Then there was Felicity. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, she knew a great deal about day-to-day medicine and practical remedies. His experience on the ranch had reminded him that most people didn't have access to a doctor. And many who did couldn't afford one. Teaching those people how to take care of themselves was extremely important. That was another thing he couldn't do.
He hesitated to go inside. The night reminded him of the summer evenings he'd spent at his Great-Uncle William's home. He knew Uncle William had wanted him to marry his ward, Vivian Stone, to make his home at Price's Nob. But Vivian had married someone else, and Price's Nob had been destroyed.
He wondered what Felicity would have done if she'd been in Vivian's place. Vivian had wanted to get away from the isolation of Price's Nob. She'd wanted to go to parties, enjoy herself, be courted by the young sons of wealthy families. Vivian had been determined to marry well.
Had she been in Vivian's place, Holt was certain Felicity would have stayed with Uncle William, working in any way she could to help with the plantation. She'd have stayed during the war, feeling she owed Uncle William any help she could offer since he'd taken care of her most of her life. She would even have refused to marry a man like Abe Calvert, because it would take her away from what she felt were her responsibilities. Felicity wasn't one to shirk her responsibilities.
Holt told himself to stop wasting time thinking about Felicity. He needed to find Vivian and make a decision about what to do with his life.
Having shaken off useless memories of the past, Holt walked up to the house and let himself in the front door. At first everything was quiet. Then he heard voices coming from the doctor's office. Felicity's voice, her father's, and the voice of a man Holt didn't recognize. He turned toward the office. He opened the door to find Felicity sewing up a cut in the arm of a man he didn't know. Both the man and her father were soaking wet.
Chapter Seven
Felicity knew the moment Holt walked through the door that he had misunderstood the situation. She didn't give him a chance to speak.
"I'm glad you're back," she said. "Orson fell into Galveston Bay and Papa had to fish him out."
"What are you doing sewing up that gash in his arm?" Holt demanded. "That's a doctor's job."
"It usually is," Felicity said, turning her attention back to the wound in Orson's upper arm, "but Papa's too exhausted to hold a needle steady. Besides, women are much better at sewing than men."
"That's not a petticoat or a pillowcase," Holt snapped. "It's a man's arm."
"If you think you can do better, you're welcome to try." Felicity started to get up.
"I ain't letting no army sawbones get hold of my arm," Orson cried. "He's liable to cut it off."
"He'll do no such thing." Felicity knew Orson's accusation was unfair, but it had the effect of deciding Holt to turn his attention to her father. "See if you can get him into some dry clothes and convince him to go to bed," she said. "He may be suffering from hypothermia."
"I had to stay here to make sure nothing was wrong with Orson," her father said.
"He's fine now. Or he will be when he sobers up."
"Sober up, hell!" Orson said from between clenched teeth. "I'm going to get drunk. That damned needle hurts."
"It can't hurt as much as the rudder."
"Didn't feel a thing," Orson said.
"Then it's good Papa was there to fish you out before you bled to death."
"You don't have to go with me," her father told Holt when he started to leave with him. "I can still dress myself."
"I was just going to help you up the stairs."
"I'm not decrepit. Stay and help Felicity."
"You got anything to get rid of the hurt?" Orson asked. "I could use a drink right about now."
"Once I get this bandage tied, you can get as drunk as you want," Felicity said. "But you should go home and go to bed. You'll probably have a low-grade fever. You don't need to put any extra strain on your system."
"Drinking's no strain on me."
"Yes, it is," Holt said. "The more you drink, the harder your body has to work to handle the alcohol. Let me see your wound."
It didn't bother Felicity that he wanted to inspect her work. She knew the value of her skill. Once, a patient had asked her to take out stitches put in by one of Galveston's best doctors and stitch up the wound again. She'd been amazed the man could endure that kind of pain, but the wound had been so badly sewn up, it would have left a horrible scar.
"You have a close network of fine stitches," Holt said.
"It takes longer and hurts more to do it like this--"
"You're damned right," Orson interjected.
"--but the wound heals faster and the scarring is less."
"Hurry up," Orson pleaded. "Much longer and I'll pass out."
"At least then I won't have to put up with your whining," Felicity said. "I've seen kids show more courage."
"It hurts," Orson said.
"Maybe next time you want to go for a swim, you'll try the gulf instead of the harbor," Felicity said. "You're less likely to cut yourself on a ship's rudder."
"How was I to know it was so close? Some fool painted it black."
"Is he as drunk as he looks?" Holt asked.
"Unfortunately, no," Felicity replied. "If he were, he wouldn't be whining so much. Are you going to look after Papa, or do you want to finish Orson?"
"You bandage it up," Orson said.
"I want to see if Dr. Price has any instructions."
"You finish up," Holt said. "I'm sure you believe women are better at bandaging, too."
"They usually are, but I expect you've had a lot of experience."
"Bandaging bleeding stumps," Orson said under his breath.
"And chests I've cut open. Not to mention having to stuff a kid's guts back in before I could sew him up."
"Shut up," Orson said. "You're making me sick."
"You can't expect the doctor to be careful of your feelings when you've been so hard on his."
"Everybody knows--"
"Everybody doesn't know. Keep still. I'm almost through."
"I don't like the way he's looking at me."
"I think we ought to bleed him," Holt said. "He looks overexcited to me."
"You're not bleeding me," Orson said, backing around Felicity and making it much harder for her to secure his bandage.
"It won't hurt much. Just a couple of tiny incisions."
"You come near me with a knife, and I'll set the law on you."
"If you'd prefer leeches, I'm sure we can find some."
Orson grabbed up the end of the bandage strip Felicity was attempting to tie. "My wife can do that."
"About payment--"
"I'll settle with you tomorrow," Orson said, making his escape through the door her father had left ajar.
"I hope you're satisfied," she said, turning back to Holt. "Now I'll never get the money out of him."
"If I go around to his house with a jar of leeches, I expect he'll pay up quick enough."
Felicity tried to keep a straight face, but she couldn't. "I know he shouldn't have said those things about you, but now you've confirmed his suspicions."
"At least I'll never have to worry about his being my patient."
"He'll probably run if he sees you coming toward him on the street."
"Maybe I should carry a jar of leeches with me when I go out."
"You wouldn't." She was trying not to giggle.
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Because you're much too serious."
"Think of it as preventive medicine. If Orson thinks he has to come to me if he gets cut again, maybe he won't drink so much. And if he doesn't drink so much, he'll be in better health."
"Is that what they taught you in medical school?"
"I've learned to take advantage of all kinds of superstition. You can't imagine how much fun you can have."
She tried, but she couldn't stifle the giggle. "Yes, I can. If you only kn
ew some of the things people believe. Do you know you should tie an onion behind your ear to cure an earache?"
"If you want to get rid of warts, touch each with a separate pebble, put the pebbles in a bag, drop the bag on the way to church, and the finder will receive your warts," he countered.
"To get rid of mumps, put the patient in a donkey's halter and lead him around the pigsty four times."
"Why four?"
"I don't know. Maybe it takes that long for the stench to overcome the mumps. How about this one? For whooping cough, drink water from the skull of a bishop," she added.
"Poor bishop. For a cold, hang a stocking filled with hot potatoes around the neck or rub a roasted one on the head."
"A raw potato in the pocket prevents rheumatism."
"For sexual stamina, crush raw potatoes, carrots, cabbage, and mint."
"Shame on you. Just for that, you should know the surest cure for a man's hernia is castration."
That was too much. They both began laughing uncontrollably.
"What are you two laughing about?" her father asked when he returned to the office.
Felicity sobered quickly. She wished her father hadn't come back. He wasn't drunk. If he had been, he wouldn't have been able to pull Orson out of the water, but now he looked drunk. She knew his staggering gait was from exhaustion, but she was sure Holt would only see that he'd been drinking.
"We were exchanging medical superstitions," Holt said. "I was trying to top Felicity, but I think she won."
"Where's Orson?" Dr. Moore asked.
"He ran out before Felicity could finish tying his bandage," Holt said. "He thinks all army doctors are butchers. He was afraid I'd amputate his arm rather than stitch it up."
"That's foolish."
"I also offered to bleed him," Holt said.
Her father looked from her to Holt and back again. "Why would you want to bleed him?"
"He didn't," Felicity said. "He was just baiting him because of his foolish beliefs."
"You shouldn't do that," her father said. "Some people are fools, but they're innocent fools."
Felicity thought she should have told Holt that her father had no sense of humor about medicine. But then, she hadn't expected Holt to have one, either.
"I ran into a lot of them during the war," Holt said. "It seemed better to laugh at them than take them seriously."
"Doctors should work to eradicate superstition," her father said. "People need to learn to believe in science."
"Holt was only joking," Felicity said. "You ought to be in bed. If you're not careful, you'll get chills."
"I can treat myself, daughter. I don't have chills, but I am going to bed. I'll see you in the morning. Thank you for taking care of Orson."
Felicity could sense the change in Holt even before the door closed behind her father.
"He's been drinking again," Holt said.
"He went to the Galveston Hotel to have a drink with some friends," Felicity said, trying hard to act calm. "Not even you could disapprove of that."
"I do disapprove of it."
"What have you got against my father that makes you determined to deny him the pleasure of even one drink? You've done nothing but criticize him and question his medical abilities ever since you got here."
"I've only questioned his ability when he's drunk."
"My father is not drunk!"
"How do you know?"
"Because I've seen him drunk."
"Okay, then I question whether he's had too much to drink to be able to function as a doctor."
"He couldn't have hauled Orson out of the water if he had."
"You sure someone else didn't have to haul both of them out?"
"What are you insinuating?"
"Maybe Orson fell in the bay, your father jumped in after him, and some ship's crew had to pull both of them out. Or maybe your father fell in and Orson jumped in to pull him out."
"My father wouldn't lie."
Holt wanted to tell Felicity how many times his father had lied, how he'd had to learn to question everything he said. She didn't know what it was like to see the father you loved destroy himself right before your eyes, piece by painful piece, year by agonizing year, in full view of the whole town.
"People who drink too much don't like what's happening to them, but they can't stop it, so they lie. People who don't stop them just contribute to the problem. Rather than believe what you see, you come up with reasons why the truth is really something else."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, I do. My father was an alcoholic. I grew up watching him slowly destroy himself. I know every stage there is, because I've been through all of them." He could see surprise in her eyes, maybe even shock, but no backing down.
"My father has a drinking problem, but he's not an alcoholic."
"Maybe not yet, but he will be soon. And you're allowing it to happen."
"The biggest problem is your puritanical attitude toward anything you consider a vice."
"I wouldn't care about your father's drinking habits if he weren't a doctor. Because he is a doctor, he has to hold himself to certain standards."
"What standards--the ones you've established? My father has always believed in the highest standards of medical practice."
"Yet he can come home drunk after falling--or jumping--into the bay and be perfectly content to let you take care of Orson."
"I could do what needed to be done for Orson."
"You're not qualified to function as a doctor."
"I wasn't functioning as a doctor. I just sewed up Orson's wound."
"Because your father was too drunk to handle a needle."
"Because he was too exhausted."
"Couldn't you smell the whiskey on your father's breath?"
"I could smell whiskey," she admitted, "but Orson had been drinking, and I was closest to him."
"You're not going to admit your father was drunk, are you?"
"Why should I admit what I don't believe?"
"Because you're too intelligent not to know it's true."
Holt couldn't see any reason to prolong this discussion. Felicity had taken her position and didn't mean to change it.
"I have to leave," he said.
"Where are you going at this time of night?"
"I have to move out of my room, out of this house. If I stay here, I'm giving at least tacit approval to what you're doing."
She looked surprised. "You promised to stay until Durwin got well."
"Your father can look after him."
"How can he when he's drunk half the time?" she said quietly.
"Since you know so much, you can do it."
She reacted as if he'd slapped her.
"My father will be more than glad to assume Durwin's care," she said, sounding as pompous as any doctor. "Although performing that operation might have been beyond his experience, caring for a patient with a life-threatening wound is not. For myself, I will be relieved to have you go. I appreciate the help you offered my father, but I find your constant attempts to characterize him as a drunk and an alcoholic inexcusable. Maybe Vivian knew what she was doing when she chose another man over you. I should imagine it would be very hard to live with a saint."
Many responses teetered on the tip of Holt's tongue, but he uttered none of them. He wouldn't apologize for what he'd said about her father, he didn't regret his attempts to get her to see what was happening to him, but he remembered enough of his own agony when confronted with what his father had become to sympathize with her. She had to be hurting inside, fighting against what she soon wouldn't be able to deny. He didn't want to make it harder on her.
"I'll leave in the morning. I'll check on Durwin before I go."
"Breakfast will be at the usual time."
Felicity wanted to follow Holt out of the room, but she had to tidy up, put things away. But as she rolled up the unused strips she used for bandages, put the equipment into hot soapy water, and cleaned
up the damp left by wet clothes, she felt her righteous indignation gradually fade. She knew her father drank too much on occasion, but he seldom got really drunk and she was always there in case he needed help. It was ridiculous of Holt to insist that she couldn't sew up a cut, even a long and deep one, without having a medical degree. Anybody could do that.
She was glad he was going. Her father didn't need his help. Many patients distrusted Holt, some because he was a Yankee, others because he was a stranger, but mostly because he'd been an army doctor.
She scrubbed at the damp that Orson had left in the chair, irritated that the smell of harbor water would remain in the consulting room. What was she doing scrubbing? She was supposed to be drying the chair, not trying to wash it clean.
It was all Holt's fault. He always upset her. She didn't know what it was that made her act so unlike herself when he was around. She even argued more. But what really bothered her was that her feelings seemed to go to extremes; everything was more important now; everything made her happier or more upset than usual. There was just more of everything and no explanation why.
She finished with the chair and turned her attention to the instruments. There weren't many. It would take her longer to clean up the blood that Orson had dripped from the front door to the office.
She stared at the soapy water as her hands searched for the instruments hidden beneath the surface. Why did she feel so depressed? She'd wanted Holt to leave almost from the moment he'd entered their house. He'd questioned her ability and accused her father of incompetence. Nothing had been the same since he'd arrived. She hoped he'd soon find his Vivian and leave town.
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