The Infamous Miss Ilsa

by Laine Ferndale

  “Good evening, Miss Pedersen,” he said. He took her hand, barely brushing his fingers against hers. Even that mild contact, the sensation of skin against skin, was enough to send a jolt into his abdomen. He wanted to snatch his hand back, and he wanted to linger, to keep touching her. Her hand still had the same rough calluses, not the soft hands of the gently bred girls of his own set. He had always been so fascinated by her hands.

  Ilsa stepped back before he had a chance to embarrass them both with his clumsy indecision.

  “Ah, so you’ve met,” said Dr. Greyson, oblivious to the memory well Theo had blundered down. “Well, that’s one less introduction to make.”

  “We’ve met, yes.” Ilsa’s expression was polite, but her eyes had a spark of mischief: an effect of the punch and dancing, most likely. “The refreshments are on the side table there,” she said. “Enjoy yourselves!”

  With that, she disappeared into the crowd. Theo relaxed. He had pulled off the most dangerous part of the evening. If he could handle Ilsa, he could handle a dozen eligible daughters and sharp-eyed mamas. This wouldn’t be so bad. The room was decked out with red-and-white bunting and sprays of greenery. The gang around the Victrola had clearly reached some accord, and the contraption was now playing a lively waltz. Couples formed and began twirling around the dance floor. At the far side of the room, a long credenza was heaped with serving trays of food and an array of punch bowls. Good thing he had listened to Dr. Greyson and left off his evening wear. Even his waistcoat was pushing him to the edge of formality.

  Dr. Greyson ushered him to a group of older women stationed along the edges of the makeshift dance floor, chattering and fanning themselves while keeping watchful eyes on their husbands and daughters. Time to get down to business, then. For half an hour, he put his social skills through their paces. He found it helpful to make up mnemonic devices for every person he met. The strategy had served him well in medical school, and there was no reason why he couldn’t learn people the same way he had learned the five steps to sanitarily lance a boil.

  The sisters Penelope, Ophelia, and Pauline’s initials formed POP, though this had the unfortunate side effect of running the nursery song “Pop Goes the Weasel” through his mind whenever he saw one of the three. He recalled that Mr. Sterling was the mayor because he had a sterling reputation, and that Mr. Bellweather was the general store owner because he sold bells in any weather. Theo was getting the hang of it.

  Even more mercifully, the dance had more gentlemen than ladies, so no one called on him to dance. Still, as he made small talk, he couldn’t resist scanning the crowd for the flash of a green dress and a blond head. There she was, tending the punch bowl. There she was again, dancing with someone, her head tipped back in laughter.

  Finally, he was able to excuse himself and head to the row of chairs along the back wall. His knee and lower back were already throbbing, so he propped his cane against the wall and settled himself gingerly onto a seat. He rubbed his knee as he watched the dancers. Ilsa wasn’t hard to spot. She was spinning around the room with a burly blond man in a threadbare coat. Hadn’t she already danced with him once this evening? The song ended, and she smiled and laid her hand familiarly on the man’s arm. Theo took a long swallow of his drink to chase away the sudden sour feeling in his stomach. She whispered something into her partner’s ear, and the man laughed and gathered her back into his arms. The next song started up, and they twirled away across the dance floor.

  So Ilsa was spoken for. Not that it mattered, of course. It would have been shocking if she weren’t. She was by far the most attractive woman in the room. She had such a lovely smile. And she’d always had the gift of making you feel comfortable around her, as if you were the only person on earth. As if you mattered to her.

  “Feeling okay, Dr. Whitacre?” The voice jolted him back to the present. Mrs. Sterling stood just to his left, wearing a blue dress that was lovely but years out of fashion even to his untrained eye, and strained nearly to bursting about her midsection. He hurried to his feet to greet his hostess.

  “Oh, I’m quite well, thank you. You’ve organized a very lively evening.”

  Mrs. Sterling smiled. “I wish I could take the credit. Ilsa organized it all; I’m only a guest at my own party.”

  “Then please give my compliments to Miss Pedersen.”

  Mrs. Sterling raised her eyebrow. Was it the name or the way he said it? He needed to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “Would you like to take a seat?”

  “Lord, yes. I feel like I’ve been on my feet for years.” She eased herself down onto the chair beside the one he’d vacated, leaning just a little into the arm he’d offered to assist her.

  Theo took his own seat and racked his brain for appropriate small talk. “It’s been very nice to make everyone’s acquaintance.”

  But Mrs. Sterling was looking at his leg, which he realized he was rubbing again. “Is your knee giving you trouble?”

  Theo shrugged. Everyone loved to talk about aches and pains, especially with a doctor. “I’m just resting it.”

  “Old injury?” she asked.

  Theo braced himself. “No. I had paralytic fever as a child.”

  The mere mention of paralytic fever was usually enough to send people into at least five minutes of hushed condolences and stories about their mother’s friend’s niece who had been stricken with the same disease. Instead, Mrs. Sterling seemed to brighten. “That’s what I thought. We have a treatment for partial paralysis that I’ve seen do wonders for correcting asymmetry.”

  At that moment, Ilsa appeared to press a cup of lemonade into Mrs. Sterling’s hands.

  Mrs. Sterling smiled. “You really don’t have to play nursemaid for me all night.”

  “Someone has to, and that glad-handing husband of yours is busy telling that story about the bear for the hundredth time.”

  Mrs. Sterling’s laugh was full of affection. “You love that story and you know it.” Ilsa responded with an impolite snort, which only made her employer grin broadly. “At any rate. I was just mentioning our paralytic treatments to Dr. Whitacre. What do you think?”

  Ilsa’s mood became serious all at once. Was she remembering how much he’d loathed the “treatments” he’d been subjected to all those years ago? Scalding hot flannel wrappings. Ice baths. Electrical shocks. “I think he should try,” she said after a long moment. “You can’t come to Fraser Springs and not try the hot springs.”

  The very last thing in the world that Theo wanted to try was another quack cure. It was a waste of time, at best. “I’ve heard nothing but glowing reports of your services,” he said neutrally.

  “All the more reason to visit,” Mrs. Sterling said. “I think we could even arrange for the first treatment to be complimentary.”

  “Oh, but I would insist on paying,” he stammered.

  “Then it’s settled,” Mrs. Sterling said, clearly delighted. “We have men’s hours on Tuesday afternoons.”

  “Well, I’m still figuring out my schedule. I’ll have to . . . ”

  “When do you do your rounds?” Ilsa asked.

  “Every morning from nine to twelve thirty. Then I’m in the office at the hotel from three to six. But I’d have to check my . . . ”

  “Perfect. One o’clock on Tuesday, then,” Mrs. Sterling said. Theo glanced desperately at Ilsa. Surely she wouldn’t want him underfoot? It was hard to read her expression. He had expected irritation, but she seemed . . . thoughtful?

  “Does your leg still hurt when you bend it?”

  “And when I don’t bend it. I’m used to it by now. It doesn’t matter.”

  Her pale eyebrows drew together and her lips twisted to one side; her recognized the expression instantly, even after all these years. It was the face she made when she disapproved of something and was trying very hard not to offend you by pointing it out. He sighed. “Oh, just say what you want to say.”

  “It’s only that you shouldn’t be in pain just because you’re
too stubborn to try something new. If there’s a chance we can help, you should try.”

  “I don’t want to waste your time trying to fix something that can’t be fixed.”

  “It’s not about fixing you!” Ilsa clearly spoke more forcefully than she’d meant to, because her next words were much softer. “It’s about making you hurt less. You don’t even know what the treatments are.”

  Mrs. Sterling was staring at them as if they were a tennis match, volleying back and forth, and he was suddenly aware that he was in danger of causing exactly the kind of scene that Greyson would lecture him about for weeks.

  “Fine. On a trial basis.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Sterling said. “I’ll be sure to have Ilsa see to your visit personally, since you’re already acquainted.” Ilsa directed a glare at her that would have melted stone, but she blithely ignored it.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Sterling.” He stood. Better get out of this conversation fast before he got hustled into anything else. “I should let you ladies get back to your beaus.” At the mention of beaus, Theo swore that he could see a little smirk light up Ilsa’s face, just briefly. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I believe Dr. Greyson has a few more people he wants me to meet.”

  He nodded politely and pushed out along the edge of the swirl of dancers. He risked a glance back over his shoulder; Ilsa and Mrs. Sterling had their heads together.

  Dr. Greyson did indeed have several more people for him to meet, primarily men and women of middle age who wanted to take the opportunity of a very public dance to discuss their puzzling skin conditions and irregular bowels. Theo caught himself stealing glances at the dancing couples and the knots of roughly dressed men collected around the refreshment tables. He wouldn’t know what to say to any of them, but at least they probably wouldn’t ask his opinion of their suspiciously shaped moles.

  “Isn’t that true, Doctor?” piped a reedy voice some two feet below his line of vision. He wrenched his attention back to the ancient Mrs. Parks.

  “It’s not impossible, I suppose,” he hedged, having lost the thread of their conversation. Mrs. Parks bobbed her head with enthusiasm and turned to her companion, whose name was either Miss Westman or Miss Eastman. “You see!” she said. “I knew that specialist didn’t know his business.” Damn. Whose orders had he countermanded now? Greyson and Mrs. Sterling were nowhere to be seen, which meant that the only other person who might conceivably rescue him from this conversation was . . .

  “Miss Pedersen!” Ilsa heard her name and stopped in her tracks.

  “Hello, Dr. Whitacre. Is there something I can get for you?” She smiled sweetly, and his two elderly conversation partners narrowed their eyes, ready to defend their claim on his attention.

  “Yes. Thank you,” he agreed immediately.

  Ilsa waited a moment, her smile fixed in place, before surreptitiously nudging the tip of his cane with her foot.

  “Oh! The thing is, I need, um . . . your opinion,” he finished lamely.

  “Exactly. About the liniment.” Mrs. Parks and Miss Eastman/Westman visibly relaxed—liniments were, indeed, a perfectly respectable topic for a private consultation. “We have some already made up, if you’d like to come to the kitchen with me.” Theo nodded gratefully and trailed after her like a rescued duckling.

  In the relative quiet of the kitchen, the thumping of his cane on the floor seemed excruciatingly loud. He sank down into a chair with a sigh.

  “Don’t be melodramatic. Mrs. Parks isn’t that bad.” Ilsa joined him at the table, sliding a glass of cold water over to him.

  “Thank you. But if you’d been answering questions about bunions all night, you’d be melodramatic as anything.”

  “I work here, remember? Bunions pay the bills.”

  “New topic, please,” he said. She laughed, and he found himself smiling foolishly back at her. This was all so much easier without a roomful of people staring at him. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, actually.” Ilsa’s smile tugged away into a flat line. He swirled his index finger in the condensation ring that his water glass had left on the table, giving himself a moment to measure out the words he’d been turning around in his mind all week. “I didn’t handle myself very well when I saw you here.”

  “No. You didn’t.” Her voice was level, and her face gave nothing away.

  “I understand if you’re angry with me for pretending to not know you.”

  “I was angry at you. And then you disappeared.”

  “I didn’t mean to disappear. I was . . . busy.”

  “I see.”

  “Are you still angry with me?” he ventured into the long pause that followed.

  “I don’t think so. Not really.” Theo let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “We were both surprised, and it was awkward with everyone right there watching. And you’re apologizing now.” There was a hint of a question in that last sentence, and he leapt into the breach, dignity be damned.

  “Yes. Absolutely. I am apologizing. Sackcloth, ashes, the whole bit.” That teased her smile back out.

  “Good. Bygones, then.”

  “Pax,” he agreed. God, he’d missed this, the way they’d always been able to talk easily and freely with each other. “It wasn’t a bad surprise, finding you here. I had no idea.”

  “And you’re a doctor now. How did that happen?”

  “The usual way, I suppose. Victoria College has a very good medical program.”

  “No, I meant how did you talk her into letting you get a job?” Ah. His mother. That fight felt like so long ago.

  “It’s a long story. But the important part is that I won and nobody disinherited me in the process.”

  “Well, that’s good,” she said. “It suits you. Do you like being a doctor?”

  “I do. Very much.”

  The smile she gave him then was so bright and sincere, it might as well have been a hug. “Good. I worried about you, Theo.”

  He was still trying to work through that admission when the swinging door into the kitchen burst open. A wild tumble of skirts and feminine laughter followed, and Ilsa was up and away, marshalling the chaos into an orderly procession of bread slicing and lemonade pouring and tray carrying. Minutes later, Theo found himself alone in at the table, with only a half-full glass of water to keep him company.

  Chapter 5

  Trying to get a gaggle of sleepy, tipsy girls to clean up after the dance was an exercise in futility. Mary had been sweeping the same patch of floor for what felt like fifteen minutes, Annie was nibbling leftover canapés under the guise of carrying trays back to the kitchen, and Elsie and Norah were giggling in a corner like schoolgirls, not even pretending to work.

  The electric lamps cast an orange glow across the now-empty great room; she still missed their old oil lamps sometimes, but the new lights were less work. The odours of punch and cologne lingered in the air, mixing with the pine scent wafting in through the open windows.

  “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can go to bed,” Ilsa noted loudly to no one in particular. The girls picked up the pace incrementally.

  Jo returned from ushering the last guests out, humming a melody that had played on the Victrola hours before. “Well, I do believe you’ve pulled it off, Ilsa. I never thought I’d see the day when Mrs. McSheen and our clientele praised the same party. The only way Owen could get Doc and his crew out the door was by promising to host again for New Year’s.”

  Ilsa laughed. “If the punch is strong enough, that lot will praise any party.”

  Jo wandered over to help her unstring the bunting. “It was a good night, though. That young doctor didn’t look like he disapproves of dancing after all.”

  The giggling from Elsie and Norah grew louder. Jo cut her eyes at them. “Do you ladies need an extra job to do? I see tables that need wiping down and punch glasses that need washing.”

  “Miz Jo, is it true that new doctor is going to come here for treatment?” Norah asked. “I call di
bs.”

  “No, me!” exclaimed Elsie. “Do you think he got shot? I wouldn’t mind a bit of a limp as long as . . . you know . . . nothing else is limp.” A storm of giggles greeted this witticism.

  “I hear he’s rich,” said Annie, instantly animated.

  “Ilsa will be treating Dr. Whitacre, and if you all don’t stop gossiping and start cleaning, you’re going to be on latrine duty for a week,” Jo said. She didn’t sound entirely serious, but it was more than enough to motivate the girls to put in a more sustained effort.

  Soon, Ilsa and Jo were alone in the great room, putting away the last of the washed and dried glassware. “I don’t care if Norah or Elsie takes on Dr. Whitacre,” Ilsa said.

  “I know. But I already told him you’d do it. Unless something happened tonight to change your mind?”

  “No. We had a chance to talk a little, actually. I think . . . I think everything will be okay.” She stacked the last punch glass into its place in the hutch, and they began to circle the room, switching off lights and snuffing candles. At last, everything was orderly and quiet, the room lit only by the faint glow from the stairs that led up to the second floor hallway. Jo paused on the first landing, touching Ilsa’s elbow to stay her before she could continue on upstairs to her own bedroom.

  “All right. I am dying of curiosity, and I need you to put me out of my misery.” And her very pregnant best friend sat herself firmly on the stair above Ilsa, blocking her way. “You worked for his family once. He was nice.” She crossed her arms and waited.

  Ilsa sat down in the stairwell, twitching Jo’s skirts to one side with a show of more annoyance than she actually felt. “You never used to be this nosy. I was fifteen, almost sixteen. The Whitacres hired me on as a maid of all work. Theo was bedridden then, and his father was a thousand years old, so it was supposed to be a safe house.”