Touch of Tenderness (Nurses of New York Book 3)

by Amelia C. Adams

  “Libby, how are you feeling?” Lewis asked before he was even fully situated.

  “I’m fine. Just a bit embarrassed. Turns out I’ve been working too hard, and they’re making me take tomorrow off. I have to lie around and eat cake and let them wait on me hand and foot.” She rolled her eyes dramatically.

  “That sounds perfectly terrible. However shall you endure it?”

  “I don’t know. I’m counting on you to be my strength during these troubling times.”

  “I shall do my best.” He paused. “Cake? What kind of cake?”

  “Just about any kind you can imagine. Mrs. Everett loves baking almost as much as we love eating.”

  “I’m still trying to figure out how I got lucky enough to land here. This isn’t the trip I imagined, but I have to say, it’s exceeding all my expectations.”

  “Including spending weeks with your head wrapped up in bandages?”

  He shrugged. “If that’s the price to be paid, well, so be it. You mentioned cake. I can survive anything as long as there’s cake.”

  She smiled. “Tell me about your home in Colorado.”

  He leaned forward a little. “It’s beautiful out there. Mountains, trees, all kinds of wildlife, rivers, and streams—my father really chose a little piece of heaven when he picked our land. We’ve planted crops and raised stock, and we’re feeling pretty settled now. It’s a ways away from the train station, though—you have to take a stagecoach for about four hours or drive your own wagon. That’s my mother’s only complaint. She says you’re all worn out before you even start going anywhere.”

  Libby laughed. “She sounds like quite a woman.”

  “She is. I think you’ll like both my parents a lot. And you’d love Colorado. Have you ever thought about traveling out west?”

  “Oh, I’ve thought about it, especially when I read stories about it in the newspaper. But that’s quite a journey, and so expensive. I don’t have nearly enough incentive to make the trip.”

  “I wish I could somehow show you. What’s the wildest, most untamed place you’ve ever seen?”

  “Hmm. How about Lord and Taylor when they put out their new fashions?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  She threw her head back and laughed. “It’s a department store here in the city. Sometimes the ladies are a little eager to be first in line, and that really is the most untamed thing I’ve ever seen.”

  He chuckled. “That’s not at all what I meant, but it’s amusing to think about. Imagine standing in the middle of a vast, open space, with the blue sky stretching overhead and coming down to touch the horizon on all sides, and you can see everything in every direction. No buildings to block your view, and no rush and bustle of people. Imagine closing your eyes and listening to the call of hawks, the howl of wolves, the hooting of owls. Can you picture it?”

  “Aren’t there houses at all? Stores?”

  “There are a few houses out where we are, and more scattered along the way between us and town, but they don’t break up that eternal vista. We have stores and other things in town, including that train station we talked about before, and then of course there are larger towns like Denver. But there are also people, and sometimes, I like to go off by myself and not worry so much about people. It’s easier to think for myself when I don’t have everyone else’s thoughts and opinions in the way.”

  “And that’s not lonely for you?”

  “No, not at all.”

  She tilted her head to the side and contemplated him. “But you don’t want to be alone all the time, do you? I’m sure there are some pretty girls in this town of yours, or maybe in one of those houses along the way?”

  He grinned. “Maybe one or two.”

  “And what are their names?” Libby enjoyed watching the blush creep up his neck like the sun casting a pink ray of light across the lawn as it rose.

  “Well, for a little while I thought I might take a fancy to Edith Meyer.”

  “You thought you might? What stopped you?”

  “It was the most horrible thing, actually.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I found out that she doesn’t like music.”

  “Oh, my. That really is bad. And the other girl?”

  “What other girl?”

  Libby shook her head. “You just said there were one or two. You can’t say ‘or two’ when you really mean just one. I’m sure you’re able to count, Mr. Franklin.”

  “All right, there was another, but she . . . well, she chose someone else.”

  She expected him to follow up with a funny comment, but he’d become serious, and she guessed that this girl had meant something to him. “What was her name?” she asked softly.

  “Violet Williams.”

  “That’s a pretty name.”

  “She was a very pretty girl.” He didn’t say anything else for a moment, then seemed to brighten again. “If she had chosen me, I wouldn’t be sitting here chatting with you, so we must consider the positives.”

  “You most certainly wouldn’t be sitting here talking to me if you’d married her—I’m not the sort of girl who entertains married men.” Libby adopted her most severe tone, glad that he hadn’t stayed melancholy for long. He had every right to his emotions, of course, whatever they might be, but she was still too exhausted to be of much use to anyone, and it was, simply put, easier if he didn’t need her to be strong for a moment.

  Footsteps in the hall alerted them that someone was coming, and they both turned toward the door at the same time. “Here’s your dinner tray, my dear,” Mrs. Everett said, bustling into the room and setting it on the table near Libby’s bed. “And I’m to take you down to the dining room, Mr. Franklin,” she continued. “I hope you’re fond of cherry cake, because that’s what you’re getting for dessert.”

  “What if I told you that cherry cake is one of my favorite things in the entire world?” he responded as he stood up.

  “Then I would cut you an extra-large piece.” Mrs. Everett tucked her arm through his elbow and led him away, Libby watching them go with a smile on her face. She rather liked cherry cake too.

  Chapter Twelve

  When Lewis reached the dining room, Mrs. Everett led him to a chair, and a moment later, one of the young ladies spoke to him. “Mr. Franklin, do you remember me? I’m Meg Wilhite. My brother will be coming by after dinner to help you with your sheet music.”

  “I do remember you, Miss Wilhite, and I’m very grateful for your brother’s help. Thank you for setting it up.”

  “Of course.”

  As everyone came into the dining room and took their places at the table, the hum of voices filled the air, pleasant and cheerful, but confusing. Lewis wished he could put faces to all the voices he heard. He had never realized before just how much sight played a role in getting to know someone. Reading facial expressions, catching glances and smiles—now he could only guess at what was going on around him.

  This was the first time he’d eaten at a table since his eyes had been bandaged. At the hospital, his food had been brought on a tray, and he was left alone while he ate. It didn’t matter if his manners were a bit sloppy. Now he found himself self-conscious, worried that he would spill on the tablecloth or down his shirt.

  Mrs. Everett set a plate on the table in front of him, then leaned down and spoke softly in his ear. “Meat on the left, potatoes at the top, carrots on the right, roll at the bottom. I cut your meat.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Everett,” he whispered back. Bless her.

  Miss Forsythe on his right and Miss Jones on his left kept him involved in the conversation, asking questions about his family, and at one point, Miss Jones asked if he’d like more meat. Then she cut it for him without being asked. How they managed to take care of him without making him feel helpless, he didn’t know—perhaps it was a skill they were taught in nursing school—but he appreciated it greatly. When he was better, he’d try to be more aware of the needs of others and give them subtle help as he could.
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  But that thought brought him up short. There was a possibility that he wouldn’t recover his sight. Dr. Wentworth had hesitated when Lewis asked him about it. Libby always spoke positively, as though it was a given, but no one could guarantee anything. What if his whole life was to be this way—people bringing him plates, cutting his meat, voices with kind hands, but no faces?

  He could adjust. He could learn to navigate through that world. He was already getting better at identifying voices and feeling his way around. And the piano was a constant—no matter where he was, no matter which particular instrument he used, the keys would always be in the same place, making the same sound, a comforting and familiar thing in a world of confusion.

  He could find ways.

  But he certainly didn’t want to.

  He all but laughed out loud. Who did want to lose their sight? Who did want to lose a limb or to become paralyzed? Yet these things happened every day, and every day, men and women gathered their strength and learned how to live as best as they could with their new circumstances. If that’s what he was facing, he’d do the same. He couldn’t be less brave than a man who lost his whole leg—he didn’t have that right. He’d been lucky. He hadn’t lost a hand or a finger—he could still play, the thing he loved best in all the world, and with that knowledge, he couldn’t be anything less than grateful.

  “Mr. Franklin, you seem rather solemn all of a sudden,” Miss Jones said in a soft voice. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m quite all right, thank you, Miss Jones. Just thinking.”

  “Well, heavens, don’t do that!” She laughed. “Nothing spoils a good dinner like thinking.”

  “You have a point. No more thinking for me.” He gave a nod. “Did I hear right? Are you marrying Dr. Gregory?”

  “I am, as soon as I’m finished with my training.” She told a few amusing stories about how they met and where they were planning to wed, and Lewis did his best to stay attentive. Dwelling on his own problems was a waste of time—he would not let the shadows of what might be overtake what was at that moment.

  Mrs. Everett brought around the promised cake, and it was every bit as good as he’d anticipated. Then the doorbell rang, and a moment later, a male voice was heard entering the dining room.

  “I understand you’re keeping my sister here against her will,” the newcomer said jovially.

  “Benjamin! They are not.” Lewis recognized Miss Wilhite. Benjamin must be her brother.

  “Well, you haven’t been home for a visit in quite a while. I thought for sure there must be some sort of hostage situation taking place.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to see Mother right now. She and I aren’t on the best of terms.”

  “I did hear about that.”

  There was some movement at the table, and Lewis guessed they were making room for Mr. Wilhite. When he next spoke, his voice came from the end of the table, so Lewis knew his guess was correct.

  “She’s rather upset about it. I’m sure if you came home and spoke with her, everything would get worked out.”

  “Is she ready to admit that I’m right?”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Then I’m not ready to come back. But enough about that. Mr. Franklin, this is my brother, Benjamin. Oh, my. I just realized how funny that is. Benjamin . . . Franklin . . .”

  “Let’s make it easier, shall we? Please, just call me Lewis.” He held out his hand, and it was clasped by a strong male one slightly larger than his own.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lewis. I understand you’re quite an accomplished pianist.”

  “I don’t know about accomplished—I’ve never performed anywhere important or won any sort of competition.”

  “Those are hardly the only measures one can take. The housekeeper promised me a piece of cake when I came in—after I’ve eaten it, will you play for me?”

  “Of course. I’d be delighted.”

  “Excellent. And I did bring along quite a bit of sheet music—my sister didn’t know if you needed just one song written down, or several.”

  “Just one at present, but I appreciate your preparation.”

  Mrs. Everett bustled into the room just then. Her skirts made a distinctive swish when she walked. Lewis wondered if her petticoats were made of a different material than the other girls’, and then he chastised himself for thinking about women’s undergarments. Of course, he wasn’t thinking anything inappropriate, but his mother would have his hide if she knew.

  “Here’s your cake, Mr. Wilhite. And I can’t have you eating all alone, so I brought another slice for Mr. Franklin.”

  “It looks delicious.” A clink told Lewis that their guest had picked up his fork. Lewis picked up his own, glad that cake wasn’t a messy food. Or at least, he hoped it wasn’t. He supposed that under the right circumstances, he could make a mess of anything.

  A few minutes later, Miss Jones took him by the elbow and guided him into the parlor. His feet carried him toward the piano without any help from her at all—it was as though they remembered the way.

  “I’ll just take a seat here next to you,” Mr. Wilhite said. “Please, play whatever comes to mind.”

  The first thing that came to Lewis’s mind was Libby. Everyone had made him feel welcome at the table, but her presence was sorely missed. He ran his fingers lightly over the keys, the feel of them sending a warm, comforting thrill up to his elbows, and then he began a piece that reminded him of her. It was gentle, soft, and light. He’d written it the spring before when the trees were starting to unfurl their green leaves. His mother’s daffodils, carefully brought out to their homestead in bulb form the previous year, were now blooming, their yellow heads raised to the sky. In his mind’s eye, he could see Libby there, lifting her arms and welcoming the sun.

  He saw her.

  His hands faltered for a moment. Surely it was just his imagination. He had no idea what she looked like—how could he? Before his eyes were bandaged, he’d seen only the edge of a sleeve as she assisted Dr. Wentworth in washing out his eyes, and yet he had a picture of her so clear, it was as though he’d memorized every feature. Her hair was blonde, her eyes were a warm, inviting brown—he shook his head. He was just creating an image to fill in for her. He couldn’t possibly know.

  He finished the piece, hoping no one had noticed his unplanned break in the middle. “I’m not as practiced as I ought to be,” he said, turning toward Mr. Wilhite. “Travel makes that difficult.”

  “No, not at all. I enjoyed it immensely. I wonder, Lewis, if my sister told you anything about me.”

  Lewis raised an eyebrow, which felt strange against the bandages. “She didn’t, beyond your ability to help me.”

  “I play first-chair violin for the Philharmonic Society of New York.”

  “You play for the Philharmonic?” A chill ran up Lewis’s spine. That was his dream—participating in an orchestra of world-class musicians, creating music that would fill the concert hall to the rafters and reach the hearts of every listener.

  “I do. And I wonder . . . well, I don’t suppose you’d be interested in coming down and playing for our conductor.”

  Lewis half rose from the bench before his knees gave out and he sat down again, hard. “I hardly know what to say.”

  “Now, I must be clear—I can’t guarantee that he’ll have an opening for you. He indicated in rehearsal this afternoon that he would be auditioning new musicians early next week, but that those slots would fill up immediately. I can put in a good word for you and ask him to be sure to put you down, but if he’s already scheduled, I can’t promise anything.”

  “I understand completely.” Lewis squeezed his hands into fists, trying to stop their sudden trembling. This was why he had come to New York—not only to seek inspiration, but to see if he couldn’t find a way to meet someone who would be influential in his career. Thanks to Miss Wilhite, that very opportunity had all but been thrown in his lap.

  “Now, which piece did you need written
down? Was it the one you just played?”

  “No, that one is safely recorded at home. My new piece is this.” Lewis moved easily into the music, his hands becoming confident again as soon as he began to play. Despite the fact that he could not see, he was overwhelmed with a feeling of joy, a feeling of destiny. This was a blessing, an incredible blessing he didn’t deserve and yet was somehow receiving. The Philharmonic. How incredible.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Libby was bored. She’d tried to rest, but after eating her dinner, all she wanted was to be up and around again. Yes, she was a little weak still, but nothing that wouldn’t pass in time.

  She listened as the music from the piano filled the house. Lewis was gifted—she had absolutely no doubt about that. As he played, she could imagine bright, sun-filled meadows and blue skies, the warmth of the breeze on a spring day. Then he paused for a moment, and when he resumed, the music had taken on a different quality, something wistful. She didn’t know how to describe it—she wasn’t a musician—but she did know how it made her feel.

  When he began his second piece, she knew she couldn’t just lay there forever. She climbed off her bed, put on her shoes, and checked her hair in the mirror—it wasn’t as tidy as Dr. Wentworth would like, but it would do for around the house. Then she went downstairs and into the parlor, slipping into a chair by the door.

  A handsome young man sat near Lewis, his face a study in concentration. He resembled Meg quite a bit, so Libby guessed him to be Mr. Wilhite, Meg’s brother. He glanced her way and gave her a polite nod, then went back to his enjoyment of the music—enjoyment, or analysis. Libby wasn’t quite sure which.

  As the piece came to an end, Laura leaned over and whispered, “That’s Meg’s brother, Benjamin. Handsome, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “I can’t believe Meg didn’t mention how good-looking her brother is.”