the wall, ignoring the art on display. “We will be late for our supper at Café Maurice.”
Lily took one last glance at the remarkable painting before her, then faced him. “I’m sorry, Lionel, but this afternoon has been a sheer delight. Such talent beggars the mind.”
Lionel concealed a yawn. “So glad you enjoyed it, my dear. Now let’s be off.”
In the carriage Lily shook off the sense that Lionel had been bored. Perhaps she had lingered a trifle beyond the hour he had expected to leave, but it had been difficult to tear herself away. “Thank you for a lovely afternoon and for being patient with me.”
“The art I studied today wasn’t a framed piece on the wall. I had the leisure to study you.”
She blushed with the thought that she had been the object of such scrutiny. “Sir, you are quite a flatterer.”
“Flatterer? I think not.” He gathered her gloved hand in his. “Would that I might always have the pleasure of your beauty.” He sank back on the cushion, a satisfied smile on his lips. “One day soon, perhaps.”
Lily froze. Was he referring to an imminent proposal? Not today, oh, not today. “I hope you do not regard me merely as a possession to be acquired.”
He laughed then, a sound that relieved her tension. “Hardly. There is your lively spirit to be taken into account, as well. In short, Lily, you intrigue me.”
She had never thought of herself in that light. For an uncomfortable moment, she recalled this morning’s reflection in the mirror—a young lady of fashion, bedecked in the best money could buy, prepared to set forth on a romantic conquest. What did that woman have to do with Lily Kellogg? In a flash of insight, she realized that the Lily in the carriage was an actress playing a part on the stage of St. Louis.
When they arrived at their destination, the carriage drew to a stop and Lionel handed Lily down. The sidewalk bustled with people going home from work, and the street was crowded with carriages and wagons. The setting sun created a glare, and the cold caused Lily to gather her mantle about her. Across the way she noticed several former slaves unloading barrels and crates from a dray and carrying them into a dry goods store. Just then, their driver yelled, “Runaway, runaway!” Lionel grabbed Lily and pressed her against the side of the carriage.
The rattle of wheels, the cries of bystanders and the neighing of horses filled her ears. Careering down the street toward them came a wagon drawn by frightened, out-of-control horses, their nostrils flaring, their eyes white with panic. People ran for cover and other vehicles drew to the side. Now the wagon was upon them, and Lily felt the swoosh of the horses as they passed and heard the crack of the driver’s whip. Then she heard a sickening thump, and all the breath went out of her. The wagon was long gone, but lying on the street was a limp body. A barrel rolled and bounced in the silence that had fallen over the onlookers.
Without a second thought, Lily tore herself from Lionel’s grasp, ignored his “Lily, get back here now!” and raced for the victim, who had been unloading the dray. “Don’t touch him, miss!” cried one; “Leave him be,” yelled another. No one approached to help her. Heedless of her fancy gown, Lily knelt beside the man, feeling for a pulse. With a spasmodic jerk, he gasped for air. He was alive, but Lily didn’t like the looks of the head wound gushing blood onto his black skin. She lifted her skirt and ripped a strip of cloth from her petticoat, then folded it and applied pressure to the wound. “Call a doctor,” she shouted to Lionel. Instead, he rushed forward and tried to pull her from the man. “Come away, Lily. This man is beneath you. Leave him. Someone will attend to him.”
“He could die,” Lily muttered, squirming away and renewing her efforts to help the victim.
“Let him,” Lionel said. “This has nothing to do with us.”
Lily looked at Lionel as if she had never seen him before. “It has everything to do with us. He’s a human being.”
Lionel’s dark eyes burned with a banked fire. “Now, Lily. We’re leaving.”
Ignoring him, she leaned over her patient and spoke softly in his ear. “Stay with me. You’ve a nasty wound, but we’re taking care of you.”
Lionel backed away, and out of the corner of her eye, Lily noticed that still no one had come to her assistance. She glanced around at them. “What’s the matter with you people? Somebody help me.”
After long minutes, two strong lads approached. “Doctor’s comin’, miss. We’ll take him to the saloon, lay him out on a table. This is no place for the likes of a lady.”
She rocked back on her heels, uttered a short prayer for the victim and then stood. “Thank you. Keep pressure on the wound.”
Oblivious to the blood splattered on her dress and gloves, she watched the two carry the man off. Why had others ignored the situation? Didn’t they see his blood was as red as theirs? She nearly wept with the injustice of it all, and thoughts of Moses threatened to break her completely apart.
Finally, utterly spent, she turned toward Lionel, who waited stony-faced beside the carriage. “Get in,” he barked.
He helped her in, pulled himself up and gave orders for the driver to take them to the Duprees’. Hell would freeze before Lily would utter the first word to him.
After several miles, the silence unbroken except for the clop of hooves and the creak of leather, Lionel finally spoke. “What in the name of God were you thinking?”
“It was exactly in the name of God that I was thinking. A life hung in the balance.” She sighed sadly, knowing that nothing she said would touch him.
“Who do you think you are? Florence Nightingale?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I am a nurse.”
“Not here, you’re not. Do you have any idea how you’ve humiliated me? Demeaned yourself?”
“What? By trying to save a life?”
“Ladies of your social class are not nurses, and they most certainly do not touch strange men, especially of the ilk of that no-account.”
Why had she even tried to get Lionel to see reason? Was he really that caught up in status and prestige? Worse yet, were the social mores of his class such that human life was inconsequential? She could see no point in prolonging their conversation. She didn’t know with whom she was more disgusted. Lionel or herself. When had she lost sight of what really mattered? It certainly wasn’t finery and balls and palatial houses. Nor, God help her, one’s social standing.
Lionel held himself still as a graven statue until they mercifully arrived in front of the Dupree mansion. Stiffly, he did her the courtesy of escorting her to the door. There he dismissed her with one curt sentence. “You have gravely disappointed me, Miss Kellogg.”
* * *
Lily waited until the door closed behind her, then sank to the cold marble floor, shuddering with the enormity of the events of the past half hour. The accident had happened in a split second, but the ramifications reverberated in her head like thunder. Anger, indignation, bafflement—it was all overwhelming. But in no corner of her brain could she rationalize that she should have acted differently. A human being was hurting and needed help which was not forthcoming from others. In no world could she have stood idly by and watched the man suf
fer. If Lionel was horrified, so be it.
In another part of the house she could hear the tinkle of goblets, the clink of silverware and the quiet shuffle of servants moving between the kitchen and dining room. Dinner. The aroma of roast beef wafted under her nose, and a spasm of nausea caused her to get to her feet and flee to her bedroom. There, she threw herself across the bed and lay in the dark, a whirl of questions giving her no peace. How could she have seriously entertained Lionel Atwood’s attentions? Today’s actions would surely dash Aunt Lavinia and Uncle Henry’s plans for her. She smiled bitterly. The much anticipated alliance. How would they react? Would they share Lionel’s disappointment in her? It seemed that her every basic instinct was at war with the society in which she found herself. The society she had coveted.
She rolled over on her back, shielding her eyes with her forearm. There was one silver lining. For the first time since arriving here, she had done something truly useful. She had once more become a nurse. In that same act, though, she had also been confronted by the bigotry that surely could play no part in God’s plan. Yet all in all, she felt more alive, more herself than she had in months.
There came a light tap on the door, and her maid called out, “Miss, are you all right? Is there aught I might do for you?”
Lily raised her head to be heard through the door. “Please ask my aunt to come to my room at her convenience.” It was best if Aunt Lavinia heard the story from her rather than from Lionel. Lily knew the conversation would not be pleasant, but better to get it over with as soon as possible.
She stood up, then glanced down at her dress, which bore mute testimony to the violent scene in the street. The maid had gone, but Lily had spent years dressing and undressing herself and managed to step out of the bloodstained gown and slip into a robe. Near the window were two chairs. Lily sat down in one to wait, all the time wondering what she had found so appealing about St. Louis society that she had left her family, denied Caleb and abandoned the nursing that gave her life purpose. She had some serious thinking to do.
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