Every Perfect Gift

by Dorothy Love

  Another shrug. Caleb indicated the stack of proofs on her desk. “They look all right?”

  “They’re fine. Go ahead and run them, and I’ll work on Miss Hattie’s order.”

  He scooped up the stack and headed for the back. “Better you fool with that ornery machine than me.”

  She watched his retreat and suppressed a smile. For all his grumbling, Caleb was a godsend. As soon as she was able, she’d raise his wages a bit.

  She sat down at the jobber press and worked the treadle. The pin clanked onto the floor. “Oh, for mercy’s sake.” Bending down, she spied the errant pin and reached for it just as the door swung wide. A ragged, hollow-eyed woman stepped across the threshold, a limp infant cradled in her arms. “Miss?”

  “What’s the matter?” Sophie crossed the office and recognized the mountain woman and child she’d encountered on the path near Blue Smoke.

  “My baby’s burnin’ up with fever,” the woman said dully. “Hank told me not to come down here, but I got to do something for her, and you said—”

  “Of course. You were right to come for help.” She swept the papers off her desk. “Lay the child here. Caleb!”

  He stuck his head into the room. “What is it?”

  “I want you to find Miss Gilman. She’s at Doc Spencer’s office. Hurry.”

  He took one look at the mother and baby and tore out of the office.

  Silent tears slid down the woman’s tired face. Sophie pulled up a chair for her. “Sit down. How in the world did you get here?”

  “Hank wouldn’t let me have the mule. He said if God wants Rebecca to live, he’ll cure her without any help from mortals.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “So I picked her up and started walking.”

  “All that way?”

  “A mother’ll do anything for a child. You’ll understand that someday.”

  A pang of sadness shot through Sophie. Her own mother had been unable—or unwilling—to save her from years of painful neglect. She glanced at the infant’s tiny chest, which heaved with every labored breath, and sent up a silent prayer.

  Caleb and Gillie rushed in. Gillie dropped her medical bag onto the floor and bent over the child. “How long has she been this way?”

  “She’s been sneezin’ and coughin’ for a week now,” the woman said. “I didn’t think it was the croup or nothin’, so I weren’t too worried. But last night she was hot and real jerky. Couldn’t keep nothin’ down.”

  “Seizures,” Gillie said. “Not uncommon when a child has a high fever.”

  “She cried half the night,” the woman said. “Finally she quieted down, and I thought the fever had broke. But this morning when I went to feed her, I couldn’t wake her up.”

  “We must bring her temperature down.” Gillie looked around the office. “Sophie, do you have any sort of washbasin we can use?”

  “I bet Miss Hattie does,” Caleb said. “A dishpan or something.”

  “That would do nicely,” Gillie said. “Fill it with cold water and hurry right back.”

  While Caleb fetched the water, Gillie stripped off the baby’s clothing and frowned at the red bumps covering the child’s thin chest. “What happened here?”

  The woman shrugged. “Chigger bites, I reckon. You know how young’uns like to play in the woods.”

  “Yes, I do. And it’s good to let children outdoors when the weather is nice. But you must bathe them thoroughly with soap and water before bed to get rid of anything they’ve picked up during the day.”

  The woman looked away. “Chigger bites never hurt nobody. Me and my sisters had ’em all the time when we was young’uns.”

  Gillie’s hands moved over the child’s still form. “Do you have other children?”

  “Two boys alayin’ in the graveyard. Four more livin’.”

  “Are any of them sick?”

  The woman’s tired eyes filled. “No, just my baby girl. She ain’t gonna die, is she?”

  “I hope not.” Gillie looked at Sophie, a worried expression clouding her blue eyes. “What on earth is keeping Caleb?”

  Just then he returned with a faded blue towel and tin tub filled with water. A chunk of ice bobbed on the surface. “Miss Hattie said ice is better for bringing down a fever. And she sent a towel.”

  Gillie nodded and gently lowered the child into the cold water. Again and again she cupped her hand and poured water over the baby’s head and shoulders. The child’s mother waited, arms clutched to her chest.

  Caleb watched until Gillie looked up and saw him staring at her. He blushed and ducked his head. “If you don’t need me, I reckon I ought to get back to work.” He headed for the press, the door swinging shut behind him.

  In a few minutes the baby stirred, opened her eyes, and began to scream. “Stop!” the woman cried. “You’re hurtin’ her.”

  “She’s feeling a sensation like you would if you pricked your finger with a sewing needle. It’s a good sign, Mrs. . . . ?” Gillie lifted the baby from the water and used Miss Hattie’s towel to dry her off. She cradled the little girl on her shoulder and gently rocked her until the crying stopped.

  “Name’s Wimberly.” The woman reached for the baby and dressed her. “I thank you kindly, but I got to git on home ’fore my man comes back.”

  “Mrs. Wimberly, I believe your daughter may have a weak strain of influenza. You should keep her away from your other children until her cough stops. And bring her to Doc Spencer’s office immediately if her fever spikes again.”

  The woman trailed a finger across her daughter’s cheek and said nothing.

  “Give her some weak, warm tea with honey.” Gillie took a small tin of salve from her bag and pressed it into the woman’s hand. “Please put this on those chigger bites and remember what I said about cleanliness. It’s important in keeping all your children healthy.”

  Mrs. Wimberly shook her head. “I cain’t take that medicine from you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just . . . cain’t. That’s all.”

  “If it’s a matter of money, don’t worry about it. This is a sample a salesman left for Doc Spencer last week. Didn’t cost us a thing.” Gillie suddenly caught the woman’s wrist and pushed up her sleeve, exposing a gaping, pus-filled wound on her forearm. Red streaks radiated from the woman’s wrist to her elbow. “What happened here?”

  “Ain’t nothin’.”

  “It looks like a knife wound.” Gillie’s expression darkened. “It needs tending. Did your husband—”

  “Look.” Mrs. Wimberly jerked away and headed for the door. “I’m much obliged to you for taking care of Rebecca. But that don’t give you no right to go meddlin’ in my business.”

  “But—”

  The door slammed shut, rattling the framed newspaper pages hanging on the wall. Gillie collapsed onto a chair. Sophie set the tub of water on the floor and perched on the edge of her desk.

  “If I were a gambling woman, I’d bet my last dime that Mr. Wimberly is responsible for that cut on his wife’s forearm,” Gillie said. “But what is she going to do?”

  Gillie refastened the knot of flaxen hair at the nape of her neck. “Doc Spencer says half of the practice of medicine is fighting disease and the other half is fighting ignorance.” She looked up. “Mrs. Wimberly must be the woman you told me about. The one on the mountain.”

  “Yes. I gave her our names and told her to look for us if she needed help.” Sophie paused, remembering. “I think she’s afraid of her husband. He wouldn’t even let her take their mule to bring the baby down the mountain.”

  She studied her friend, impressed with Gillie’s medical skills and her passion for helping others. “How did you know to look for that wound on her arm?”

  “An infected wound gives off an odor. I smelled it on her the minute I came in, but I needed to take care of the baby first.”

  “Will the baby be all right?”

  “With any luck. Doc Spencer treated a few cases of influenza last week. Everyone recovered.
But I won’t be surprised if the other Wimberly children are sick within the week. I’m actually more worried about their mother’s wound.”

  “Not that we will ever know about it.”

  “Right.” Gillie got to her feet. “I should get back to the office. Doc Spencer is expecting Jeanne Pruitt this afternoon. She has a nasty boil that needs lancing and I promised to assist.”

  Sophie shuddered. “I don’t see how you can bear to be around pain and suffering all day.”

  “It’s what I’m called to do,” Gillie said simply. “It isn’t a burden at all. It’s a privilege, really, to make people feel better.”

  “Well, you have a gift for it. That’s for certain.”

  Gillie picked up her bag and headed for the door. “Think of how much more good I could do if I had my infirmary.”

  ELEVEN

  Overnight the ballroom at Blue Smoke had been transformed from a large reception hall to an opulent dance floor surrounded by tall urns of exotic flowers. A riot of pink, blue, and creamy white blooms competed for attention with the sun-gilded mountains visible through the open French doors. Dining tables set with paper-thin china and glittering crystal were festooned with fresh garlands and miles of white and blue satin ribbons. At the far end of the room, formally attired musicians warmed up their instruments.

  “Well?” Ethan, resplendent in gray formal clothes and a navy cravat, smiled down at Sophie. “What’s the verdict?”

  “It’s enchanting. Even more beautiful than last evening.”

  His gaze held hers for so long and in such an intimate way that it felt like a caress. Her face warmed. Except for Wyatt Caldwell, the man against whom she measured all others, Ethan was the most attractive man she’d ever met. But she couldn’t get past the feeling that he was hiding something from her. Something significant.

  Not that she could fault him for that when she was keeping a secret of her own.

  Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, Sophie watched the crowd swelling around them. Ladies in their finest silks, gentlemen in frock coats and boiled shirts milled about, chatting quietly and greeting friends. Ethan pointed out the wealthy and the famous, murmuring into her ear the names of lawyers, retired generals, senators, and businessmen from across the state. Sophie spied Carrie and Griff Rutledge standing with the Gilmans and sent Carrie a tiny wave. Gillie had been invited tonight too but had chosen instead to spend the evening helping Doc Spencer with a difficult case up on the mountain.

  Horace Blakely strolled over, his wife on his arm, and sent Sophie a curt nod before turning his attention to Ethan. “I thought you said the governor was coming tonight.”

  “He is, but he wired O’Brien late this afternoon that his train is behind schedule.” Ethan consulted his pocket watch. “He shouldn’t be too much longer.”

  “I hope he makes it,” Mr. Blakely said. “I’d hate to disappoint all these folks who want to meet a genuine war hero.”

  Sophie’s ears pricked. Since returning to Hickory Ridge, she’d been too busy to read up on the state’s political situation. But when Jasper Pruitt stopped by the newspaper office that week to place his advertisement, he’d mentioned Governor Bate’s war record and his work on clearing up the state’s debt problem. Such a man might just be someone worth writing about.

  “Hold on now, Sophie,” Ethan said as the Blakelys moved on to greet others.

  “What?”

  “I can see the wheels turning in your head. But tonight is strictly a social occasion, so no questioning the governor for that paper of yours.”

  She placed one hand over her heart. “Why, Mr. Heyward, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  He laughed. “Would you like a walk in the gardens after dinner?”

  “I’d love that.”

  A sudden hush fell over the crowd as a distinguished-looking gentleman entered the room in the company of an equally handsome woman. Even Ethan seemed in awe of the couple as they began greeting those nearest them.

  “That’s the governor,” he murmured, “and his wife, Miss Julia. He got that limp at the battle of Shiloh back in sixty-two. The story goes that he got shot and the doc wanted to amputate the leg, but Mr. Bate pulled his pistol and threatened to shoot any man who tried to deprive him of it.”

  “What a fascinating story! I’d like—” She noted his raised eyebrow and stopped midsentence, choosing instead to study the musicians. “I think they’re about to start.”

  Moments later a lively waltz filled the room and couples paired off for the first dance. Ethan bowed to Sophie. “Shall we?”

  She nodded. He swept her into his arms. And for the next half hour, as they moved from one waltz to the next, Sophie didn’t let herself think about the editorial she needed to write in support of the infirmary, the plight of the mountain woman and her child, the broken jobber press, or Ethan’s reaction to the man she’d encountered outside his office last evening. Instead she gave herself over to the beauty of the music and the opulent ballroom, the luxurious feel of her royal-blue silk gown whispering about her ankles. Ethan held her close and smiled down at her, and she laughed out loud. Who would have ever believed that a mixed-up, muddleboned orphan like her would attend a ball with the governor himself?

  When the dance ended and everyone was seated for dinner, Mr. Blakely made a short welcoming speech recognizing the white-haired, white-mustachioed governor who rose to greet the crowd with a wave and a slight smile. The applause died, and a small army of waiters appeared bearing the first course, a light consommé flavored with spring herbs and cream. Then came a fish course, a meat course served with an array of vegetables, and platters of small coconut cakes garnished with tiny sugar flowers. Finally the waiters appeared again with trays of cheeses, bowls of salted nuts, and tiny petits fours enrobed in white sugar icing.

  When the tables were cleared and the music began again, Ethan rose and offered Sophie his hand. “Ready for that turn in the gardens?”

  They made their way through the crowd and out into the deepening twilight, following a narrow pebbled pathway to a garden lit with hundreds of flickering candles. Ethan pointed out the massive beds where summer flowers were just beginning to bloom and a tiered rose garden studded with small stone benches that faced a fountain. A whippoorwill called from the branches of a gnarled hickory tree. Fireflies darted among the rosebushes.

  “The gardens are magnificent, Ethan. You should be proud of everything you’ve accomplished here.” She waved one hand. “If Blue Smoke isn’t a success, it surely won’t be your fault.”

  “I can’t take too much credit for the gardens. Mr. Tyler from New York designed every inch of them, right down to the last pebble. All I did was make sure his plans were carried out.”

  “Still, it couldn’t have been easy, given all the unrest among the workers.” She settled herself on a stone bench and took out her fan. “I suppose they’re all gone now?”

  “For the most part. Li Chung and his assistants will remain, of course. Horace and I are retaining a small number of local men to handle maintenance on the place, and I’ve got a crew working on dismantling those cabins you find so offensive.”

  “Now you’re making fun of me.”

  “No, I’m not.” He paused and gazed directly into her face. Summer insects hummed and chirped in the grass. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Certainly.”

  “That first day you came to my office for that interview, I was struck by your resemblance to my mother’s family. They were mostly from Italy. I’m wondering if you are too.”

  Her heart thudded in her chest. Italy? Is that what he thought? She’d spent most of her life dodging questions about her heritage, pretending that the persistent rumors of her African ancestry didn’t exist. She’d long ago become accustomed to doing what it took to have a chance at a decent life.

  But this was different. This was personal.

  Sophie fanned her face, willing the truth to come but unable to speak it. Deceit was wrong and she
knew it, yet she heard herself saying, “I’m Italian and French, we think. My parents both died when I was young.”

  “Then we have that in common.” Ethan’s smile was gentle. A wave of guilt and fear engulfed her, washing away all the enchantment of the evening. She had told a lie, plain and simple, and one day she would have to answer for it. She gazed past Ethan’s shoulder to the line of carriages and rigs standing beneath the portico. The party was breaking up.

  She rose. “I’ve had a wonderful evening, the best evening of my life, but I should go. Will you call for the carriage?”

  “In a minute.” He caught her hand and drew her close. “Ah, Sophie.”

  In the flickering candlelight his gaze softened and her pulse jumped. Ethan wanted to kiss her. She wanted it too. Something in the way he held her when they danced, the way he looked at her as if he could see past all her defenses, connected with her heart in a way she didn’t understand. But she couldn’t let it happen. A kiss promised something—a future perhaps. And how could they possibly have a future now?

  She pulled away. “Please, I must go.”

  He dropped her hand and stepped away. “I’ve offended you.”

  “No, I—”

  “No need to explain. It’s my fault. I misread your feelings and I apologize.” He offered his arm. “Come. I’ll get the carriage.”

  Wordlessly he led her along the path to the portico and signaled the doorman.

  Carrie Rutledge hurried over, her small jeweled reticule dangling from one arm. “Sophie, I’m so sorry we didn’t have a chance to visit tonight. Wasn’t this party grand?”

  Sophie forced a smile for Ada’s old friend. “Very grand. I’ve never seen so much food in all my born days.”

  “Me either. Griff said it reminded him of parties his parents hosted when he was a boy in Charleston. I myself came from much more humble stock. But they say it isn’t where you came from that’s important; it’s where you’re going. Don’t you agree?”

  Sophie nodded. Where was that infernal carriage? But the line moved slowly as the guests said their good-byes. Ethan stood a little apart from the others, talking with the Gilmans.