A Love So True

by Melissa Jagears

  “I just wish I hadn’t gotten you into this mess, but at least you’re able to go home. But please call for the doctor if you feel the least bit ill.”

  He frowned and looked over at the doctor. “But if you’ll be coming here to check on Scott, can’t you see me then?”

  The doctor shrugged.

  “Oh no, you shouldn’t stay.” Evelyn’s shaky voice was underlined with determination.

  Would she always insist he leave whenever he spent more than a minute with her? “You’ll need help with Scott.”

  “But Mr. Hargrove can—”

  David took her arm. “There are some things”—he lowered his voice and bent his head closer as the other two men moved toward the hallway—“that a woman who’s not related to a boy isn’t going to be able to assist with. Mr. Hargrove isn’t strong enough to be able to help in that regard.”

  She looked away, still wringing her hands. “This isn’t good.”

  How would extra help not be good? “What are you worried about? Nobody is forcing me to stay here—I’m choosing to.”

  “I wanted Scott out of the district so I could care for him without anyone starting rumors, and now if you . . .”

  She was worried about being in his company? A woman who walked the red-light district alone with her chin held high? “Mr. Hargrove’s here. He’s sufficient oversight. But if you’re worried, you could go home and let me take care of him.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  He wouldn’t insist, since he’d be at a complete loss to know how to tend Scott all on his own. “Then I’ll be here to relieve you when necessary and for the doctor to observe.”

  And they ought to return to Scott’s room to hear what the doctor said. He offered her his arm. “Scott needs us.”

  She stared at his arm as if taking it meant committing herself to something she’d sworn off for eternity, so he dropped his arm and placed his hand against her upper back, holding out his other arm to encourage her to lead them down the hall.

  She looked at him for a second, words of protest swallowed up in her eyes, but then marched forward without saying anything.

  In the room, Evelyn squeezed inside, but he remained in the doorway as the doctor assessed his patient. He was sitting on the bedside beside Scott, mostly shaking his head and muttering to himself as he checked the boy’s condition.

  After a few moments, the doctor stood and ran a hand through his already-tousled blond hair. “I wish you hadn’t moved him, since now we’ve got to sanitize this place too. But he’s strong enough to survive another trip. I’ll take him to where my nurse is caring for the man who likely gave them the smallpox. It’d be best—”

  “Oh no. I . . .” Evelyn put a hand to her mouth. “I wanted to take care of him.”

  The doctor frowned at the interruption. “It’s really not necessary. I’ve a nurse capable of handling this.”

  Did he truly intend to place the boy with the john who’d taken advantage of his mother and caused her demise? Whether she’d agreed to the man’s attentions or not, putting Scott in the same room didn’t sit well. David pushed off the doorjamb. “Can he not stay here? Mr. Hargrove is willing, and we have to clean and sanitize the room already. Plus I’m to be watched for fever, correct?”

  The doctor turned to David. “Yes, but there isn’t any reason to disrupt your lives for the likes of him. Neither of you requires isolation, though I shall inoculate you again for good measure. Do you live alone?”

  “I do. Well, I live in Mrs. Vannoster’s boardinghouse, but I have a room of my own.”

  “She won’t want to assume responsibility for watching you. I’d like to see you at least twice a day for the next eighteen days. If you feel the least bit ill, even if nothing more than a cold, I want to see you immediately.”

  “What if someone else could observe me?”

  The man’s brows puckered. “That would be fine, if you could arrange that.”

  “I’d love to have the company.” Mr. Hargrove cleared his throat. “All of them, even the boy—it’s no hardship. And with the way these two are concerned for him, I’d guess the boy would rather have their care.”

  The doctor huffed and snapped his medical bag closed. “If that’s what you want. You must all give yourself a good scrub every time you leave this room. Do not touch anything but the sink until you’ve washed up, and then wash the sink. When he’s healed, burn everything soft he’s touched. I’ll give you something to disinfect the other surfaces. As for you, Mr. Kingsman . . .” He squished past Mr. Hargrove and indicated he wanted to follow David out.

  David turned and started for the kitchen, assuming the man wanted to use the sink.

  The doctor scuffled behind him. “If I were you, I’d take the inoculation and leave this mess behind.” He set his bag on the sink’s ledge and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

  “And if I choose to stay?”

  “I’ve got three cases of smallpox on my hands. I don’t want the public panicking because you’re wandering in and out.”

  “Truly . . .”

  David turned to find Evelyn standing in the kitchen doorway.

  She stepped into the kitchen. “I can manage. Don’t trouble yourself.”

  Why was she insistent on doing this alone? Perhaps if she knew it would be advantageous for him, she’d stop fretting. “Truth be told, I could use the quiet time to think and pray over the business plans I’m struggling with. I might as well help you at the same time.”

  When the doctor stepped back from the sink to allow David to wash, Evelyn headed back to the sickroom before he even had the chance to second-guess himself.

  The doctor wiped his bag. “My office is directly across First Street from the hospital. The green-and-white building. I expect you there within the half hour. Wash up before you leave.”

  The front door banged shut a few seconds later.

  David washed again, and after drying his hands, he went to find Mr. Hargrove. The old man was sitting in a rocker in his parlor, a foot elevated on a hassock.

  “Are you all right with my staying?”

  “I have plenty of room and wasn’t lying about liking company. It’s a big house to rattle around in alone.”

  He had to decide now.

  He wasn’t really needed at the glass factory. He’d already put his plans into place, and they were moving along as expected. “Since this is my last time out, why don’t you make me a list of things to get from the store so we can minimize the risk of contaminating more of your property than necessary? If the doctor can go about his business, surely I can hand the mercantile owner a note for supplies we’d like delivered.”

  “Sheets and blankets aren’t an issue. But I could use some groceries while we’re cooped up.” He grabbed his cane and dropped his foot onto the floor. “I suppose I should check the pantry and make a list.”

  David held out his palm to stop him from struggling to get up. “If I make the list, will you let me cook?”

  The man’s fuzzy white eyebrows arched high. “You want to cook?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He looked at him for a second before resituating himself back into his chair. “You any good or just trying to help?”

  “My cooking’s better than decent, if I say so myself.”

  “How are you with beefsteak?”

  “I like how you think, sir. Steak it is.”

  Mr. Hargrove gave him a nod, then closed his eyes as if now was as good a time as any to turn in for the day.

  David rubbed his hands together. Though a quarantine couldn’t possibly be considered enjoyable, playing around in the kitchen might make things more endurable.

  And perhaps he could coax a smile onto Evelyn’s face with a well-seasoned steak smothered in mushrooms and onions. Or maybe a pudding of some sort to sweeten her up a little.

  At least he’d have fun trying.

  11

  With dark shadows of evening filling every corner, David leaned his head agains
t the doorjamb of Scott’s sickroom, staying quiet so as not to disturb Evelyn. She’d worked tirelessly for two days to keep the moaning boy comfortable. Thankfully his restless thrashing had ceased a few hours ago.

  However, his flushed face, pinched mouth, and pox-ridden skin made him look anything but comfortable.

  The long hours of attempting to comfort Scott and cool his skin were taking a toll on Evelyn. She hadn’t changed her dress since they’d been in quarantine, probably to keep from burning more of her wardrobe than necessary. Her hair could no longer be considered up, since more tendrils escaped the coil at the nape of her neck than remained in it. The dark smudges under her eyes and the strain about her mouth seemed to have aged her overnight, yet he couldn’t do anything but stare at her, mess that she was. The devotion, the concern, and the love she possessed for this poor orphan was nearly palpable, achingly so.

  And there was this unexplainable pinch in his chest as he worried over her while she worried over Scott. He wanted her to sit back and breathe and rest. Yet she refused to let anyone assume Scott’s care, no matter how often he or Mr. Hargrove offered, as if closing her eyes for one second would negatively affect Scott’s fate. She’d only left the room to see to her own personal needs whenever he booted her out to help Scott with his.

  The dinner plate he’d brought in hours earlier appeared untouched.

  That a man’s heart could be won through his stomach was apparently true. Mr. Hargrove had practically declared them best chums after taking a bite of the steak he’d carefully cooked to perfection. But evidently the expression held no truth for women.

  The grandfather clock in the parlor chimed eleven. He’d offered to take tonight’s shift when he’d brought in dinner, but she’d ignored his suggestion by reminding him to have Mr. Hargrove check his temperature.

  From her position beside the bed, she exchanged the rag she’d draped across Scott’s neck with a cooler one. Scott moaned in complaint.

  David sighed. At least she let him bring her cold water every hour without a fuss.

  She had to know she wasn’t going to be much good to Scott if she kept this up. He took a step into the room. “I know you stayed up with him all night last night, but you can’t do it again.”

  She looked over her shoulder at him. “I can.” But the droop of her eyelids told a different story.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re extremely stubborn?”

  Almost—a smile almost glimmered on those lips, but her sleep deprivation snagged it away before he got to see it bloom.

  He walked farther into the small room, stopping at the footboard. “The last time he settled into a deep sleep like this, I didn’t hear a peep out of him for nearly three hours. Go take a quick nap, at least. I can switch out rags.”

  She shook her head as she wrung another cloth. “I’m not going to mess up another of Mr. Hargrove’s bedrooms.”

  “You could sleep in the room I slept in next door.”

  She only shook her head again and returned to swabbing the boy’s face.

  He wanted to go over, pull her up, and drag her out so she could get the rest she needed. But the more he insisted, the more she dug in her heels. He’d never dealt with a mule before, but he couldn’t imagine a creature more stubborn than Evelyn.

  But for some reason, he admired her for it. What if Father knew he would never bend to his wishes, no matter what Father said or did?

  David glanced at the plate he’d brought for her supper, frowning again at how little she’d eaten. What would he be doing with his life right now if he had an ounce of her tenacity? Would he have pursued cooking and owning an eatery? Would such a venture have succeeded with sheer determination?

  Or would capturing one dream only make him long to grasp another?

  He lowered himself onto the corner of Scott’s mattress. The boy, even in sleep, looked beyond miserable. “Is there a reason you can’t leave him?”

  Water dripped in the basin as she wrung out a rag. She changed out another set of cloths, but then stopped and simply stared at the boy’s face.

  Seconds ticked by, but he held his peace, hoping she wouldn’t hold hers much longer.

  She pushed the rag slipping off Scott’s forehead back up against his hairline, then twirled her finger in the cowlick that formed a swirl above the boy’s left temple. “He was the first child who seemed to be at all changed by our ministry. He’d gotten so excited about Jesus and loved his momma so much . . . if I’d gotten to his house sooner, she might not have . . .”

  . . . killed herself. The unspoken end of her sentence hung heavy in the room. Yesterday, Evelyn had crumpled when the doctor told them the coroner agreed that Scott’s mother hadn’t died of smallpox, but rather from consuming the contents of the various empty bottles on her bedside table.

  He pictured the woman he’d seen for only a few minutes, swathed in yards of vibrant purple, with rosy cheeks framed by dark brunette curls.

  What if he hadn’t interrupted their luncheon and Amy had heard Evelyn’s story about God providing a way for the believing harlot to become part of the legacy of Christ?

  For a moment, the weight of his actions squeezed the breath from his lungs. But he couldn’t have known what would happen, and neither could have Evelyn. “People’s choices are their own to answer for. You’re not at fault for her death or any other decision she made. Nor will you be responsible for whatever happens to this boy if you step away for a spell and take care of yourself.”

  She busied herself dabbing the perspiration off Scott’s face. A few seconds later, she turned away to start dipping rags again, but not before he saw a tear trickle down her cheek.

  How could he assure her that what he said was true? She was so guarded. Maybe if he opened himself up she’d feel more inclined to trust him.

  A tic in his cheek pulled at his lips at the thought of exposing his faults just to get her to take a silly nap . . . and yet what if someone finally knew the truth? He had a few friends back home, but he’d never really shared his problems with them. He was more privileged, so he’d felt wrong to complain about his life.

  He scrutinized Scott to make certain the boy was asleep. “There’ve been countless times I wanted to run away from my life. I’ve never wanted to kill myself, but I understand how problems can tempt someone to leave it all behind, since I’ve essentially just run off to avoid some of my own problems. But no matter what anyone does to me, I’m still responsible for my own actions.” He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He ought to write Father and tell him what was happening. It was his father’s property he was gambling with, after all.

  Evelyn sniffed. “And what did you run away from?”

  So many things. “Basically a controlling father and an unwanted bride.”

  “A bride?” Her face turned hard. “You’re a runaway groom? A jilter?”

  He leaned backward, distancing himself from her glare. She looked at him as though jilter was synonymous with despicable. “More like a runaway son-in-law. Marianne’s as disinterested in marrying me as I am her, but our folks want us married. They’ve got their reasons—logical ones—but both of us wish they’d stop pushing.”

  “So why don’t you just tell them no?”

  “Not all of us excel at digging in our heels.” He gave her a small smile, but she only turned away to tuck Scott’s blister-covered arm back under his blanket. “Anyway, I’m here in Teaville to get away from my father pushing Marianne at me—or rather, my father in general.”

  “I’m sorry to hear you and your father don’t get along.” Evelyn flipped the rag over on Scott’s forehead. “What about your mother?”

  “She died having me.”

  Her hands stilled, and she turned to look at him, holding his gaze longer than she normally did. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” He looked down, not wanting to see pity in her eyes. “I had a wonderful nanny-turned-governess, Mrs. Rice, who filled that mother-sized hole even if she was old
enough to be my grandmother.”

  She looked at him for a second before readjusting Scott’s last rag. “My parents are old enough to be my grandparents.” She traced the frayed quilt’s stitches. “I’m always sorry to hear about people not getting along with their parents. I don’t know how I’d live without mine.”

  Finally, some real talking. Perhaps he would yet convince her that sleeping wasn’t such a terrible thing to do. “Are your parents supportive of . . . how you’re living your life?”

  She shrugged. “They’d prefer me to marry and give them grandchildren, but they’re adjusting to how life is going for me.”

  “I wish my father only wanted grandchildren, but marriage is just another way to add to the Kingsman coffers. In his eyes, it’s practically a sin not to connect two affluent families and hoard the wealth. What about you? Do your parents push you toward eligible bachelors, or are you lucky enough to be left alone in that respect?”

  Her eyebrows scrunched, and her mouth pinched.

  What had he said wrong?

  “I think I’m done with this conversation, Mr. Kingsman.” She snatched a rag off Scott’s neck and dipped it into the cool water, though she surely didn’t need to do that again already.

  He ground the palm of his hand into one of his eyes, then stood. Directing the conversation toward something other than Scott’s care had gotten him back to nowhere. “If you aren’t going to let me take over, can I at least bring you something? Water, tea, a book?”

  “You should stop being so nice to me.”

  He blinked at her. Stop being nice? How should he respond to that? He racked his brain for a way to answer without the use of a frustrated growl. “All right, then, I’ll do as you wish and leave you alone.” He took her plate and made his way to the kitchen without waiting for a response.

  Seemed a friendship with her was less likely than he’d thought.

  He’d had a lifetime to adjust to Father deriding him no matter what he said or did, so why did it bother him that a woman he barely knew seemed as averse to trusting him as Father?