“What kind of tarts?” he asked, wanting to ask just how she felt about Mr. Washburn in return, but unable to voice something so personal.
“Raspberry, I believe.”
“Which happens to be my favorite. Confound it, Miss Cantrell, what sort of man goes into another man’s house and eats his favorite tarts? It’s as though he believes he’s entitled to them or something. Does he think that all the tarts in the world belong to him, that they’re his for the taking? Has he not stopped to think that not only am I very fond of them, but that I’ve grown more and more fond of them as the years have gone by until I can barely stand the thought of someone else eating them?”
Miss Cantrell stopped and looked at him, an expression of astonishment on her face. “I can’t believe we’re even having this discussion, Dr. Russell. Are you honestly telling me that tarts have the power to make you this angry?” She studied his eyes. “No, this isn’t about tarts at all, is it? Something else is bothering you, and you’re deflecting your feelings. What’s the matter? Is your arm bothering you?”
Frank took a deep breath and tried to rein in his emotions. “No, my arm is quite all right, Miss Cantrell. You’re correct, however—something else is bothering me. I believe I need a little time to work it out for myself before I bother you with it, as I’m not quite sure what it is.”
“And if it’s something that bears an impact on your work, you’ll tell me about it?”
“Absolutely. I will keep no more secrets from you, Miss Cantrell. I’ve learned that lesson in a dozen ways.”
“Excellent.”
Up ahead loomed the house, rose-colored brick and white trim. Frank loved his home, the place where he’d created so many happy memories with his mother. He didn’t recall much about his father, who had died when he was quite young. “Miss Cantrell, do you recall Dr. Wentworth saying that neuralgia seems to run in families?”
“I do.”
“I was just wondering about that. I don’t believe my mother had it, and I don’t remember my father much at all. He died as a rather young man. I wonder if he had the indicators for it, but didn’t live long enough to see it develop within himself.”
“And you’re the lucky one who gets to experience it all?” She slipped her arm through his—thankfully, the left arm. “We’ll find ways to work around it. I refuse to consider this the end equation.”
“As do I.”
They entered the house together. Miss Cantrell stepped into her room to freshen up, leaving Frank to glower in the hallway. He hadn’t meant to think of her in terms of dessert—that was entirely accidental—but everything he’d said was true. She was becoming more important to him as the years went on, and he very much disliked the idea of this Mr. Washburn fellow coming in and upsetting things. If he were to propose, Miss Cantrell might decide to marry him, and then Frank would be left without a nurse. He refused to think about it. It was entirely too irritating.
***
Most days, it was a relief to Irene to change out of her work dress and put on something else, maybe something a little less practical. Tonight, it was most certainly a relief. It had been a long, frustrating day, and she was more than ready to put it behind her.
She stood in front of her wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear. Mr. Washburn had always seemed partial to blue, and she did have a rather nice blue dress that she thought looked rather well on her. But how ridiculous was that—choosing to wear his favorite color. She was hardly trying to encourage him—her feelings about marriage hadn’t changed at all since they were younger, and she’d just be sending him on his way again. Wouldn’t she?
Her fingers trailed along the sleeves of her dresses until she stopped at the burgundy one. She looked rather well in it, too, and she wouldn’t be sending him any confusing messages.
Then she stopped and laughed. She was most likely making too much of this. Yes, he’d asked to call, but he hadn’t asked to court her. What if her pride was making this into something much more than what it was? The poor man would probably die of embarrassment if he knew she was trying to find ways to let him down gently. He’d eat his tarts, enjoy an evening away from his hotel, and that would be the end of it.
She took down her hair, brushed it through, then put it back up. After fastening her dress, she stepped out into the hallway, more than ready for some dinner. That last appointment had kept them later than the regular dinner time, but Mrs. Everett would have something hot for them.
Dr. Russell came to his feet when she entered the dining room. “You look very nice, Miss Cantrell. I see you’ve chosen to wear my favorite color tonight.”
She glanced down at her dress. “I have?”
“I suppose this is the first step in your attempt to make up for all those frightening comments you made about the conspiracy against my tarts. However, your plans have been foiled.”
“My plans, sir?”
“That’s right. Mrs. Everett has just now informed me herself that she made a double batch. You see? Your scheme was all for naught.”
“Yes, I can see that now. Shame on me for devising such a ploy.” She took her seat and placed a napkin on her lap. “You seem to be in better spirits.”
“Mrs. Everett met me in the hall with a roll and some butter. Nothing like a little snack to tide one over until the meal.”
The housekeeper bustled in with a tray, and within moments, they each had a plate of roast with vegetables and a basket of rolls. Irene inhaled deeply. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.
“All the girls have eaten?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. An hour ago. They’re all accounted for, studying their little hearts out in their rooms. You have quite the way of inspiring them to be good students, Miss Cantrell.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. I believe it’s more a matter of their own personal desire. They really want to succeed.”
“Fine by me if you don’t want the credit. We all know where it rightfully belongs.” Mrs. Everett gave her a wink before heading back into the kitchen.
Irene wanted to change the subject as quickly as possible. “I’ve been thinking about your curious situation, Dr. Russell. Do you have any living relatives, one who might know a bit about your parents’ medical histories? What about their doctors? I imagine some well-placed letters might help you solve this mystery. I’m not suggesting it would lead to a cure, but if you knew how you got it, that might lead to prevention.”
Dr. Russell paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “You’re brilliant, Miss Cantrell. My mind was entirely occupied with a treatment, not on prevention, but that’s exactly what we should be doing. My aunt is still living—she has a home in Boston. I’ll write her first thing. She’d likely know what physicians my father used, and while I don’t know if his exact doctor would still be alive, perhaps his office would have retained some patient files. That is, if he was in practice with a partner. If he worked alone, his widow might have destroyed the files.” His voice had taken on that musing tone that told Irene he was no longer in the room with her, but somewhere miles away. It was good to see him focusing on this new aspect of the situation—it would keep his mind occupied on the possibilities of the future instead of the grim realities he was sure to face.
A knock sounded on the door a moment later, and Irene wiped her mouth. “That will be Mr. Washburn or Mr. Wilhite,” she said. “Are you still out of sorts about their coming?”
“No, no, I’m fine.” He waved her off. “Mrs. Everett placed an entire tray of tarts on my desk. I’m sure that will appease me.”
“Excellent.”
She paused for a moment in the hallway and tucked a stray strand of hair back into place, then walked into the parlor. Mr. Washburn was the only other person there, and he came to his feet as she entered.
“Thank you again for allowing me to call, Miss Cantrell,” he said, giving her a small bow. “I can’t think of a nicer way to spend an evening.”
“I’m glad you came by. It wil
l be nice to talk about old times.” She took a seat across from the one he’d chosen, and he sat again as well. “I have to admit, though, that thinking back on those days reminds me just how long it’s been, and how very much we’ve all changed.”
“You haven’t changed at all, Miss Cantrell. In fact, I’d say you’re very much the same as the sixteen-year-old girl I remember so well.”
She laughed. “That’s a statement of flattery if I’ve ever heard one. The last ten years have flown by, certainly, but if you catch me in certain lights, you’ll see the development of some very definite wrinkles around my eyes.”
“I doubt that.” He leaned forward and placed an elbow on his knee. “Now, about this business of our Christian names. I rather insist that you call me Patrick. We were good friends once, and I hate to think we’ve lost that just because a number of years has gone by.”
She nodded. “I agree. And if you’re to be in town a while longer, it only makes sense that we will see each other at various events.”
“Or even see each other purposely, like tonight.”
He meant to keep seeing her? Heat rose to her cheeks. She had to deflect this, help him to understand that she didn’t want any sort of romantic entanglement. “Yes, I’m sure there are many things we can do together. My students and I sometimes go to see a play, and you’d always be welcome to join us.”
His gaze didn’t flicker at all. “Come now, Irene. Surely you didn’t misunderstand me. Several years ago, I told you I wanted to court you. My feelings haven’t changed one bit, and seeing you again only reminded me of them all the more. I feel that the time we’ve been apart has only matured us and helped us to realize what we really want. And I want you.”
Irene couldn’t form words. She was saved from having to reply when another knock sounded on the door, and Mr. Wilhite entered the parlor. Patrick came to his feet, and the two men shook hands.
Laura bounded down the stairs—there was no mistaking the sound—but came into the parlor as though she’d never bounded in her life. “Hello, Mr. Wilhite, Mr. Washburn.” Both men bowed, and Mr. Wilhite guided her to a seat on the other side of the parlor. Patrick turned back to Irene with a question in his eyes.
“We’re not speaking privately anymore,” she said, nodding toward the other couple. “That makes things rather awkward.”
“I believe that’s exactly why chaperones exist. To make things awkward.” Patrick took his seat again. “We must discuss this, however difficult it might be. Irene, you’ve created a life here, a career, a whole existence. I’m sure you’re very pleased with what you’ve accomplished, and so am I. It’s astounding to hear of your successes and see how your students admire you and to hear Dr. Russell praise you. I believe you’re at the top of your profession, and I don’t want to take any of that away from you.”
“You . . . you don’t?” Irene blinked a couple of times. That wasn’t at all what she expected him to say.
“No, I don’t. Perhaps in years past, I didn’t want a wife who worked outside the home—it is traditional and customary for her to see to the needs of the family, of course—but how could I ask you to give up everything you’ve worked so hard to create? It would be barbaric of me, and while I am traditional, I’m not barbaric.”
Irene let out a long, slow breath. “You have changed, Patrick. You’ve changed quite a lot. In some rather nice ways, I have to admit.”
He laughed. “That’s certainly nice to hear. So tell me, Irene—are you willing to give the idea of a relationship a chance?”
Mrs. Everett came in with a tray of refreshments, the lemonade glasses tinkling merrily against each other as she walked. Patrick looked a little frustrated at yet another interruption at a key moment, but he smiled and thanked her before she left the room.
Irene picked up a glass of lemonade and took a sip before she answered his question. She needed this moment to collect her thoughts, to formulate what she would say. She had all but convinced herself that it wasn’t a relationship he was after, and now that she’d been proven wrong, she didn’t know how to reply.
“You’ve changed a great deal, but I haven’t,” she said at last. “I’m still far too caught up in my studies and in my career to think about courting or marriage or any of those other things. They’re nice things, of course, and I’m humbled and flattered that you still feel that way about me, but I don’t know how to be any different than I am.”
“I see.” Patrick reached out, took a tart, and broke it in half. Then he stared at it as he said, “Will you allow me to call from time to time to see if I can convince you otherwise? I promise not to make a nuisance of myself, but I would like somewhat more of a chance to prove myself to you.”
Irene couldn’t help it—she laughed. “Oh, Patrick, you’ve already made a nuisance of yourself, but all right. If you insist on coming again, you may. I won’t promise you anything, though, and if you meet a young lady you like even a little bit, you need to turn your attentions to her. I’m not worth the time, I assure you.”
“But that’s just it. You’re worth every bit of time I could spend.”
She held up a hand. “I’m sorry—I misspoke. I meant to say, it’s admirable of you to hold out hope, but I fear you won’t be rewarded for it.”
He nodded. “All right, I will call on you with the understanding that the whole thing is a waste of time and I would be much better off elsewhere.”
“Exactly.” She took another sip of her lemonade and then set it down. “Now, are you going to eat that tart, or examine it? Mrs. Everett would be quite put out if you didn’t at least taste it.”
The evening became much more pleasant from then on. Patrick told her about the company he worked for and what his daily duties entailed. He sounded happy in his position, and Irene was glad for that.
She wondered every so often as he spoke if there was room for her in his new life, and if there was room for him in hers. It seemed like an ideal situation—they were both professionals with important careers, they both had goals, they both wanted to accomplish something great with their lives . . . but no. This wasn’t what she wanted. Perhaps in another age, another life … and with another man.
Was she wrong to tell him he could call on her? Most likely, yes. She didn’t imagine that any number of evenings spent sipping lemonade and eating tarts would make her fall in love with him. Deep down in her soul, she knew there would never be anyone for her but Dr. Russell, and if he couldn’t see her as anything but his nurse, well, his nurse was what she would be.
Chapter Ten
Frank sat in his study, reading the articles Dr. Wentworth had sent over by way of messenger just an hour before, and listening to the hum of chatter coming from the parlor. With two couples in there, all four of them eager to impress each other, it was no wonder that he could pick up on an occasional word here and there. Ordinarily, happy voices didn’t bother him, but he was quite annoyed when he heard Miss Cantrell’s laughter, and even more annoyed when he heard Mr. What’s His Name’s replying chuckle. It was maddening—that was the only way to describe it.
Mrs. Everett came in a moment later with some fresh lemonade.
“Just how long are those young people going to be in there?” he asked, nodding toward the doorway. “I can’t read with all that racket.”
“You could begin by closing your office door,” she said mildly.
“Yes, but if I closed my office door, I’d have nothing to be cantankerous about, would I? And I must have a reason for it.”
Mrs. Everett nodded, then motioned toward the chair across from his desk. “May I?”
“Of course. You never need to ask for permission to sit in this house.”
She settled herself and arranged her skirts just so. She wasn’t usually so particular, so he imagined that she must be getting up the courage to say something she didn’t necessarily want to say. “Calling hours will be over in about thirty minutes, so you don’t have that much more to endure. I don’t think you�
�re annoyed about the volume level at all, though, if I may speak bluntly. I think you’re annoyed that some other gentleman has set his sights on your Miss Cantrell.”
Frank opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I’m not quite sure what you mean.”
“Oh, you know very well what I mean, and you’d be foolish to pretend you don’t. You’d be surprised how much a housekeeper overhears and notices, and I’m willing to bet all my recipes and my favorite rolling pin that you’ve got stuff going on inside you that you haven’t admitted yet. So before you get all up in arms that she’s got a life that doesn’t include you, why don’t you be thinking about ways to include her in your life?”
Frank mulled this over for a minute. It was true—he did need to evaluate his feelings and take action on them. It was silly and pointless to be irritated by things that were very much in his control. “All right, Mrs. Everett, I’ll do as you suggest. Thank you for being so forthright with me.”
She gave a nod and then hoisted herself out of the chair. “Let me know if you need anything else before I retire for the night.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Frank stared at the door, now closed, for a long moment after Mrs. Everett left. Yes, it bothered him immensely that Miss Cantrell was laughing at another man’s jokes and enjoying herself without him. What he hadn’t realized until that moment was the implications of the way he felt. Simply put, Irene Cantrell was the sweetest, dearest, most beautiful woman he’d ever met. She had a natural delicacy that seemed to contradict her iron will, and yet it all came together to create a package that was simply delightful. Yes, when he pushed all his professional distance aside, he had to confess it—he had feelings for her.
Heart of Hearts (Nurses of New York Book 4) Page 8
