The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection

by Joanne Bischof

  Heart pounding harder than she thought it could, she spun around and went back to work. She returned to Dr. Dawson’s side of the hall, convinced she ought to stay there as long as she could stand it, at least to spare whomever she could from the old ten-and-ten.

  Abigail had little time the rest of the day to contemplate whether or not she’d been unfair to Dr. Tallery. It simply didn’t matter. He’d made clear he had no interest in getting to know her, and just because she’d proved herself capable of a little hard work didn’t change the person she was inside. Someone he’d never expressed an interest in spending time with.

  Only the most serious cases of illness came to the hospital these days. If only they knew what caused such a fever! She’d seen doctors and nurses fall ill at the side of some patients they visited in their homes, while others, even family members, were untouched by whatever air or agent carried the dreaded disease. She felt as healthy as ever, and Nurse Pasario certainly wasn’t slowing down despite the fact she was old enough to be Abigail’s mother. What protected them from catching it?

  The air was distressingly fouled by the various symptoms that came along with the illness. Though they kept the linens and walls and floors as clean as possible, left each and every window open to move the air, the heaviness of illness couldn’t be hidden. Neither vinegar-soaked rags nor the residue of gunpowder following the boom of a nearby cannon—much to the dismay of resting patients—could clean the air sufficiently. Perhaps the cannons reminded older patients of the not-too-distant past when those cannons roared for far deadlier reasons.

  After a quick lunch shared with Miss Pasario, they returned inside the hospital. Just as they were about to take opposite directions to the two different wards being used for fever victims, Abigail spotted Dr. Dawson approaching from a nearby hall window, almost as if he’d been waiting for her. She threw a good-bye glance at Miss Pasario then prepared herself for another confrontation.

  “I do not want you working in my ward,” he said, his usually sonorous voice now hushed yet not a bit less intimidating. “I’ll not have you undermining my methods right under my nose.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he strode past her toward the ward where she’d previously been headed.

  Abigail was used to being ordered about, questioned because she was a woman often doing what only men were allowed to do. Knowing she was right, however, was balm enough for being exiled. So after a prayer for Dr. Dawson to abandon old practices, she reported to the nursing office to let them know she would not be working where they’d sent her that morning. She’d much rather suffer Dr. Tallery’s presence—a reminder of his rejection—than work under Dr. Dawson’s antiquated ways.

  Back in the ward with Dr. Tallery, she was relieved they were both too busy to pay each other any attention. She grew unaware of the time as she delivered yet another cup of warm broth to a patient. This one was a sailor, echoing Dr. Dawson’s accusation that the fever had arrived on a ship. She’d noticed Dr. Tallery had spent considerable time at this particular patient’s side when he had first arrived, so perhaps it shouldn’t have surprised her when Dr. Tallery approached while the patient was awake.

  “Good afternoon, seaman,” Dr. Tallery greeted the man. The friendly tone of voice surprised Abigail again, since she’d seen for herself that Miss Pasario had been accurate in describing his normally formal behavior as he went about his work.

  “Ah, so I didn’t dream it after all,” said the sailor. “None other than my friend from Saint Kitts.”

  Friend? Other than Early Goodwin, who was also a cousin, Abigail had convinced herself the man didn’t have any friends.

  Nonetheless, Dr. Tallery smiled just then, and to her annoyance she couldn’t help but notice it only multiplied his attractiveness. “Nurse Van de Klerk, this is Felix Brown, better known to his shipmates as Bulldog.” He then looked at the seaman curiously. “I’m surprised you’re still in New York, Bulldog. I would have thought the Fair Winds sailed back to the Indies weeks ago.”

  “And so it did. I’m assigned to sail on a sister ship expected up here in November.” He gazed around at the hospital ward. “Only I didn’t know my visit would be in a place such as this. I’m on the mend, though, I can feel it. The aches and pains I arrived with are nearly gone—well, except for the kind I’ve gotten used to with age. The good Lord warns us when it’s time to go on, sort of easing us along the way to heaven.”

  Abigail exchanged glances with Dr. Tallery, noting he didn’t encourage the man’s optimism. Likely Dr. Tallery had seen even more cases than she when a fever victim appeared to be on the brink of recovery only to be struck down in the next day or two, far worse than before.

  He reached behind the sailor to shift the pillow to a better position for sitting while Bulldog took up the broth Abigail had just handed to him. “We’d like to keep you here a bit longer, just to be sure all’s well.”

  Bulldog saluted with his free hand. “Aye-aye, sir. Only I hate to take up a bed if I’m well enough to go on my way.”

  “We just want to make sure, sailor.”

  “For anyone who is up to it,” Abigail said lightly, “I’ve asked another patient who feels as well as you do to entertain us with a reading from Thomson’s The Seasons.” She spared a narrowed glance at Dr. Tallery, wondering if he would object to her effort to bring some of society’s art into a hospital ward. She might not be a debutante, but Mindia had taught Abigail enough to convince her that one lurked inside. She wasn’t about to hide anything now, not her work nor even her readiness to dance the next time she had the opportunity. “The reading starts with autumn, since we’re all looking forward to that now that summer is waning.”

  To her surprise, Dr. Tallery’s brows lifted with approval, enhancing the second smile she’d ever seen on his face.

  Chapter Twelve

  The sun had long since set, and Cal knew he ought to go home. It wouldn’t take yellow fever for him to collapse if he let fatigue get the best of him. But despite knowing another doctor had volunteered for night duty, he was reluctant to leave. Instead, he found himself searching for Bulldog. The older sailor had been moved with healthier patients to a corner of the ward screened off from the weaker patients, with the belief that the foul air from the sickest patients was best avoided by those who seemed so close to recovery.

  Cal had been anything but friendly during their voyage to New York, yet Bulldog possessed one of those irrepressibly optimistic dispositions that wouldn’t be swayed no matter how others resisted him. Cal had vowed not to care about anyone beyond those he already, irreversibly, held in affection, like Early and the rest of his remaining family. Somehow Bulldog had slipped past the fence, only Cal hadn’t recognized it until the man showed up at the hospital.

  “If I answer your question, you must answer mine.”

  Cal stopped behind the cotton wall, hidden by a mere curtain suspended from a string pulled taut from wall to wall. He recognized Abigail Van de Klerk’s voice. Cal used to consider eavesdropping unethical, but during recent years he’d found it an effective means to gather information, particularly when patients were more comfortable talking about symptoms to someone other than a doctor who might suggest surgery.

  “Very well, young lady,” came Bulldog’s crusty voice. “Let’s set our questions out like a hand at cards, then decide.”

  “Mine is harmless enough. Why are you called Bulldog?”

  “Ha!” He laughed a familiar high-pitched grunt. “An easy one. I’m not sure the question I have for you is as easily answered. Why isn’t a pretty young woman such as yourself already married?”

  “Hmmm.” She followed that with a little chuckle that reminded Cal of how she sounded at a society party. He’d nearly forgotten those images of her; they’d been replaced by absolute admiration for the work she’d done here. No matter how repulsive the task, she addressed every need that crossed her busy path. He appreciated this version of Abigail far more than he ever could the woman he’d fir
st thought her to be. “Perhaps I ought to get two of my questions answered in exchange for that one, especially since you’ve admitted mine is so easily answered.”

  “Go ahead and offer two, Bulldog,” came another voice from behind the curtain. Evidently Cal wasn’t the only one listening in on this conversation.

  “I can tell you why that old coot is called Bulldog,” rang someone else, “and you don’t even have to answer a question from me in return.” The men talking might not be guests at one of those society parties she obviously liked to attend, but it sounded like she’d drawn a flock of admirers right here. “Look at ’im. If he don’t resemble one of those little dogs trained to bite the heel of a bull, I don’t know what else he looks like.”

  There were a few titters at that, and in the generally cheerful mood surrounding the exchange Cal decided to join the group.

  “Uh-oh,” said Bulldog, “looks like we’re in trouble for prattling too late into the night.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “I’m glad to see so many of you in high spirits.” Although he didn’t say so, their chatter was far preferable to the cries coming from those who were bound to their beds for safety’s sake, just as many of these had been so recently. He was sure Miss Van de Klerk didn’t need—or want—rescuing again, but he was fully prepared to spare her from having to answer Bulldog’s question. “However, Nurse Van de Klerk has been at the hospital today for nearly as long as I have, and it’s high time she went home for a good sleep.” Over a few moans, not of pain but of protest, he added, “You don’t want her to get sick, do you?”

  She’d been sitting on a stool pulled to Bulldog’s bedside, though it could have been a throne for all the loyalty on exhibition from those around her. Nonetheless, she stood but hesitated at the foot of Bulldog’s bed. “I want you to know I don’t believe for a minute you resemble a bulldog.”

  He winked at her, the wrinkles around his eyes all the more prevalent, even under the meager light of the nearby oil lamp. “Believe it, miss, because that’s the truth of it. Now let Dr. Tallery take you home. You’ve both earned a good night’s rest.”

  Cal found himself delighted at the suggestion, even as he was assailed with doubt she’d want his company. Besides, spending any time outside of working together violated his vow to keep everyone who wasn’t family at a fair distance. That especially included this woman and her father.

  He couldn’t tell if she planned to follow Bulldog’s advice about letting Cal see her home, since she didn’t acknowledge or even look at him. But she did leave the ward, and he followed. He knew she must stop at the nurses’ office to tell them she was leaving and to turn in her cap and apron for proper laundering. Instead of parting ways, with the hospital exit one way and the nursing office the other, he took her by the elbow and led her to the office.

  If she had any objections, he was glad she didn’t raise any.

  Abigail’s heart thumped. Was he truly intent on seeing her home, just as Bulldog had suggested?

  Resentment popped up alongside her confusion. She was suddenly worthy of his company because she’d spent her day in a way most people in Mindia’s circle would find unexpected? Yet she couldn’t deny anticipation was overtaking her thoughts.

  “You needn’t see me home, Dr. Tallery,” she said as they stepped out into the warm night air. Her words were automatic, spurred by the resentment she’d thought gone. “My home isn’t far, and there’s usually a hack at the end of the block. My father and I know the driver. He’s almost always there to take me home, or if not, I don’t have long to wait.”

  “That must be the hack I’ve hired myself these last few nights. We’ll let him transport us both, then, if you have no objections. I’m sure your father would thank me.”

  She should insist he go on his own way, but she didn’t. What was she doing, letting her heart behave in such a way? Mindia’s tutelage this summer had already produced its fruit. Hadn’t Abigail told her father about Ordell? Perhaps more importantly, she’d led Ordell to think she was receptive to his attention. And she was. Wasn’t she? Although nothing was official, and although sharing a hack with Dr. Tallery for the sake of convenience was hardly scandalous, if Ordell knew how jittery she felt at this moment, he would hardly approve of her spending time in this man’s company.

  “I wanted to speak to you about some of the patients,” he said, “and this will give us that opportunity.”

  His businesslike tone cooled the excitement all too eager to take root, but nonetheless her step was considerably lighter than expected after such a long day of toiling.

  “I can see you’re well versed in caring for the sick,” said Dr. Tallery, “but I wanted to warn you about the future of some of the patients you were just sitting with. Some of them—perhaps up to half, in fact—might be moved right back to the other side of that curtain, in worse condition than they were when they first came in.”

  She sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid I’ve already seen that happen. That’s why I was with them tonight. I wonder how many of them suspect what might be in store, or why we’re keeping them in the hospital when they seem to be improving. I know they converse among themselves, but I wanted to make sure the topics would be lighter than what might be on their minds.”

  Though she looked ahead, intent on keeping an eye on the path in front of them, she could feel his lingering glance. Mustering the boldness to catch a look from him, she saw something like admiration on his face. “I commend you,” he said in a tone that confirmed what she saw—words so gentle they felt like a caress.

  She snapped her gaze back, seeing the end of the block was empty. Under the glow of the street’s whale-oil lamp, the intervals between lighted posts looked darker than ever.

  “Now I’m certain I was meant to see you home,” Dr. Tallery said, more politely now, erasing any hint of intimacy she might have imagined. “It’s not only your father who would worry about you waiting alone at this hour. Those society matrons who watch over the parties you like to attend wouldn’t approve of you being out at this time of night.”

  She wished she could summon a light retort, laced with the sort of carefree, amusing timbre she’d learned so well by mimicking Mindia. But somehow Abigail’s brain was working as if coated in molasses. She could confess to Dr. Tallery that her father had always been too lenient when it came to her behavior; she could admit she’d driven their carriage home all by herself from the homes of various patients at hours even later than this. But she was too uncertain. To her own shame, the source of her indecision wasn’t loyalty to dear Ordell. Rather, she wasn’t sure Dr. Tallery would welcome the truth about her ways. That it mattered should certainly be a source of concern, whether or not Ordell would appreciate her hesitations.

  In that moment she knew her best behavior must also be honest. Why pretend to be part of a social set she had no intention of frequenting, at least on a regular basis? Dr. Tallery still had no interest in her personally. He’d taken the opportunity to act a gentleman by seeing her out, but he was not only concerned about what she knew of their patients, he had a vested interest in seeing her home for a good night’s rest. The hospital couldn’t bear the loss of any more nurses.

  She must let him know she was neither a society maiden nor exactly a nurse. Once these fevers passed, as they were sure to do, if he returned to work at her father’s side, he ought to know it would be at her side as well.

  Glancing first one way down the street then the other, she saw no sign of the expected hack. They had at least a few more minutes to wait. “Doctor, I believe I should tell you something about myself that might not be clear, especially given what you could easily have assumed upon our first meeting.”

  He appeared to stiffen, as if surprised the conversation was taking a more personal direction. She nearly changed her mind.

  “You met me under circumstances that were rather disingenuous.” She was speaking more quickly than gracefully but didn’t know how to slow herself. “My father was worri
ed that I needed to do more with myself than work with him, so he sent me to Mindia’s with the hope of securing personal happiness. She taught me as much as she could, considering my inadequate social education. While I admit enjoying myself more than I expected, the truth is I am more than a nurse. I work with my father, doing as little—or as much—as our patients will allow me to do for them. I am, for all practical purposes, a doctor myself. Without the title, without, I admit, the respect that goes along with it, but a doctor all the same.” She met his gaze. “I thought you should know all of this if you still plan to work with my father when the summer fevers pass.”

  He held her gaze, looking far less surprised than she expected. In fact, he looked nearly…pleased. But he broke the gaze before she knew for sure. Looking down the street, he asked, “And have you?”

  “Have I…?”

  “Secured your personal happiness.”

  It wasn’t the question she expected. What of the bigger matter, that of working beside a woman, respecting her work, her opinion? But then Ordell came to mind, and she knew she had to speak of him. “Yes, I have.”

  He looked at her again now, one of his brows dipping. “Yours will be a most unconventional marriage, then.” His tone was gentle, the way it had been earlier.

  “Yes, that’s what Mindia says, too.”

  The carriage pulled up just then, and Dr. Tallery stepped forward. He waved to the driver up top, opened the door for Abigail, and then helped her to board before following her inside. Settling opposite her, he smiled with a peculiarly unfamiliar look in his eye, visible in the swinging light suspended on the coach just outside its window. “You’ve just answered the question Bulldog posed, Miss Van de Klerk, about why you’ve remained unmarried so far.”