“You’ve mentioned before how helpless you feel,” Jeanette said. “Do you lose many patients?”
“I can go for quite a long time without losing any, and then lose several within a matter of days,” he replied. “Life is unpredictable. The death that was the most difficult for me, though, was my mother’s. I was ten years old. I believe that’s what made me want to become a doctor.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Jeanette said. A wave of sadness, of missing her own mother despite the woman’s faults, washed over her, but she pushed it back. This was a time to listen, not to speak. “Had she been ill for a long time?”
“She had tuberculosis. That’s why I’m so passionate about how it’s treated. It’s so easily spread in poorer communities, places where cleanliness is harder to achieve. When men have the habit of spitting on the streets, it spreads like fire throughout the community. In fact, in 1815, one in every four deaths in England was due to tuberculosis—although back then, they called it ‘consumption.’ That was sixty years ago, and the death toll is still high—perhaps one in five. I haven’t read any articles tallying up mortality rates here in the United States, but I’m appalled at the possibilities of what this disease can do. And where Bill came from Chicago, a large town with a big population, it’s no wonder he became ill.”
“You were ten when she passed? That’s terribly young to lose a mother.”
“Indeed, it is. I remember hearing her cough from the other room and pressing my hands over my ears, wishing it would stop. And then when it did stop, when she died, I wished with all my heart that she was still coughing, that she was still alive.”
As Jeanette looked at him, she thought she caught a glimpse of that ten-year-old boy, of the pain and anguish he must have felt. A tear rolled down her cheek before she even knew she would cry.
“But I’m not alone in this,” he said. “You lost your mother too—both parents.”
“I wasn’t ten,” she said lightly. “The world looks different as you get older.”
“Jeanette.” It was the first time he’d used her given name, and he almost whispered it. “Why don’t you talk about your family, about your past? Why do you shut me out whenever I ask?”
She looked down at her hands. She’d thought he hadn’t noticed her attempts at subterfuge, but now she saw how foolish that had been. She wanted to leave the room, but couldn’t. She wanted to turn away, but found herself unable. Finally, she spoke. “When you talk about your mother, there’s a tone in your voice that tells me you loved her and that she loved you, that her passing was sad for you and that you still miss her. If I were to talk about my parents, you wouldn’t hear that from me. You would hear resentment, or anger, or fear. I don’t want to feel those things anymore, and so I don’t speak of them. I’m not trying to shut you out, Dr. Wayment. I don’t mean to keep you at a distance. I’m trying to shut out the memories.”
She looked up and met his eye, surprised to see the sorrow in his expression. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to pry. I want to learn more about you, to know why you are the way you are. You fascinate me. I don’t mean to cause you any discomfort.”
“You haven’t, Doctor. I assure you.”
He held up his hand. “Phillip.”
“I . . . I beg your pardon?”
“My name is Phillip. And I’d like you to use it.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know if I could. You’re my employer, my mentor—”
“Your friend,” he interrupted. “Yes, I’m those other things as well, but first and foremost, I wish to be your friend. May I, Jeanette?” He reached out and caught her fingers between his.
Her breath caught in her throat as she looked down at their intertwined hands. Every instinct screamed for her to pull away, to run, but she forced herself not to move, and after a moment, the panic subsided, and she could feel the warmth emanating from his hand. “Yes, Phillip,” she said so softly, she almost couldn’t hear herself speak. “You may be my friend.”
He grinned. “I’m glad that’s settled.”
***
Finally, Phillip proclaimed that the crisis was over, and Jeanette inwardly cheered. She’d never felt so cooped up in all her life and couldn’t wait to be released from this prison, even though it was of her own choosing.
“We’ll need to burn all the linens we’ve used in this room,” Phillip told her, his face showing his own relief. “They’ve come in direct contact with the bacteria. We’ll send Harry to purchase some new clothes for Bill, who will need to thoroughly bathe and change before he can enter the dining room or go anywhere else in public. You and I must do the same, Jeanette.”
Jeanette had never thought the word “bathe” could sound so wonderful, but it did. She couldn’t wait.
Three hours later, everything had been burned out back of the hotel, including the mattress. Abigail and Jeanette gave the room a thorough scrubbing, using boiling water and carbolic acid. Jeanette had bathed, scrubbing herself until she thought she might take her skin off as well as the dirt, and now she lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about all that had happened over the last several days. Now that the crisis was past, she could sleep, and she should, but her mind kept returning to Dr. Wayment—Phillip. He was perhaps the oddest man she’d ever met. He’d ignore food and drink if he was in the middle of studying a new technique or theory. He’d forego sleep if he had a new idea to try out. He was completely focused on his task, and that made him an incredible doctor.
And he’d spoken to her like a peer, like a friend, which was what he’d said he wanted to be. She liked that—she liked that very much. It was with this thought that she was finally able to drift off to sleep.
***
Phillip whistled as he came down the stairs the next morning, fastening the buttons on his cuffs. It would be a beautiful day, he was sure of it—beautiful because Jeanette would be in it. She had a way of making everything around her more special, more significant. He enjoyed seeing things through her eyes, the discoveries as she made them. Today he would begin teaching her about head trauma, and it was bound to be the most delightful head trauma discussion he’d ever had.
He finished his breakfast, swallowed the rest of his coffee, and headed for the door. “I’m off, Mrs. Hadley,” he called. “I’m going to walk over to the hotel.” If he hurried, he could intercept Jeanette on her way to his office, and they could go for a stroll before getting down to work. The fresh air would do them both good—he had a perfectly legitimate excuse, if asked.
He’d thought for sure that he’d meet up with Jeanette about three streets over, but he made it all the way to the hotel without any sign of her. She wouldn’t have taken a different route, would she? It would be a waste of time, and she disliked wasting time as much as he did.
As Phillip climbed the steps of the porch, he saw Jeanette slumped in one of the chairs Mr. Brody had placed outside so guests could enjoy the view. “Jeanette?” She didn’t respond. He placed his hand on her forehead—she was burning with fever.
“Jeanette!”
She opened her eyes with what appeared to be great effort. “Oh. It’s you. I’m sorry—I was on my way, but I don’t feel very well. I sat down to rest for just a minute, and I think I fell asleep.”
Phillip squatted down beside her. “What are your symptoms, aside from the fever?”
She passed a hand across her forehead. “I’m so very tired, and it’s hard to draw a breath.”
He cursed himself for not bringing his medical bag with him. What kind of doctor is ever without his equipment? “Let’s get you inside. I need to examine you.”
She tried to sit up straighter. “No, I’m fine, I promise. Now that I’ve rested, I feel much better.”
“And you shouldn’t try to lie to me—you’re terrible at it.” Phillip reached over, opened the door of the hotel, and then helped Jeanette onto her feet. He supported most of her weight as she crossed the threshold, but then her knees gave out alt
ogether and she sagged against him. He caught her before she could slide to the floor.
“Oh, my. What’s going on?” Miss Hampton asked as she scurried across the lobby toward them.
“I believe she may have contracted tuberculosis from our patient, but I’ll need to examine her to know for sure. Where is her room?”
“She sleeps with the other girls on the top floor.”
Phillip shook his head. “That’s no good. I need her in isolation. Can we put her in the same room where we treated Bill Cobb?”
“Certainly.” Miss Hampton headed up the staircase, leading the way although Phillip was already quite familiar with that room.
He scooped Jeanette into his arms and carried her up the stairs. Her slight frame made the burden easy.
When he laid her on the bed, he noted with satisfaction how thoroughly everything had been scrubbed. They had taken his instructions to heart. Now to find out if Jeanette had been made ill in the process—and what of her sister, who had helped clean the room?
“Miss Hampton, would you mind asking Abigail Peterson to come see me?”
“Of course not. I’ll send her right up.”
While he waited, Phillip took off his suitcoat and hung it off the back of one of the chairs in the room. This scenario was all too familiar—the surroundings, the feverish patient. This time, however, he was personally invested like never before.
Abigail Peterson entered a moment later and gasped when she saw Jeanette. “Oh, no! She’s not getting sick, is she?”
“I’m afraid she is. I’ll need to send someone for my medical bag before I can examine her, though.”
“I’ll go.” She turned as if to dash down the street that very minute, but he called her back.
“One moment, Miss Peterson. I asked you here for a different reason, actually. Have you noticed any symptoms? Are you tired, feverish, anything like that?”
She shook her head. “I feel very well.”
“Then Jeanette must have contracted the disease while we were treating the patient, and not while cleaning the room. Otherwise, you’d likely be ill as well,” Phillip mused, addressing Abigail, but speaking more to himself than anything. “Curious that it’s manifesting now. I wonder exactly when the contagion occurred. All right then, Miss Peterson, I shall send you off. Just tell my housekeeper what you need and she’ll fetch it for you.”
“I’ll be as quick as I can.”
After Miss Peterson left, Phillip sat down in the chair next to the bed and reached out to brush a strand of hair off Jeanette’s forehead. “You stubborn girl,” he murmured. “You absolutely insisted on helping me, and I was foolish enough to let you. I should have locked you out—I’ve been exposed to this numerous times, and my chances of infection are far less. But I should have protected you.” He studied her face, feeling more responsible than he ever had before in his life. He could have spared her this if he’d only been more forceful.
The door opened a moment later, and Miss Hampton carried in a tray. “You look tired, Doctor,” she said. “I brought you some coffee and a light meal.”
“Thank you. I actually felt quite well this morning until I saw Miss Peterson’s condition. Now I find myself very tired indeed.” He took a sip of the coffee, hardly tasting it.
“Will you want to put this room under quarantine again?” Miss Hampton asked. “I’ve told the girls to stay away until we know more, just as a precaution.”
“Thank you for that, Miss Hampton. That’s a wise decision. Once I have my stethoscope and can listen to her lungs, I’ll know more, but yes, please keep everyone away for the time being.”
Miss Hampton nodded once and slipped out of the room.
Recognizing his hunger, Phillip ate the slice of bread and bowl of pudding that had been brought for him. Although the food was excellent quality, he choked on the last bite as he glanced over at Jeanette. She was still and pale.
“I have it, Doctor.” Abigail had entered the room so quietly, Phillip hadn’t even heard her approach. He all but snatched the bag from her hand and pulled out his stethoscope. Jeanette’s lower lungs sounded fine, but to his dismay, her upper lungs did not.
“Miss Hampton tells me all the girls share a room.”
“That’s right,” Abigail replied.
“Did you hear her coughing at all in the night?”
“No, I didn’t. She seemed a bit restless—she sometimes has nightmares—but that was the extent of it.”
Phillip glanced at her quizzically. “Nightmares?”
“Yes, sir.” Abigail looked down at her clasped hands, and Phillip sensed that she regretted even saying that much. He wouldn’t press for more information—he didn’t want to infringe upon this obvious sisterly loyalty.
“Will you do two more tasks for me?”
“Of course.” Her eyes flew up to meet his. “Anything I can do. She’s . . . she’s all I have.”
Phillip nodded. “I need you to ask the other girls if they feel the slightest bit ill, and I need you to let the marshal know that we have another suspected case. Not all tuberculosis patients develop a cough, but enough do that I won’t make a solid diagnosis until or if she begins coughing. In the meanwhile, the city officials need to know of the possibility.”
“I’ll go right away.”
None of the other girls reported any signs of illness, and Abigail said she’d spoken to the deputy marshal. Now came the part Phillip hated more than anything—waiting to see what, if anything, would happen next. Perhaps this was nothing. Perhaps Jeanette was merely exhausted and needed a rest. Whatever the case might be, he couldn’t take chances. Even suspected tuberculosis was a danger.
It was at three o’clock the next morning, when Phillip was slumped in the chair, trying to sleep but unable to, when Jeanette coughed for the first time. It was also in that moment when he realized that he was very much in love.
Chapter Nine
Jeanette lay in bed, her eyes closed, listening to the sounds around her. They were different from what she was used to—she thought she heard the crackling of a fire, and there was no fireplace in her room. And it was summer—why would there be a fire at all?
She listened for another moment. It wasn’t a fire—it was the turning of pages in a book, the rapid searching done by someone desperately looking for information. Who was reading?
Exerting more will than it really should have taken, she opened her eyes and stared at the strange ceiling above her. This wasn’t her room, wasn’t her bed—where was she? She closed her eyes, too tired to hold them open any longer. She was in the room where they’d treated Bill Cobb.
“Do I have tuberculosis, then?” she asked, even though she hadn’t seen anyone there. She knew he was nearby.
“I’m sorry to say, yes,” Phillip’s voice came to her. His hand brushed across her forehead—checking her for fever, she was sure, but it felt like a caress. “I’m glad you’re awake. I was beginning to worry.”
“You worry too much.”
“True, and I worry about some people more than I do others.”
She opened her eyes again to see him looking down at her with a gentle expression. “Am I very bad?”
“Actually, you’re not. You’ve only had a bit of a cough, and it subsided just a few hours after it began. Your fever has gone down, and I’m pleased with your progress. I believe you have a very light case, but I intend to keep an eye on you until you’re fully well nonetheless.”
“You have other patients,” she protested. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
He studied her face. “Jeanette, there is something you must understand right now, this moment. There is no one in this entire world who means more to me than you do. Not one person.” He paused, seeming to search for words. “If all I ever do for the rest of my life is be near you and with you, I’ll consider it a life well spent.”
For a moment, Jeanette thought her fever must have risen again—surely she was hallucinating. “I’m not quite sure I underst
and.”
“Call it spontaneous or foolish or wonderful—whatever you like, because they’re all accurate—but I’ve fallen in love with you, Jeanette. You’re sweet and beautiful and courageous and intelligent, and you’ve swept into my life like a refreshing summer breeze and made this old man feel quite young again. And if I weren’t afraid of contracting tuberculosis myself, I’d scoop you up in my arms and kiss you this instant.”
Jeanette didn’t know what to say, or even what to think. He loved her? How . . . how could this be happening? She had never planned to fall in love, let alone to spend her whole life with someone, as he was now hinting. This wasn’t at all what she wanted, but how could she tell him? How could she look into those soft, passionate eyes and tell him she had no feelings for him?
But even as she thought the words, she knew she was lying to herself. She did have feelings for him, but she’d pushed them aside and buried them and ignored them because they would interfere with her work. A woman could not have a career and a husband both. There was a choice to be made, she had made it, and it all seemed so simple. At least, it had until just one moment ago, when Phillip had said that he loved her. Now nothing seemed more complex.
“I know I’ve startled you,” he said, pulling her from her confused thoughts. “I shouldn’t have rushed in like this, and I certainly should have waited until you were well. Please don’t feel as though you must answer me right now. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”
She looked up at him again, at his kind, handsome face. “You have startled me, but I can’t say that it was unpleasant,” she replied. “Let’s talk more after I have a nap, all right? With a little more sleep, I’ll be able to sort things out better.”
“That sounds like a very good idea indeed. Sleep well.”
Jeanette closed her eyes, confused and elated, flattered and worried all at the same time. He loved her, and it was a pure and gentle and sweet love. He would never hurt her or scare her, cause her harm, or threaten her in any way. This was a good, good man, one whose worst fault seemed to be forgetting to help her in and out of the buggy. She felt absolute confidence in him, and knowing he was there, watching over her while she slept, made her feel safe and warm. And she couldn’t help but wonder—if he had scooped her up and kissed her, what would it have been like?
The Dark and the Dawn (Kansas Crossroads Book 3) Page 9
