They Called Her Mrs. Doc.

by Janette Oke

  “One should not be judged on appearance alone,” cut in Cassie, repeating words she had heard from her father and had detested hearing up to that point.

  Abigail stopped mid-stride. “Do you like him or something?” she queried.

  “Of course. I mean—I—I have no reason not to like him. Oh, I don’t like him like—” She had been about to say “like Mitchell Birdwell,” but checked herself in time. “I—I like all three of the young men that Papa has picked. I—I just don’t swoon over them like you do, that’s all.”

  “Well, I don’t swoon over them either,” insisted Abigail. “At least not over all of them. Just—just Mitchell, and I’m sure it isn’t all on my side either. Did you see how he smiled at me at the table? I’m sure he is just waiting for the proper time to ask to call.”

  Cassie was no longer prepared to deny Abigail’s charge. She had smiled at the young Mr. Birdwell herself on a few occasions, but there wasn’t much response—so it seemed. She had decided to turn her attention elsewhere and concentrate on Dr. Corouthers instead.

  By carefully playing detective, she learned that his name was Taylor Corouthers. He was twenty-nine. More than eleven years her senior. She had no problem envisioning herself with an older, mature, stable man. Her own papa was nine years her mama’s senior. What did bother her was that Dr. Corouthers always spoke of returning to Halifax at the end of his internship. Cassie had no intention of leaving her Montreal home and journeying to a land that was not nearly as cultured or refined as she considered her home city to be—even if it did have ships!

  “I’ll just have to persuade him to stay on here,” she told herself. “Papa will be able to find him a good position, a practice right in Montreal.”

  And Cassie put this concern from her head and concentrated on looking her best and acting her most charming. She was sure Dr. Corouthers had indeed noticed her; and with her eighteenth birthday fast approaching, she was prepared to be courted in proper fashion.

  For the first time in many years, Cassie did not share her inner thoughts with Abigail. They seemed too personal, too special, perhaps too fragile to be shared, even with her best friend.

  Cassie was home alone when the doorbell rang. Dickerson, the butler, answered and came to the drawing room where Cassie was reading before the fire.

  “Mr. Smith is waiting in the hall,” he said with his usual formal manner.

  “But Papa is out. He and Mama have taken the boys to the ball game.”

  “Yes, Miss. I know the evening’s plans,” Dickerson said stiffly. “But the fact remains, Mr. Smith is waiting in the front hall. He says that he will speak with you in the absence of your father.”

  Cassie rose reluctantly from her comfortable chair, brushing at her skirt to whisk away any wrinkles.

  “Well,” she informed Dickerson, “show him in.”

  An eyebrow raised. “In here, Miss?”

  “Why not?” she retorted somewhat shortly. “You said he wishes to see me in place of my father. Then show him in.” “

  Very well, Miss,” replied Dickerson curtly, but Cassie knew that the elderly butler did not think it was “very well” at all.

  She laid her book on the small table and turned to face the door. Soon footsteps approached and Mr. Smith stood before her, his gentle smile crinkling the corners of his eyes and lighting his face with good humor. “I am dreadfully sorry to be disturbing you, Miss Winston,” he began, “but I have some papers for your father and have a bit of explanation to go with them.”

  “I expect my father to be back very soon,” Cassie was quick to assure him. “Rather than try to explain things to me, perhaps you would have a cup of tea—or coffee—and await his return.”

  “Oh, but I wouldn’t intrude—”

  “No intrusion. I have been reading. The story will wait. Have a seat here by the fire. It isn’t really cold but the evenings can hold a bit of a chill.”

  Then Cassie turned to the shocked Dickerson. “Would you see that we are served, please?” she said quietly. “I believe that Mr. Smith prefers coffee to tea.” Dickerson left without a word.

  Samuel Smith’s eyebrows shot up as he studied her, and then a smile twitched his lips, suggesting that perhaps she was not the child he had taken her to be.

  “Now, be seated, please,” she invited, waving one slender hand at the chairs before the fire.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Smith responded, his voice edged with humor at the turn of events.

  “So you do not care for football?” he asked as he lowered himself into the overstuffed chair and held his hands toward the blaze in the fireplace.

  “As my parents’ only daughter—I decided to be just that,” Cassie responded good-naturedly. “They have enough company taking my three brothers.”

  “But your mother enjoys the game?”

  Cassie had never stopped to wonder about that fact before.

  “I guess she does,” she responded slowly. “I really don’t know why. At first I think that she felt Papa needed help with three energetic young boys. Then—well—then I guess she maybe grew to like it.”

  He chuckled softly. Cassie liked his laugh.

  “Wouldn’t you possibly learn to like it?”

  She cocked her head to one side and thought about his query. “Perhaps,” she responded, “but I really see no need to put myself out to try. I’m—I’m rather a book-and-fireside person. I much prefer the warmth here to the chill of the wind out there.”

  A silence threatened to become awkward. “And you?” asked Cassie quickly.

  “I love the sport. I only wish that I had time to go. Although, I must admit that I’d rather be playing than sitting in the stands.”

  Cassie looked at him with new eyes. Yes, he likely would enjoy sports. He was of medium height, with a rather broad build and appeared to be solid. She nodded her head and made no reply.

  “What are you reading?” he surprised her by asking.

  She reached for her book and turned it so he could see the cover. “It’s Wuthering Heights,” she admitted a bit apologetically. “I—I read it fairly regularly.”

  “And your fancy goes to Heathcliff?” he prompted.

  Cassie felt her face flushing. She was glad that Dickerson arrived with the coffee tray before she had to answer.

  The conversation flowed on over their steaming cups. Cassie had never entertained a young gentleman before and was surprised how easy he made her task. In fact, it really wasn’t that much more difficult than chatting with Abigail.

  As the minutes passed by in conversation, she discovered many little bits of personal information about her guest, but she eventually realized he had gently probed to find out even more about her.

  By the time the back door slammed, announcing the return of her parents and brothers from the game, Cassie felt she had made a friend. She was almost sorry to have their evening end.

  She rose, and he stood with her. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I’ll tell my father that you are waiting to see him.”

  “Thank you,” he replied sincerely. “Thank you—for the coffee—the conversation—and the delightful company.”

  She blushed slightly and moved toward the sound of excited voices.

  “We won!” she heard young Simon informing Cook. “We won. Just trounced ’em good.”

  But Cassie hardly noticed. Instead, her thoughts were on the young man in the parlor. He did have a very pleasant smile. And she found that lock of undisciplined hair rather—rather appealing.

  Chapter Four

  Preparations

  Cassie stretched lazily, and wiggled her head on the thick downy pillow to find the most comfortable position. Her bright hair spilled out around her and she picked up a strand and studied it as though seeing it for the first time.

  “It sure is red,” she muttered under her breath.

  She had never liked her red hair. It always drew attention until she felt as if she were some kind of circus sideshow.

 
“It might as well be lime green—or royal blue with all the stares I get,” she mumbled further and whipped the tresses aside. “Red hair and freckles! They are a curse from God.”

  As soon as Cassie had murmured the words she was instantly contrite. Her mother had always told her that God knew best in His choosing and that the bright red hair set her apart from other young girls her own age.

  But Cassie was not at an age to enjoy being set apart. She wanted to be attractive—yes—but not different.

  If I could choose—could choose to look any way I wanted—what would I pick? wondered Cassie.

  A smile played about her lips as she played her little game.

  “I would have creamy, unfreckled skin,” she murmured dreamily. At least that part was very easy. “Then I would have—blond hair—just as blond as hair can be. Like—like corn silk—or—maybe that’s too yellowy. Or dark hair. That would show my skin off more. With—with deep blue eyes I think—or chocolaty brown—they look—”

  A knock on her door interrupted her monologue. She looked toward the door, judged the intrusion to be Nettie, the maid, flipped over on her side and feigned sleep.

  She heard the door open.

  “Cassie. Cassie, it’s past nine.” It was her mother’s voice. “You really need to develop better rising habits. One cannot spend one’s time loafing about in bed.”

  Mrs. Winston crossed the carpeted floor and raised the window shade. Bright sun streamed into the room.

  Cassie moved and stretched and pretended to be awakened from a deep sleep, but her mother did not seem to be fooled for one minute.

  “I’ve arranged with Cook for some kitchen lessons,” she continued. “But if you don’t soon get to the kitchen, she’ll need to begin preparing lunch.”

  “Cooking lessons?” said Cassie in disbelief.

  “Yes, cooking. You are no longer a child. We have put it off long enough. You must learn how to find your way around the kitchen.”

  “But—”

  “No arguments. A girl your age should have learned long ago.”

  “Whatever for?” asked Cassie candidly.

  “So you will know how to properly prepare a meal,” went on Mrs. Winston. “Here you are almost eighteen and you know nothing more than making sugar cookies and icing a cake.”

  Cassie’s feet hit the floor at the same time her red-haired temper flared.

  “Are you saying that I am destined to be a cook?”

  “Certainly not,” replied her mother, unruffled by Cassie’s outspokenness. “I am saying that a girl who is nearing marriageable age should know how to prepare something more than cookies for her household.”

  “That’s a cook’s job,” insisted Cassie.

  “That’s a wife’s job,” responded Mrs. Winston.

  “You don’t cook,” Cassie flung at her, drawing a gingham dress from her wardrobe and preparing to head for the bathroom.

  “I don’t—but I could,” Mrs. Winston said calmly. “If anything should happen to Cook, the family would still have meals.”

  Cassie had never seen her mother in the kitchen, so she cast a disdainful glance her way and moved to pick clean lingerie from a dresser drawer.

  “I will expect you in the kitchen, prepared—body and mind—in twenty minutes,” Mrs. Winston said firmly and she left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Cassie was not in a good mood as she went to draw her bath. In the first place, her little fantasy game had been interrupted. Secondly, she was in no mind to scrub carrots and peel potatoes. That was Cook’s job. And she certainly had no intention of handling uncooked meat. She hated it. Hated the smell. Hated the sight of the oozing blood. Hated the fact that it had once been a part of something living and moving. She shuddered at the very thought and turned the water on with more force.

  But as Cassie stretched herself out in the warm water, her thoughts did an about-turn.

  What was her mother saying? Why had she suddenly taken it upon herself to arrange for cooking lessons? Why had her mother spoken of her being near marriageable age? Did she really feel that Cassie was growing up—that a young man might soon come calling?

  Certainly Cassie had been entertaining those thoughts—but her mother?

  Cassie felt a tingle go all through her body, and instead of her usual languishing in the tub, dawdling her way through her dressing and the pinning of her hair, excitement hurried her out and into her clothes.

  She was in the kitchen well within the twenty minutes, prepared both in body and mind for the cooking lesson.

  Cook began her morning’s instruction with the making of bread. At first it was exciting, but Cassie soon discovered it was a slow and tedious task, and one had to wait for such a long, long time for the bread to rise. Cassie begged to be excused while the process went on and Cook agreed, saying she needed her kitchen for preparing the noon meal. Cassie should be back in the kitchen at two o’clock.

  Cassie was glad to slip out the back door to the gardens. She hoped to hide behind the ivy vines in the gazebo and continue her “daydreaming.”

  But her mother was seated in the shade on the porch swing, a piece of handwork occupying her fingers. She was always embroidering or hemming or stitching this or that. Cassie had often wondered what intrigued her mother about needlework, but she had never thought to ask.

  “Is the bread set?” asked Mrs. Winston.

  Cassie nodded and went to ease her way past the swing.

  “I have something for you,” said Mrs. Winston, patting the seat beside her, and Cassie had no choice but to join her mother.

  Cassie’s brow puckered slightly as her mother handed her a bit of stitchery. It seemed that her mother was intent on remedying Cassie’s neglect in household training all in one fell swoop.

  Cassie sighed and picked up the piece of material. A needle was stuck in with a long white thread trailing out behind it. As bidden, she turned her eyes reluctantly toward her mother’s hands to watch the movements of a skilled seamstress. It didn’t look difficult and Cassie plunged ahead, but she was soon to discover that her own stitches certainly did not compare with those of her mother’s.

  “You hurry too much,” her mother admonished. “One must be slow and accurate. The speed will come as you practice.”

  Cassie tried again, biting her lip in concentration as she slipped the needle in and out of the cloth. Although she wore the provided thimble, she managed to prick her finger and had to stop for a few moments so she wouldn’t get drops of blood on the piece.

  But her mother would not excuse her. They stitched on until the signal was given for the noon meal. Cassie was so glad to hear the chime.

  But on the way to the luncheon table her mother said firmly, “You may rest for an hour after lunch. You can check with Cook on how the bread is coming—then join me again on the porch. Actually, you are doing quite well with your sampler.”

  Cassie’s mouth began to droop in a pout.

  “That is very unbecoming for a young lady,” her mother surprised her by stating. “When one becomes a man, one is to put away childish things—and the same holds true for a woman.”

  Cassie’s head lifted in frustration and defiance. Of course, she wanted to be a young woman—be treated like a lady—but surely it didn’t mean that you ceased being yourself and had to be someone totally different. Totally remade. That was unfair of the adult world. For a moment she wished to stamp her slippered foot, but one look into her mother’s serious eyes and she changed her mind and swished her skirts instead. Cassie knew from experience that her mother seldom acted as the disciplinarian of the family—but when she did, she wasn’t to be crossed.

  For one brief, silent moment the two strong wills clashed, and then Mrs. Winston moved forward to lead the way to the dining room.

  “It is your choice,” she said in a half whisper, for the three boys, faces scrubbed and hair slicked back, were coming within earshot. “Your choice whether you wish to be a child or an adult. No one can
manage both.”

  Then Mrs. Winston turned to her sons, smiled as though nothing out of the ordinary was going on and patted Stephen on the shoulder. She asked them how they had been spending their day, and each one clamored to be first in the telling. Her indulgent smile seemed to say, “When I was a child, I spoke as a child. …”

  But Cassie hardly noticed. She could not shift her thoughts so easily or quickly. Her sour mood continued. Life did not seem at all fair. It had been good to her thus far. She had been raised in a home where there were more than ample material blessings—they were plentiful. She had been gently nurtured, trained in all of the finer graces. She had been pampered and petted and her fancies had been humored. She played or loafed or dreamed at her own whims. And now, suddenly, just because her mother deemed that she was soon to be courted, she was asked to leave behind her enjoyable times and devote her hours to tedious kitchen chores and plying a needle endlessly in and out of boring material. Who made the rules for adulthood, anyway? And why did they insist that nothing be fun anymore?

  Cassie’s thoughts went further. In her own thinking she was certainly prepared for courting. It would be most exciting to have a young man pay homage—bringing flowers and chocolates and spending his time thinking of nice little pleasantries to say to make her cheeks glow with a blush, or spend his hours dreaming and counting the minutes until he would see her face again. But Cassie’s thoughts had gone no further than the courting. The fun and excitement. She had not thought of marriage—or the duties of marriage. Now she wasn’t sure that marriage was altogether desirable. Wasn’t it rather—rather permanent—and boring? Oh, she knew that Abigail spoke of marriage—at least to the changing of her name. But she wasn’t sure that Abigail was really ready for all of the duties of marriage either. The privileges maybe—but not the responsibilities. Cassie could not envision Abigail in the kitchen, an ample apron wrapped around her small frame, flour on her nose as she kneaded bread dough. Nor could she picture Abigail seated on a porch swing, dutifully plying her needle in and out of a swatch of linen. That wasn’t what she and Abigail had had in mind when they had set their minds on being courted.