Julia shook her head. “Don’t be so quick to give up what God has clearly provided.”
Everything Julia said made perfect sense, of course. Yet Rosalyn knew that Julia might well be saying these things because she was not keen to live with Cara again. The two had such different temperaments that they were often at odds with one another. Reluctantly, she decided it was better for now to drop the subject.
As they were heading back down to the parlor, Nate caught up with them on the last set of stairs. His face had the sheen of having been freshly scrubbed, and his hair was still damp around the edges. He wore a pressed shirt and trousers that were nicer than anything Rosalyn had seen him in before.
Julia looked him over approvingly. “No qualms about shaking hands now, I suppose?” she said with a smile.
He obliged. Rosalyn couldn’t help but think back to that moment in the theater when he’d first shaken her hand, and how his touch had warmed her.
It didn’t seem to affect Julia that way, however. Instead, she took his hand in both of hers and raised it toward the light in the wall sconce, scrutinizing it. “My, but that is an interesting scar. How did you get it?”
Rosalyn was mortified at Julia’s directness. Nate seemed to take it in stride, however. “Enemy fire,” he said evenly. “A skirmish at an outpost near Peshawar.”
“I see,” murmured Julia, tracing the scar from its starting point near Nate’s knuckles up to where it disappeared into his cuff. “It’s a long scar, like a graze, only deeper.”
“That’s right. It hit at an odd angle. I’m lucky it didn’t lodge. Or blow my hand off.”
The matter-of-fact way he said this startled Rosalyn. It reminded her that he was a toughened man of war, even if he didn’t always show that side of himself.
Julia merely nodded as she continued to inspect his hand. “But it disrupted the extensor tendons, yes?”
Nate looked impressed. “Rosalyn told us you were a nurse. You seem to be a very knowledgeable one.”
Mary was watching them from the foot of the stairs. “He was wounded while rescuing two men taken captive in a surprise attack. One of the men almost died, but Nate saved his life!”
Something flickered in Nate’s eyes. He cleared his throat and gently extracted his hand from Julia’s hold. For the first time since she had begun to examine the scar, he looked uncomfortable. “Perhaps you might want to take a look at Patrick’s leg, too? I’d be very interested in learning when he’ll be well enough to take his job back from me.”
If his plan was to shift the attention away from himself, Nate succeeded. Turning once more down the stairs, Julia said, “I would love to examine it. Of course, if it has been weeks since the break, there’s little I could do to fix a bad splint. . . .”
“Nate doesn’t like to talk about his heroism,” Mary whispered to Rosalyn as they all went to join Patrick in the parlor. “He’s humble as well as brave.”
From all she’d seen of Nate so far, Rosalyn wasn’t surprised to learn this.
After several minutes of scrutiny, Julia decided that the doctors had done an adequate job on Patrick’s splint. “I’d say you should be able to walk on it in two to three weeks,” she pronounced.
“Hallelujah,” Nate murmured as everyone else also voiced their happiness at this prognosis.
Rosalyn smiled at him. “Won’t you miss the theater, even just a bit?”
“I miss my pillow more.”
She shook her head. “You jest, yet whenever I see you up on the lighting platform, you always look like you’re enjoying your work with the limelights.”
Nate’s eyes rested on her for several moments, as though her words had arrested his attention. She noticed Julia looking at her, as well, one eyebrow slightly cocked, and that especially made her uncomfortable. It wasn’t as though she spent all her time watching Nate. Perhaps that was how it sounded.
She was glad when Mrs. Moran came into the parlor to call them all into dinner.
As they ate, Julia kept the conversation lively, sharing several humorous anecdotes from the Bernay sisters’ years at the orphanage. Rosalyn had never thought of their childhood as a rosy one by any means. But they had been kindly treated at the orphanage, and now as Julia shared these stories, Rosalyn realized they had much to be thankful for. Nothing would ever erase the pain of losing their parents, that was certain, but Julia made her see there were plenty of happy things to recollect, as well.
“How did you end up at the orphanage?” Mary asked.
Martha poked her in the ribs.
“You don’t have to tell us if it’s too painful to talk about,” Mary amended.
“I don’t mind,” Rosalyn answered. This was true, for despite the sorrow she felt at losing her parents, she loved to talk about them. It was a way of keeping them alive in her memory. “Our father was the captain of a merchant ship. He made frequent trips to America and the Caribbean. We missed him so much while he was away, but we loved the little presents he brought back to us. Then on one voyage, his ship disappeared in the Atlantic without a trace.”
“Disappeared?” Mary repeated. “Sank, you mean?”
“That’s the most logical answer. But I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for sure.”
“Many facts about the situation are murky,” Julia said. “The ship’s owners quickly concluded the ship had been lost in a hurricane—probably to make an insurance claim and reduce their losses. A hurricane had been reported at that time, but unless my father’s ship was way off course, it would have been well to the south of it.”
“It took months for my mother to accept that he was truly gone,” Rosalyn said. “Until that time, she just kept telling us Papa’s return had been ‘delayed.’”
“Oh, how sad,” Martha said.
“She was already ill, and I don’t think she could bear the idea that she would be leaving us orphans. She died of consumption about two years later. Even at the end, she wouldn’t talk about my father except to repeat that he loved us very much and we should always remember that.”
Rosalyn reached instinctively for her mother’s pocket watch, feeling a fresh round of regret at having given it to Mrs. Hurdle. “After our mother’s death, we were taken to the orphanage, since we had no other family.”
“No other family willing to take us in,” Julia corrected sternly.
“I think ‘able’ is a more charitable way to put it,” Rosalyn countered. She explained, “Our father had two cousins. One was a widower who was also in the merchant marines. He was en route to India when my mother died. The other cousin had left with his family for America shortly before my father’s death.”
“Our mother sent a letter to him before she died, begging for his help, but he never replied.”
“The letter could easily have gotten lost,” Rosalyn pointed out. “The civil war going on in America at the time disrupted many communications.”
“Well, it’s a mystery that won’t be solved today,” Julia stated. “I believe it is more important to look to the future, don’t you?”
“So what are your future plans?” Mary asked eagerly. She’d been hanging on Julia’s every word.
When Julia informed them of her intention to go to the medical college for women, everyone was visibly surprised.
“Oh, my heavens!” Mrs. Moran exclaimed. “Why would you want to do that?”
“Because I want to help people.”
“But you are a nurse. You already help people.”
“Yes, but when I get to Africa, I will need every bit of knowledge I can glean. Who knows what medical crises may arise?”
“Africa!” Rosalyn repeated, horrified. “You never mentioned going to Africa.”
“Well, I can’t tell you everything all at once, can I? We’ve had so many things to discuss.”
Although this was true, Rosalyn suspected that Julia had another reason for delaying. She was waiting for the moment when her announcement would have the greatest impact.
Ma
ry was staring at Julia with wide eyes and an almost worshipful expression. “How very adventurous of you! What will you do there? Open a clinic?”
“The primary thing will be the saving of souls—but yes, there is a clinic, too. I plan to join the missionary society that is already at Lake Nyassa in southeast Africa.”
“How long will you be there?” Mary asked.
“Years, I expect,” Julia answered breezily. “There will be lots to do.”
Mrs. Moran frowned. “Your intent is admirable, but I must say that Africa hardly seems a place for a young lady.”
“Oh, there are lots of young women there,” Julia said.
The blank look on Mrs. Moran’s face showed she was not following Julia’s meaning.
Mary gave her mother a little nudge. “I believe she means the native women, Ma.”
Mrs. Moran pursed her lips. “Well, that is quite a different thing.”
“The Bible says that God has ‘made of one blood all nations,’” Julia said. “Dr. Robert Laws has begun a successful work there, and I intend to join his staff.”
For Rosalyn, this entire conversation boiled down to just one thing. “You can’t mean you would leave England—leave me and Cara!” No wonder Julia had not wanted to encourage Cara to come to London. She wasn’t planning to stay here. “How can you break us up like that? You know the dread Cara has of any of us going overseas.” Rosalyn had the same fear, too, although she didn’t say so.
Julia set down her fork with an air of exasperation, leaning forward so she could look Rosalyn in the eye. “We all must do what God has called us to do. My calling will take me overseas, and that’s all there is to it. I cannot live my life simply to satisfy our little sister’s whims.”
“Whims! You know the poor girl feels our parents’ loss the greatest because she remembers them the least. We are all she has. She craves our companionship and longs to be together again. It’s her heart’s cry, not a whim.”
After this outburst, an uncomfortable silence ensued. Julia sat back in her chair, crossing her arms. Rosalyn expected some kind of retort, but Julia was silent. To her credit, she seemed to be considering Rosalyn’s words. Rosalyn almost thought she saw a flicker of doubt cross her sister’s features. But Julia quickly averted her gaze to her plate, so it was difficult to tell.
Rosalyn saw the others trading glances. For some reason, she was especially embarrassed by the curious way Nate was looking at her. She thought she could read disappointment on his features.
“I apologize,” she said to the table at large. “We should not have ruined your lovely dinner with our quarreling.”
Mrs. Moran reached over to pat Rosalyn’s hand. “You were only expressing your concerns. Disagreements can happen, even in the best of families.”
“Excepting ours, of course,” Patrick interjected. This remark brought him a swat on the arm from Martha, but it was enough to ease the tension.
“Perhaps I might offer a suggestion,” Mrs. Moran said. “If Julia’s first aim is to finish her medical studies, it seems like the other decisions are quite a ways down the road. Perhaps they should be held in abeyance for now. Often God’s purposes become most clear when we are truly ready.”
Rosalyn noticed that Mrs. Moran sent a meaningful glance toward Nate as she said this. She sensed that her hostess’s advice was directed at him as well as Julia. Nate’s only response was to focus on carefully arranging the silverware on his plate.
“Thank you,” Julia said to Mrs. Moran. “That is good counsel.”
Rosalyn was still unsettled, knowing that once Julia’s mind was made up on something, it was unlikely to change with time. Still, she appreciated the way Mrs. Moran had provided a gracious way to recover the geniality of the conversation. She sighed, knowing this truce was the best she could expect for now.
When everyone had finished the excellent trifle that Liza had made, Patrick pushed back his chair and said, “Time for some entertainments, don’t you think?”
Mary walked between Rosalyn and Julia, taking their arms as they made their way to the parlor. “We enjoy singing together on Sunday evenings,” she informed them. Cutting a glance at Patrick, she added, “Even if not everyone is exactly on key.”
“I take comfort in the fact that the psalmist simply said, ‘Make a joyful noise unto the Lord,’” Patrick replied. “It says nothing about being on key.”
Turning to Julia, Mary said, “We already know that Rosalyn sings beautifully. Do you sing, as well?”
“I wouldn’t say it’s my best talent, but I can hold my own.”
“Let’s not talk about singing,” Martha directed, seating herself at the piano. “Let’s sing.”
Although still deeply troubled by Julia’s announcement of her plans, Rosalyn found comfort for the next hour, losing herself in the joy of singing. The Morans and their boarders certainly had a wide repertoire. They sang hymns, mostly, many of which Rosalyn knew, but Hannah and Martha’s preferences seemed to lean toward the popular ballads.
Rosalyn noticed that Nate sang with visible pleasure. She enjoyed the way his expression eased while he was singing. He had a reasonably good baritone, rich and full. Unlike Patrick, who kept trying to imitate the tenors but who did not—as Mary had forewarned—hit the correct notes. Patrick seemed to purposefully solicit the disapproving scowls from his siblings and his wife, which only increased his clowning all the more. Several times Rosalyn had to stop singing because she was laughing so hard at his antics.
“But enough of Martha’s banging about,” Patrick said finally. This rough dismissal of his sister’s adept playing brought a shove from his wife, but he continued, “Nate has promised us he’ll play, and I intend to make sure he keeps that promise.”
“My hand is not yet where it needs to be,” Nate protested. “I don’t know if we should subject others to my playing just yet.”
“It’s not your fingering hand,” Mary argued. “You sounded fine to me when you played last week.”
Rosalyn was mystified by this interchange. It became clear when finally, after much cajoling, Nate pulled a small case from a cupboard in the corner of the room. He opened it and removed a fiddle that looked like it had seen plenty of use.
“You play the fiddle?” she gasped.
“This is actually a violin made eighty years ago by one of the best luthiers in France,” Nate said. “But yes, I play the fiddle.”
It was another flash of his dry humor that always seemed to show itself at odd moments.
“And how did you come to possess such an instrument?” Julia asked.
Mrs. Moran answered. “My father—Nate’s grandfather—brought it home from the Napoleonic wars. It was a gift from a grateful officer whose life he had saved.”
“He taught me to play when I was ten,” Nate added. “When he was too feeble to play anymore, he gave the fiddle to me.” Holding the violin to his ear, he plucked the strings and adjusted their tautness. When he was satisfied, he picked up a small block of rosin and ran his bow over it in several smooth strokes.
Rosalyn watched this process with fascination. It intrigued her to think this man who had made a living as a soldier had musical leanings, as well. “Can you play the songs from Pinafore?”
Nate gave a little grimace.
“He expressly refuses to play anything from the show,” Patrick said.
“I hear it every night at the theater,” Nate pointed out. “Besides, classical music is not exactly my forte.”
“Give us something from home,” his mother said.
Nate thought for a moment. “Let’s start with Grandad’s favorite.” He lifted his bow and began a lively reel.
Never would Rosalyn have guessed that Nate had this particular talent. His entire demeanor changed as he played. He seemed less stiff, more flexible, bending and moving with each note, his entire body keeping tempo with the music. The transformation surprised and riveted her. As she took pleasure watching and listening to him, Rosalyn could see a
measure of the same lightheartedness that was so evident in his brother.
Her thoughts were echoed by Mrs. Moran, who leaned over and said to her, “I think playing the fiddle is how Nate finds joy—or at least, the way he expresses it.”
Despite Nate’s earlier protestations, he played very well. As Rosalyn watched him, she tried to discern what impact his injury was having on his ability. There was none that she could see. If his hand or wrist were still stiff, perhaps he made up for it by the fluid movements of his upper arm and elbow.
Nate finished with a flourish, and everyone applauded enthusiastically.
“I’m glad you haven’t forgotten those songs, son,” Mrs. Moran said, dabbing a handkerchief to her eye. “They’re part of your heritage.”
“Play one of those lovely ballads,” Martha urged him. “Something sweet and sentimental.”
“So you can get all misty-eyed and dream of your beau?” Mary teased. “It seems to me we’ve had enough of those songs this evening.”
“It always sounds better on the fiddle,” Martha insisted.
Nate plucked a few strings absently, as though weighing both of his sisters’ comments. “All right,” he said at last. “Here’s an ancient Irish ballad. Most know it either as ‘Slane’ or”—he sent a glance at Martha—“‘With My Love on the Road.’”
He lifted the fiddle once more to his chin. He paused, bow poised, allowing several moments of silence before striking the first note.
The tune was warm and tender, soft as a caress. Nate took his time, letting the melody unfold at its own pace. His expression showed deep concentration but joy, as well. The player was being uplifted by his music. Even without words, the ballad conveyed a yearning that was bittersweet, perhaps, but infused with hopefulness.
Martha sighed, a dreamy expression on her face. Rosalyn, too, felt a soothing peacefulness as she listened. This ought to be a hymn, she thought. It made her soul feel lighter just to listen to it. She always believed that, whether singing or playing, a person’s innermost essence was often revealed in their performance. She was astounded by this glimpse into Nate’s soul.
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