“She came to me with her concerns.” Then, against his better judgment, Daniel leaned in and said, “Mrs. Smiley’s life is continually filled with concerns. I wouldn’t take it personally.”
“Oh, a grouser, hmm?”
While he found the term a bit dramatic, it did fit in this case. “She’s an excellent teacher.” After a second, he added, “But perhaps even an excellent teacher can use a pair of pretty socks.”
“Or slippers.” Miss Landway pointed at Daniel, suddenly taken with the brilliance of her improved idea. “I reckon she’d love a cozy pair of bright blue slippers. Who wouldn’t?”
Daniel did not dare to venture a guess as to Jane Smiley’s choice in private footwear. He simply smiled, nodded his goodbye and wondered how long it would be before Miss Landway’s next outrageous idea.
* * *
Ida was carrying a box of medical records down from the attic Thursday morning when she heard it: what sounded like a herd of buffalo stomping at once, and one voice shouting...numbers? It sounded oddly like the military exercises that would wake her up at the crack of dawn back at Camp Jackson, but then there were also grunts and various cracking sounds.
It had to be some sort of calisthenics—she knew the Home had to have some form of physical exercise program, but she couldn’t for the life of her guess what would make the sounds she heard. The girls took basic dance and posture, so this ruckus had to be the boys. A crash and a yelp—along with a rumble of laughter—piqued her curiosity and she tiptoed down the hall to take a look.
A dozen or so boys in trousers and white undershirts toed up to a series of lines taped along what was once the big old house’s third-floor ballroom. Their foreheads and white undershirts were soaked in sweat—it was broiling up here despite the shutters being thrown wide open—but they looked enthralled as they thrust long sticks at one another. Ida was so shocked by the sight that it took a minute for her to work out that they weren’t pummeling each other, they were fencing. Or at least, something like it, as they seemed to be using broomsticks rather than foils.
Their teacher stood at the far end of the room, his face momentarily buried in a towel, for he was as sweat-drenched as the boys. Ida’s jaw nearly dropped to discover the man to be Dr. Parker. Shirt open several buttons, glasses off, sleeves rolled up, hair pushed up off his face by the towel and sticking up in all directions, Ida barely recognized him. It was as if someone had taken formal Dr. Parker and dropped him in the center of a wet hurricane for five minutes, then deposited him in the third-floor exercise room.
“No, no, Jerome,” he said, walking over to one of the boys. Even his walk was different up here, with longer strides and a freer swing of the shoulders. “Use your knees to advance on your opponent. That way you keep your balance. Like this.” And with that, he took a stance and worked his way across the room in a series of very dashing-looking sword-fighting moves. The boys were transfixed, not only because Dr. Parker was very good, but because Dr. Parker used an actual fencing foil. Boys and swords, Ida thought. I’ll be seeing the end result of this in the infirmary one of these days.
Bookish Dr. Parker suddenly didn’t seem so bookish. Lengthen out the hair, add boots and a sash, and Ida could very well imagine the doctor alongside the Three Musketeers. Not quite a pirate, but certainly someone with a bit of swashbuckle in his blood. The image before her was so at odds with her notion of Daniel Parker that she had to catch herself before she laughed.
“A lady!”
Evidently she hadn’t caught herself at all, for one of the boys—George, if she remembered right—had noticed her and currently pointed his broomstick broadsword at her as if she were an invading enemy.
Dr. Parker’s demeanor stiffened up so fast, Ida could have sworn it made an actual sound. “Nurse Landway. You’ve discovered our Thursday fencing lessons.”
“I’m impressed,” she said, meaning it. “Looks like fun.”
“Girls don’t like swords,” George proclaimed with all the manly bravado a second-grade swordsman could muster.
“I grew up in West Virginia. I can ride a horse bareback and I can shoot a gun. Why not use a sword?”
George’s jaw dropped. “You can shoot a gun?”
“Girls in West Virginia need to learn to hunt, same as boys.”
When Dr. Parker raised a “you are not helping the matter” eyebrow, Ida backpedaled to, “Only we confine ourselves to small game like squirrel and possum.” She looked squarely at Dr. Parker when she added, “We leave the hungry bears and wild ferocious elephants to the big, strong menfolk.”
The doctor checked his pocket watch, conveniently deciding that three-twenty was an excellent time to end fencing lessons for the day. “That’s it for today, boys. Rods in the canister in the corner. Use the extra time to wash up before science class—it was hot today.”
The older boys, smart enough to realize their lesson had been ended by her intrusion, shot Ida one or two foul looks as they filed out of the room.
“There was no reason to stop early on my account, Dr. Parker. I have four older brothers. I understand the idea of ‘no girls allowed.’”
“Quite frankly, I was getting a bit winded in this heat. Some days the boys’ enthusiasm outpaces my stamina. They enjoy it so much, though, even if I do hurt the next day. Or days.” He made quick work of buttoning up his shirt and cuffs.
“Fencing?” Ida couldn’t help but ask.
He put his glasses back on. “Why not fencing?”
“It seems so...” She searched for the kindest word. “...impractical. When are these boys ever likely to use such a skill?”
Dr. Parker picked up the last of the wooden rods and tossed it into a barrel that stood in the corner of the room. “I’ll admit, it is a gentleman’s sport. But learning to command their bodies, to strategize, to keep a cool head in a fight, to outsmart an opponent rather than outbrawl them? I think those are highly practical skills.” For just a moment, a rakish grin filled his face. “But I would be lying if I said it isn’t occasionally useful for me to put a few of the older ones in their place. They always think they can best me in a duel.” He slid his foil into its case with a defiant air. “And they are always wrong.”
Ida crossed her hands over her chest. “I underestimated you, Dr. Parker.”
He laughed. “It is, of course, just plain fun, as well. One day I hope to be using more than broomsticks, but from a nurse’s standpoint, perhaps that is an advantage.”
“Oh,” she said with a laugh, “you’d be surprised how much damage a blunt object can do.”
“Perhaps to a wild, ferocious West Virginia elephant?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You deserved that.”
“I’d prefer the boys not picture you as a gunslinger nurse from a Western novel. Children’s imaginations tend to run wild with the tiniest bits of information we give them. I like us to be deliberate in the role models we present here at the Home.”
“Oh, and you are nothing if not deliberate. A deliberate man hands a dozen boys sticks and sets them loose to whack at each other.”
“A deliberate man trains a dozen young men how to use those sticks and channels their considerable energies someplace positive so they don’t whack at each other. Surely the army taught you boys must burn it off somewhere.”
Hadn’t she had that very thought upon hearing about Mr. Grimshaw’s chess lessons? “I heard an officer back at Camp Jackson once say that’s why God gave us push-ups.” Dr. Parker gestured through the door and she exited the room ahead of him. “Musketeering aside, they do need practical skills, too, don’t they? Apprenticeships and such?”
“Yes.” Dr. Parker turned, fished a set of keys from his pocket and locked the door behind them. “Most of the older ones take posts at trades around the city, when they can be made to fit around their lessons. I’m careful whe
re we send them, though. Some of the ‘apprenticeships’ out there aren’t much more than indentured servitude. I’m sorry to say the war’s left enough orphans that some don’t think twice about taking advantage of them. My father had an excellent record for looking out for the children’s welfare here, and I aim to keep it that way.”
Ida decided it was time to ask the question that had been sitting on her tongue all week. “May I ask you something, Dr. Parker?”
He clasped his hands behind his back. “Well, I’ve not seen you hesitate yet.”
She stopped for a moment, wanting to get the question out before they descended the staircase from the third floor. “Why do you think y’all haven’t been able to keep someone in the nurse’s position here?”
He paused for just a moment, and Ida wanted to stomp on her own toes. When will I ever learn to keep my mouth shut?
“Miss Landway, I can’t decide if I find your directness refreshing or startling.”
“A little of both?” she offered meekly, wondering if her tongue would soon place her at the end of the long line of former Parker Home for Orphans nurses. She’d spent a hundred nights on her knees repenting outbursts of an unguarded tongue—she dearly hoped this post wasn’t about to become the casualty of yet another.
Dr. Parker leaned against the banister, which promptly gave a worrisome groan and popped a screw to bounce along the top stair. “I would say,” he said wearily as he bent to pick up the wayward hardware, “that it is because it is a big, endless job for which we don’t pay nearly as well as we should. We’re forever making do and patching up.” He rocked the banister back and forth, testing to see if it would hold without the screw. “I spend much of my time beholden to donors, but the money we receive is never enough. Quite frankly, it’s my hope the army is better training for what we face here.”
The answer satisfied her. Ida was used to uphill battles and making do, and she’d met plenty of nurses who weren’t. “Smart thinking.”
“I do hope so.” He started down the stairs, then stopped. “Oh, but one thing.”
“Yes?”
“I must ask you to steer clear of the boys’ fencing lessons from now on. We’re up here every Thursday from three to four. It really is a ‘no girls allowed’ thing.”
Ida blinked at him. “You’re serious.”
“Silly, I know, but there are so few things we can give them, and they seem to take to the exclusivity of it. I indulge them.”
“So if a female student asked to learn fencing, you’d deny her?”
“Nonsense. It would never come up.”
Ida thought of her friend Leanne’s husband, Captain John Gallows, and how fiercely he prickled at being forced to learn to knit as a promotional stunt for the Red Cross. Some gender-based “traditions” really begged to be knocked down. “You’re sure of that?” Lady Gwendolyn seemed a perfect candidate for Pirate Queen if she wanted to raise a little trouble...
...which she did not. This was neither the time nor the place. Guard my brain and my tongue, Lord, please!
“Well, yes, I expect I am,” Dr. Parker was saying as he continued down the stairs.
“Of course,” she said, following him. You’ve got your yarn, why on earth would you go stirring up more trouble? Ida applied her most congenial tone. “Whatever was I thinking?”
Chapter Eight
Saturday morning passed in relative quiet—three splinters, two sore throats and one very nasty skinned knee. Ida had been at the Home almost two weeks, and was beginning to feel something close to “settled in.” As such, Ida took pride in the calm she displayed when Mr. MacNeil pushed into the infirmary with a cluster of irritated-looking boys in his wake. “I’ve got trouble for ye, Nurse Landway.”
Ida’s definition of trouble had changed considerably in the past fourteen days. The boys looked in no danger, save a collection of annoyed expressions. “They look rather healthy to me.”
“They won’t in an hour or so. I found these lads playing with a pile of rocks.”
Ida didn’t see any blood or bruises, so they hadn’t been throwing those rocks at each other at least. “Rocks?”
“A pile of rocks that was sitting under a patch of poison ivy. They’ll have gotten it all over the lot of ’em. Should I throw them in the showers?”
She stood up. “Goodness, no. That will only spread things more quickly.” She’d meant to include calamine solution in her list of needed supplies—the tiny bottle she had in her cabinets wouldn’t come close to covering the yards of soon-to-be-itching skin standing in front of her. Time to get creative. Ida ushered the boys into the office, calculating the number who entered against the amount of baking soda she had in her stores. “Mr. MacNeil, would you have time to dash to the kitchen and fetch up all the baking soda they can spare? We’ll need more than I have here.” The Scotsman nodded. “And some oatmeal!” she called as he ducked out the door. Even the unscientific home remedy could be called into service with this large a case.
Ida stared at the motley lineup, some of whom had already begun to scratch. “All right, gentlemen, off with your shirts. And whatever you do, don’t touch your faces.” Immediately, as if by command, the one on the end scratched his nose. “I said not to touch your face!” She poured water into a bowl and began mixing all the baking soda immediately at hand.
Twenty minutes later, the line of boys more closely resembled a whitewashed fence, patched and smeared as they were with baking soda. She’d commandeered a line of chairs from a nearby classroom and now had them applying the paste to their ankles just in case the offending leaves had wandered into their pant legs. Anything more intimate than that would have to be tended by Dr. Parker.
“Resist the urge to scratch,” she warned, “or I’ll have to resort to my mama’s trick of putting socks over your hands.”
“How long ’til it stops itching?” one boy asked, wrinkling his nose repeatedly, trying to sooth the itch without actually scratching. Ida’s heart twisted for the boys—it would be a long night. In this heat, it would be a long week—maybe even more.
She couldn’t bear to tell them. “Longer than you’d like. But you look to me like a tough lot. You’ll get through it.”
“They’ll have no choice,” came Dr. Parker’s deep voice from the doorway. He stood holding a pair of serving tongs, a small stack of boys’ undergarments and a pillowcase. “Off with your clothes, boys. They’ll have to go.”
“But there’s a girl here!” a boy protested, thrusting a hand so closely to Ida that she had to duck out of the way to avoid contact. Just the thought of being around so much rash had already made her feel itchy. She shot up a prayer of thanksgiving that she had moved all the donated yarn into her rooms in the dormitory.
“There is a lady present,” Dr. Parker corrected. “One whom we shall thank for her service before we politely request that she leave.”
“No need to twist my arm,” Ida said, gathering up her paperwork. “I’ll come back in an hour to scrub things down and make up some more paste for them to use tonight. Two hours, actually. Lock the infirmary up after yourself, Dr. Parker. I don’t want anyone wandering in here until I’ve washed it all down.” Two hours would buy Ida enough time for an oatmeal bath of her own. Poison ivy was nasty stuff—a wily enemy if ever there was one—and a preemptive measure might at least soothe her mind if not protect her skin.
* * *
The night was brutally hot, and Ida slept fitfully as she worried about the poor lads and their itchy fate. Finally, just after dawn, she gave up on further rest. After dressing and trying once again to tame her unruly curls in the oppressive humidity, Ida headed down to the staff dining room in the hopes that coffee might be had.
She pushed the French doors open to find a haggard Dr. Parker slumped backward in his usual chair at the head of the table, fast asleep. He�
��d been up all night from the looks of it. She ought to simply back out of the room and let the poor man doze, but the sight of him glued her feet to the spot. He looked different. Unkempt and unguarded, more human than she’d ever seen him even during the fencing lesson. His dark hair, usually trim and slicked in place, hung mussed over his forehead. The shadow of whiskers peppered his strong jaw in a way that should have made him look rougher than usual, only his face was still somehow gentler than his usual expression. She’d almost forgotten he wasn’t much older than her twenty-eight years—he bore himself with such an elder respectability.
He sniffed and shifted in his sleep, and Ida smiled at the uncharacteristic scruffiness of the gesture. She’d thought of him purely as a superior, an administrator, but he was still a man. A very tired, very dedicated man. It struck her, as she smiled at the empty coffee cup and an uneaten plate of toast on the table in front of him, that he didn’t smile enough. With his eyes and features, he had a very nice—if rare—smile.
She really ought to leave—he’d be mortified to know she found him this way. The upstanding Dr. Parker mortified—she couldn’t imagine such an expression on that face. Then again, looking as he did now, she could. She’d do what she’d do for any friend found in such a state; she’d wake him and send him off to bed.
Turning to the sideboard, Ida placed her hand on the coffeepot, glad to feel it was still warm. No one else was up; evidently the good doctor could make his own coffee. Ida poured a cup, trying to make just enough noise to allow Dr. Parker to wake up with her back turned to him, which seemed the kindest way. Most doctors she knew were light sleepers of necessity.
She heard him shift in his seat again, but when she turned around he still had not woken. Taking a second cup from the sideboard, she poured the doctor a replacement coffee and faced him. “Dr. Parker?” she said as gently as she could.
He grunted, his nose twitched, but still he slept.
“Dr. Parker?” she said a bit louder, then, “Dr. Parker?” again, a bit louder still.
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