by Myra Johnson
Instantly, both Samuel and Dr. Russ came to her aid. A solid slap to her upper back dislodged the bit of toast, and while the doctor helped her into a chair, Samuel called for a glass of water.
“I’m—fine.” Annemarie gasped out the words. She pressed a hand to her chest as she sipped from the water glass Mrs. Yarborough handed her, hardly daring to glance across the room where Gilbert and Mary stood at a polite distance. Why, Lord? Why did Gilbert have to bring Mary? How would any of them ever survive the discomfiture of this ill-planned evening?
Mrs. Yarborough patted Annemarie’s shoulder and offered a fresh napkin. “I’m so sorry, my dear. Are you sure you’re all right?”
Nodding, Annemarie coughed gently into her napkin but kept her eyes averted. Lord, let me disappear right now!
Samuel sank on one knee beside her chair. “Do you want to go home? We don’t have to stay.”
“No,” she whispered—the exact opposite of her true desires. But she must show herself the better person or she’d never be able to hold her head high in Hot Springs society. “No, it’ll be fine. Let’s not spoil the evening for Dr. Russ.”
Now the doctor edged closer. Samuel stood, and they exchanged words Annemarie couldn’t make out. Eyes narrowed in a look of sympathetic understanding, Dr. Russ gave Samuel’s shoulder a squeeze and then crossed the room to offer his hand to Gilbert. “I must say, Lieutenant Ballard, you’re looking a hundred times better than the last time I saw you.”
“Dr. Russ, a pleasure to see you again. I didn’t intend on making such a dramatic entrance, however.” Gilbert nodded toward Annemarie. “My apologies to Miss Kendall.”
Rising, Annemarie hoped she could find her voice. “Think nothing of it.” A bit raspy, but another slow breath restored a measure of control. “You do look exceedingly well, Gilbert. Hello, Mary. What a lovely dress. Green is your color.”
“Thank you.” Mary’s glance skittered to the floor and up again. “I’d no idea you’d be here, or—”
“Nonsense. There’s no reason we can’t all be friends.” Well, there were plenty of reasons, but she wouldn’t think about them right now. She linked arms with Samuel. “Imagine, here you gentlemen are, all together again after your journey home on the Comfort. Small world, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.” Pastor Yarborough rubbed his hands together as he edged over to his wife. “Fiona, dear, let’s not make our guests wait for dinner a moment longer. All this excitement has honed my appetite to razor sharpness.”
And taken what was left of Annemarie’s clean away.
Blast it all, why did Dr. Russ have to bring Samuel and Annemarie along? Not that Gilbert should be surprised. He’d surmised during their days aboard the U.S.S. Comfort that during the war the doctor and the chaplain had developed a deep and personal bond. Now he knew the bond included the keeping of certain secrets—the reason Gilbert had arranged this interesting little gathering in the first place.
Except Samuel was not supposed to be here.
Although . . . maybe the situation might turn out in Gilbert’s favor after all. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Uncover Sam’s secret and expose it in one dramatic coup d’état.
“More roast beef, Gilbert?” Mrs. Yarborough offered him the platter.
“Don’t mind if I do. Delicious as always, Mrs. Y.” Out of habit, he grasped the serving plate with both hands, forgetting his left arm still lacked strength. The platter tipped, and slabs of tender, juicy roast nearly slid off the edge before Mary rescued him.
Setting the platter on the table between them, she shot him a green-eyed smile filled with empathy . . . and more. It was clear she’d fallen in love with him. And soon, he would break her heart. A pang of regret stabbed like a bayonet. Mary was a good girl, deserving so much better than he’d offered, and he’d taken advantage at every opportunity. Only her Christian morals and firm resolve had prevented him from giving his desires free rein.
But the discovery that Sam hid a dark and shameful secret had awakened him to his true desires, and now not even Mary’s tender caresses and selfless devotion were enough to deter him from battling for Annemarie’s love with every weapon at his disposal.
Even if it meant destroying the man he once called friend.
Cherry pie and piping hot coffee concluded the awkwardly quiet meal, and as Mrs. Yarborough and Patrice cleared the table, the pastor invited the guests to return to the parlor. Samuel and Annemarie went straight to the far end of the sofa, obviously putting as much distance between themselves and Gilbert as possible.
Fine. Gilbert intended on prying the desired information from Dr. Russ anyway, so he deliberately chose the chair next to the doctor’s. Noticing Mary glancing around for where she should sit, he cast her an apologetic frown. “We’ll be telling war stories, Mary. You’d much rather visit with the ladies, wouldn’t you?”
“I’d love to hear a good war story.” Her features hardened into a steely smile as she set one hand firmly upon Gilbert’s shoulder.
Pastor Yarborough brought over a spindly, straight-backed chair and placed it next to Gilbert’s. “Here you are, Miss McClarney. And I’ll make sure these fine gentlemen mind their words for the ladies’ delicate sensitivities.”
Mary uttered a dismissive laugh. “No need to guard your words on my account. I’m a nurse at the Army and Navy Hospital, don’t forget. There’s little on God’s green earth I haven’t heard already.”
“All the more reason we should be considerate.” Samuel drew Annemarie’s hand into his lap and cradled it tenderly. “I suggest we spare the ladies—and ourselves.”
Gilbert’s jaw ached with the effort required to keep his expression impassive when all he wanted to do was grab Samuel Vickary by the lapels and beat his face to a pulp. But no, he wouldn’t win any points with Annemarie that way. She’d have to see for herself Samuel wasn’t the honorable man she believed him to be—and Gilbert was every bit the man she remembered and once loved.
“You make a good point, Sam.” Gilbert stretched out his good leg and rested his hand atop his cane. “Why ruin an otherwise pleasant evening reminiscing about a time we’d all rather forget?”
“I agree.” Dr. Russ fingered one of the doilies covering the chair arms. “I, for one, have had all the war talk I can stomach for a lifetime.”
“I’m sure you have, Doctor.” With a casual chuckle, Gilbert added, “Pastor, this might be a good time to break out that bottle of brandy I brought. Nothing like a good cognac to top off a delicious dinner and smooth the way for relaxing conversation.”
The pastor made a few noises about why, as a man of the cloth, he really shouldn’t imbibe, but how could he refuse to partake of Gilbert’s generous contribution to the evening? He hurried to the hallway to fetch the bottle, and shortly afterward Mrs. Yarborough carried in a tray of crystal brandy snifters. Even if Gilbert hadn’t witnessed firsthand the pastor’s penchant for a glass of fine wine with a sumptuous meal, the fact the Yarboroughs even owned a set of snifters spoke volumes. Gilbert wasn’t at all surprised when the pastor poured himself a generous splash.
He wasn’t surprised, either, when Samuel stoically refused, as did the ladies. Dr. Russ accepted a glass, however—definitely part of the plan—and sipped it slowly as Gilbert asked how he enjoyed life in Hot Springs.
“It’s a charming city, a lot to offer.” Dr. Russ swirled his snifter. “But, of course, I’ve visited here several times. I was born and raised near Fort Smith, if you recall.”
“Yes, a fellow Arkansan.” Gilbert raised his glass. “Finest state in the U.S. of A. And we Arkansas boys sure proved our worth in France, didn’t we?”
Annemarie stiffened. “I thought we’d agreed not to discuss the Great War.”
“Great. That certainly describes it.” Gilbert rubbed his left thigh as he sipped his brandy. “Most every country in the Northern Hemisphere, plus Australia, New Zealand, parts of Africa and South America—”
“Humph.” Patrice, seated
next to her mother across the room, lifted her nose in the air. “War is what happens when you leave the government of nations to men.”
“Now, dearest . . .” Mrs. Yarborough cast her daughter a warning glance.
Mary sat forward. “Hasn’t it been a lovely spring? Do you garden, Mrs. Yarborough? My mum always has me plant pansies in the window boxes so we’ll have plenty of blooms to brighten the house come springtime. I think this year’s batch is—”
“Mary, be a dear and fetch the brandy.” Groaning inwardly, Gilbert handed her his glass. He didn’t need a meddling Irish nurse derailing his agenda.
Mary started to rise, but as she cut a sharp glance his way, Mrs. Yarborough leapt from her chair. “Keep your seat, Miss McClarney. I am the hostess, after all.” She retrieved the bottle from a side table and topped off Gilbert’s glass. “Anyone else?”
“I’ll take a bit more.” Dr. Russ drained his snifter and then extended it for a refill. “Excellent vintage, Gilbert. A fine Rémy Martin, with hints of jasmine and hazelnut, if I know my cognac.”
“And you do!” Dr. Russ, a brandy connoisseur? Maybe Gilbert’s luck was on the upswing. He could certainly use a bit of good fortune after his disastrous losses at Oaklawn this week. Should have put his money on St. Allan as his tipster advised. The two-year-old colt had set a new track record. “So there. Something to talk about besides war. Although I doubt the ladies would enjoy a discussion of the finer qualities of cognac any better. What about horse racing, Dr. Russ? Do you bet on the ponies?”
“Most definitely not. Might just as well light a match to a twenty-dollar bill as take a chance at the track.”
Mrs. Yarborough cleared her throat. “I daresay, ladies, perhaps we should adjourn to the dining room and allow the gentlemen to discuss whatever amuses them.” She set the bottle of brandy on the table between Gilbert and Dr. Russ and then signaled the ladies to follow her. “Miss McClarney, perhaps you’d share your cultivation tips. My pansies never quite seem to thrive.”
Yes, indeed, Gilbert’s luck was turning. Without Mary standing sentinel or the distraction of watching Samuel fawn over Annemarie, maybe he could finally get down to business.
29
Gilbert was up to something. Annemarie felt certain. The look in his eyes, the smirk that curled his lip for the briefest of moments when Mrs. Yarborough suggested the ladies retire to the dining room—no word described it other than smug.
Mary sensed it, too, if Annemarie wasn’t mistaken. The girl stood, her steps faltering. “We won’t be staying too late, now, will we? Mum will worry.”
Gilbert waved her away with the tip of his cane. “Go along, Mary. Have a nice chat with the ladies.”
Annemarie shifted on the sofa, giving Gilbert her back. She entwined her fingers with Sam’s and cast him a pleading gaze as she whispered, “Maybe we should go now. Gilbert’s determined to get himself drunk, and Donald along with him, from the looks of things. This will only end badly.”
Samuel offered a none-too-confident smile of reassurance. “I’ll keep an eye on things, make sure neither of them gets out of hand.” He brought her fingertips to his lips for a gentle kiss and then gave a weak laugh as he nodded in Dr. Russ’s direction. “Besides, I’m afraid Donald’s already beyond the point of needing me to drive us all home.”
“Samuel Vickary.” Dr. Russ slurred his words. “Are you referring to my love affair with brandy?”
Gilbert’s harsh chuckle pierced the air. “I do believe we’re kindred spirits, Donald, my man. What else besides brandy so soothingly warms a gentleman’s insides with so little risk to his heart? Certainly not any woman I’ve ever met.”
Annemarie glanced over her shoulder in time to see Mary wince. Again, she turned to Sam. “I don’t like where this is headed. Let’s make our excuses and leave. Please.”
Worry crept into Sam’s eyes. He pushed off the sofa and helped Annemarie to her feet, then kept her hand tucked firmly against his side as he addressed Dr. Russ. “Donald, perhaps we ought to call it an evening. Don’t you have an early surgery in the morning?”
“Rescheduled for eleven-thirty.” The doctor slanted a knowing look toward Samuel, his gaze darting meaningfully toward Gilbert and then to his brandy snifter.
Their exchanged glances set Annemarie’s teeth on edge. Exactly how many of them here tonight had ulterior motives?
Patrice sidled over to where Mary now stood. “Honestly, Annemarie, I should think you’d have discovered by now it’s useless arguing with a man. They’ll have things their way, right or wrong—and it’s usually wrong.”
“Patrice! Must you insult our guests?” Despite a simpering smile, Mrs. Yarborough hissed the words like an exasperated mother cat. Her gaze finally settled on Annemarie, and she extended a beckoning hand. “Come now, dear. No reason to rush off, is there? We ladies will have a cozy chat in the other room.”
Outnumbered, Annemarie had no choice but to concede. But even if she could put aside her concerns about leaving Gilbert and Samuel in the same room together, the thought of whiling away an hour or more in idle conversation with the prim Patrice Yarborough, her obsequious mother, and the plucky young nurse who only had eyes for Gilbert—
Lord, help! Her fingers ached with the need to escape to her pottery wheel.
Samuel shifted his stance uneasily as he watched the ladies retreat to the dining room. Before Mrs. Yarborough whisked the French doors shut behind them, Annemarie shot him one last desperate glance. The look in her huge brown eyes reminded him of the confused and terrified deer he’d cornered in a ravine long ago on a boyhood hunting trip.
Cornered. Exactly how he felt just now. He yearned to leave as badly as Annemarie, but the tingling tightness in his gut told him to bide his time while the evening played out.
“Sit down and pour yourself some cognac, Sam.” Gilbert gestured with his own glass. “Good for what ails you.”
“Thanks, but at least one of us should stay sober.” He glanced toward the pastor, who had somehow managed to fall asleep amidst all the commotion. The softly snoring cleric’s empty brandy snifter dangled from his fingertips. Samuel relieved him of the glass and set it on an end table.
Donald chuckled. “Should we help the poor fellow up to his bed?”
“Leave him,” Gilbert replied. “The old man never could hold his liquor. One drink and he’s out like a snuffed candle.”
“Convenient, isn’t it? The pastor out cold, the ladies in the other room . . .” Donald’s tone no longer held even the suggestion of inebriation. He set down his glass with a thunk, crossed one leg over the opposite knee, and folded his hands. “Okay, Gilbert, you have us where you want us. Time to pay the piper. What ‘tune’ would you have us dance to tonight?”
Gilbert’s nostrils flared. He blinked several times and then gulped his brandy. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Picking up on Donald’s cues, Samuel entered the fray. “Don’t pretend, Gilbert. If I didn’t realize it before, I do now. You orchestrated this whole evening for a purpose.” He backed off slightly and gave his ear a thoughtful tug. “With one possible exception, of course. You were as taken aback to find me here with Annemarie as we were to learn the Yarboroughs were awaiting your arrival.”
“You’ve got me there, Sam.” A nervous laugh vibrated Gilbert’s chest. “Part of what you say is true. Mother finally coerced her prodigal son into attending church last Sunday, and when I happened to glimpse Donald across the way, I thought it would be nice to get reacquainted. And knowing what charming hosts the Yarboroughs are, not to mention Patrice would be at home . . .” He spread his hands as if the other men couldn’t possibly deny the logic in his reasoning.
Donald snorted. “I’m at the hospital fifty hours or more a week. You couldn’t pop in there to say hello? Or invite me to meet you at a restaurant or coffeehouse? Why bring Miss Yarborough and her parents into this at all, when clearly they have no idea what your real intentions are?”
; “You keep hinting about my real intentions.” Gilbert’s chin jerked. “What would those be, dare I ask?”
Samuel jammed his hands into his pockets to keep from throttling the man. “Answer the question, Gilbert.”
“Which one? I heard two. Or was it three?”
Frustration clawed at Samuel’s nerves. He sank onto the sofa, elbows braced on his knees. “Stop playing us for fools and give us a straight answer.”
Sweat popping out on his upper lip, Gilbert massaged his left thigh until Samuel wondered how he kept from rubbing a hole through his trousers. Finally, he pinned Donald with an icy stare. “Admit it, Doc. You know there’s bad blood between Sam and me. Since your loyalty is obviously to him—and seeing as how you’ve already determined I have ulterior motives—why would I assume you’d give me the time of day?”
Donald heaved a frustrated sigh. “Why wouldn’t I, Gil? You were my patient. I cared about you then, and I care what happens to you now.”
“Right. And I’ve got a surefire insider tip for you at the races this weekend.”
Samuel and Donald exchanged looks. Gambling, drinking . . . and, judging from the sweating, dilated pupils, and increasingly noticeable muscle tics, most likely morphine addiction. Signs Samuel should have picked up on long ago. He’d certainly had plenty of experience talking and praying wounded doughboys through their dependence on painkillers.
He rose and went to stand in front of Gilbert’s chair. Unceremoniously he relieved Gilbert of his brandy snifter. “You’ve had enough for one night. Why don’t you go home? I can call Zachary for you. We’ll see to Mary.”
“Some nerve you’ve got, Chaplain Vickary.” Gilbert spat the words, his mouth curling into an ugly snarl. “So faithful and pious, with your butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-your-mouth charm. How can Annemarie not see right through your posturing?”
