“She’s so beautiful,” she murmured. Tears stung her eyes.
“Yes.” He smoothed a long, slim forefinger against the pink-and-white skin of the baby’s cheek. “Her name is Rosemarie.”
“Rosemarie,” she breathed. After their mother.
“Rosemarie... Winifred,” he added after a slight hesitation.
Winifred’s tears spilled over. “Cissy named her after me? Really?”
“Of course,” the doctor said. “I would not lie when it comes to my daughter. It was Celeste’s last wish.”
Oh, God. Oh, Cissy. Cissy. For a moment she could not speak.
“Would you like to hold your niece?” He reached into the bassinet, lifted out the pink bundle and offered the baby to her.
“Oh, no. I mean, yes, I would. But—but I really don’t know how to—I mean, I know very little about handling babies.”
The doctor gave her a long look, then laid Rosemarie into her arms. “You can learn.”
Winifred looked down into the blue-green eyes. “Can she really see me?”
“Probably not, at least not clearly. But if you talk to her, she will hear your voice.”
“Oh.” How did one talk to a baby? All at once she felt awkward and out of place and ignorant of the most basic things of life. All she knew about was music and teaching.
“Go on,” he urged in a quiet voice. “Try it.”
Winifred inhaled and exhaled twice, working up her courage. She felt as fluttery as on the opening night of a concert, excited and terrified and thrilled at the same time.
“H-hello, Rosemarie. My, you are so beautiful. You look like Cissy, did you know that?”
“Cissy?” the doctor murmured.
“Celeste. I call—called her Cissy. She called me Freddie.”
“That I would never have guessed. She always referred to you as Winifred.”
A tiny fist waved toward Winifred’s hand. She extended her forefinger and the baby latched onto it. “Oh, just look,” she whispered.
“She likes fingers,” the doctor said, a hint of a smile in his voice. “Thumbs, especially.”
Winifred could not speak. The small hand, the knuckles wrinkled and rosy, the tiny fingernails so perfect, kept its grip on Winifred’s finger. Her senses swirled again; she must still be dizzy from the altitude.
“Shall I take her?” the doctor asked.
“No, I—Could we wait until she releases my finger?”
He laughed softly and nodded, watching her.
“Rosemarie,” she breathed. “I am your aunt Fred—your aunt Winifred. And you are my only, most precious, most beautiful niece.”
The little mouth opened and a soft cry came out.
“She’s hungry,” the doctor said. He walked to the door and opened it. “Sam?”
In three heartbeats, the houseboy appeared, a glass bottle of milk in one hand and a towel in the other. Expertly he lifted the baby out of Winifred’s arms and cradled her in his own. Then he began walking up and down in front of the curtained window, crooning something in a strange language while Rosemarie gulped milk through the rubber nipple.
“Does he—Sam—have children of his own?” Winifred asked quietly.
“Sam? Sam is not married. Not many Chinese women are admitted into this country. And an American woman would not be acceptable. The Chinese are proud that way, they wish to preserve their heritage.”
Winifred’s eyes rested on the Chinese man’s slim form. “How sad that must be.”
The doctor did not answer. Instead, he gestured her into the hallway and quietly closed the door. “The guest bedroom is next door. Sam has already brought up your travel case.”
He opened another door into an airy room with pretty yellow curtains and a crocheted yellow coverlet on the bed.
“Would you like to rest awhile? Sam will call you when supper is ready.”
“Yes, I suppose I should. I feel quite shaky after my travels.” After meeting Rosemarie, she amended. That had been the biggest shock of her life. Well, perhaps the second biggest. The biggest surprise had been when Cissy had eloped with Dr. Nathaniel Dougherty and ruined everything.
* * *
That evening, Winifred entered the dining room determined to discuss her plan with Dr. Dougherty. Instead, she found herself alone at the huge walnut table. Sam had tapped on her bedroom door twenty minutes earlier to announce supper, and she had roused herself from an exhausted sleep, rebraided her hair and donned her travel skirt and a fresh shirtwaist. As she descended the staircase she rehearsed what she had come to say.
She acknowledged a distinct nervous flutter in the pit of her stomach. She also admitted she felt torn between dislike and an unexpected attraction to the tall, square-jawed physician. She resented the man. And feared him. Would he stand in her way when she confessed her purpose?
Sam stepped into the dining room. “Missy like glass of wine?”
“Not now, thank you. I will wait for the doctor.”
“Doctor not come,” Sam replied.
“Oh? Why not?”
“Go to hospital. Wife of sheriff having twins.” He grinned at her, revealing straight white teeth and an unexpected dimple in one cheek.
Disappointment swept over her. She had worked up her courage to speak with him; now the matter would have to wait.
“You like fish, missy? Catch fresh from river and cook quick.” Sam waited, his hands folded together at the waist of his blue knee-length tunic. “Or I cook chicken, very nice fat hen.”
Winifred nodded. “Chicken, please.” She wasn’t the least bit hungry. In fact, her head still ached, but she knew she must eat to keep up her resolve. She could not argue her case on an empty stomach.
“I go cook chicken.” The houseboy bobbed his head and turned away.
“Sam, wait. When do you expect the doctor?”
“Not know. Sometimes baby take long time.”
“What about Rosemarie?”
“Sam take good care of baby. Feed, rock, change and more feed.” He grinned again. “I good mother.”
Winifred bit her lip. No one but a real mother was a good mother, she thought. She and Cissy had known that from the time her sister was barely out of diapers. That was why—never mind. Her head hurt too much to think about it now.
After her meal of succulent chicken breast and wonderfully flavored green peas and rice, she retired to her room, listening for the doctor’s step in the hallway. Sam brought up hot tea for her headache, and the last thing she remembered before falling asleep was his queer crooning from the next room as he walked up and down with the baby.
The next morning when she came down for breakfast, the doctor was already seated at the table.
“Good morning,” she offered. She slid onto her chair, then glanced at the man sitting opposite her. His face was chalk-white with fatigue. Dark stubble masked the lower part of his chin and dark circles shadowed the skin beneath his eyes. His once-white shirt was rumpled and open at the neck, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He gazed at her with unfocused gray eyes as Sam bustled in with a pot of coffee. The doctor stirred three spoons of sugar into his cup while the houseboy poured Winifred’s cup full. She lifted the brew to her lips. Now. I must speak to him now.
But he looked so completely spent she hesitated. He was in no state to hear her out.
Sam tapped the doctor’s shoulder. “Boss want eggs now?”
He dropped his head into a loose-necked nod.
“Missy?”
Winifred stared at the man across the table from her. It was obvious he was only half-awake.
“Missy, you like eggs?”
“What? Oh, yes, thank you.” She turned toward the Chinese man for an instant, then swung her gaze back to the doct
or. His head was tipped back against the high ladder-back chair, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and even. Good Lord, the man was sound asleep!
“Up all night,” Sam murmured. “Babies come slow.” He moved the coffee cup away from the doctor’s hand and tiptoed into the kitchen.
Winifred stared at Nathaniel Dougherty. She could not tell him what she had come all the way from St. Louis to say. Not while he was this tired.
In a few moments, Sam slid a plate of scrambled eggs in front of her, motioned for her to eat, then laid one long finger across his lips to signal silence. She nodded, picked up her fork and quietly devoured the perfectly cooked eggs.
She studied the plate of toast at her elbow and lifted a slice to her mouth but could not bring herself to take a single bite. The crunching sound might wake him.
He slept on, his breathing guttural, his chest rising and falling. Winifred drank her coffee in silence and watched him. Her throat felt tight each time she swallowed.
A faint wail floated from the floor above and suddenly the doctor jerked awake and bolted for the stairway.
Sam shot into the dining room and shook his head at the empty chair. “I feed baby. Doctor must sleep.” On silent black slippers he padded up the stairs after the doctor.
Winifred couldn’t help smiling at the houseboy’s retreating back. Sam was obviously devoted to Dr. Dougherty. Perhaps he had also been devoted to Cissy. As for the doctor...
Well, she had to admit she had been prepared not to like Nathaniel Dougherty. But since breakfast, a tiny niggle of doubt had lodged in her brain.
“Missy like read book?”
Sam’s voice brought her bolt upright, and her coffee cup clanked onto the saucer.
The houseboy’s black eyes snapped with delight. “Baby sleep. Doctor sleep. Maybe you read book? We have library.”
“Why, yes.” She needed something to do with herself until she could speak with Rosemarie’s father. A book was just the answer.
“You come see book room,” Sam invited. “Fine books. You come. Bring coffee.”
Winifred followed him through the wide entry hall and past a set of sliding pocket doors into a large parlor lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Sam swept one arm in an expansive circle. “Here many fine books. You choose.”
But she had spied the dark cherrywood grand piano in the corner and her breath stopped. Cissy’s piano! She had forgotten how beautiful the instrument was, the wood polished to a gleaming burgundy color, the upholstered bench carved to match the ornate piano legs. It looked untouched, as if Cissy had just finished playing and left the room only a moment before. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Doctor’s favorite books here, lady’s books there.” Sam pointed to the shelf behind the piano.
Cissy’s music books. Mostly familiar worn volumes—Brahms. Mozart. Beethoven. The corners of some pages were turned down. The ache in her heart flared into rage. How could she? How had she dared?
Winifred set the cup and saucer on a side table and began to thumb through the Brahms as Sam glided away. Yes, the waltzes, the intermezzos they both loved, all arranged for four hands.
Abruptly she slapped the volume shut. Oh, Cissy. Cissy.
She couldn’t look at the music any longer. Instead she moved to the doctor’s book collection and ran her hand over the leather-bound volumes. She selected a volume of Wordsworth. Next to it, Milton’s Paradise Lost caught her eye. “How prophetic,” she murmured. A stab of bitterness knifed through her.
We had it all, Cissy, everything we had dreamed of. And you threw it away for this man. Why?
She fled into the hallway. “Sam?” she called. “I am going out for a walk.”
She heard no answer, but it didn’t matter. She opened the front door and the heat hit her like a fist. Just as she was about to give up the idea, Sam appeared with a wide-brimmed straw hat in one hand. Cissy’s hat. A wide pink ribbon banded the crown, and her heart caught. Winifred never wore pink. The Chinese man offered it without a word.
She tied it beneath her chin and stepped out onto the porch, then resolutely marched down the front steps, past the hospital and on down the tree-lined street toward town.
It wasn’t much of a main street. A single mercantile with bushel baskets of apples and squash out in front; the Smoke River sheriff’s office; a scruffy-looking barber shop; Uncle Charlie’s bakery, with a large, many-paned window through which she glimpsed a glass case of cakes and cookies.
Next door to the bakery hung a sign with large block letters printed in royal blue: Verena Forester, Dressmaker. A handsome challis morning dress was displayed in the window, and she hesitated. But no. She did not plan to be here long enough to warrant adding to her wardrobe.
By the time she reached the Smoke River Hotel, she was wilting and dizzy from the heat. A young man with a silver badge on his plaid shirt glanced at her as she passed, then doubled back and fell into step beside her.
“You all right, ma’am? Look kinda, well, peaked. I thought maybe you’d—”
“I am quite all right. Just a bit... Is it always this hot here in the summer?”
“Usually much worse. Oh, ’scuse me, ma’am.” He tipped his hat. “I’m Sandy Boggs, the deputy sheriff. Sheriff’s at the hospital with his wife. Had twins this morning. Kin I escort you some place?”
She nodded. “A place with cold lemonade, perhaps?”
“That’d be right here, ma’am. Restaurant’s next to the hotel.” He tipped his hat again and strode off down the street.
Inside the restaurant Winifred sank down at a table and fanned herself with Cissy’s hat. Without even asking, the waitress brought a large glass of cold water and plunked it at her elbow.
“Must be from somewheres else, I’d guess,” the plump woman said. “Otherwise you’d be used to it. The heat, I mean.”
“St. Louis,” Winifred volunteered. “Would you have any lemonade?”
“Got gallons of it, ma’am. ’Spect we’ll need to make another batch or two before noon. Never been this hot in August.” The woman whipped a pad and pencil from her checked apron pocket. “You want anything else?”
Oh, yes. She wanted a great deal. “No, thank you. Wait! Where is the cemetery?”
“The graveyard, ya mean? Top of the hill.” She gestured a thick arm in the opposite direction from the doctor’s house.
Winifred drank two glasses of excellent cold lemonade, then donned her hat and started up the other hill. Thank goodness she hadn’t laced her corset tight this morning. She didn’t fancy fainting twice in Dr. Dougherty’s entrance hall.
At the top of the rise she spied a neatly fenced area with leafy green trees and chiseled headstones. A spreading oak shaded the area, and she sank down on the thick grass beneath it to catch her breath.
At the sight of the mound of fresh dirt indicating a recent burial, she closed her eyes tight and began to cry. She thought she would be over these bouts of weeping she’d fought this past month; perhaps she would never get over Cissy’s death.
Maybe not, but now there was Rosemarie. And, she acknowledged, swiping tears off her cheeks, Rosemarie was the reason she had come.
Chapter Three
A handful of yellow roses lay on top of Cissy’s grave. Winifred’s heart squeezed at the sight. Dr. Dougherty must have paid an early morning visit after delivering the sheriff’s twins. She swallowed a hiccupped sob. Even in death, her sister was fortunate.
She still resented Nathaniel Dougherty’s sweeping Cissy off to this rough, uncivilized place, but a small part of her ached at the man’s obvious sorrow. She knew how devastating it was to lose someone you loved; it must be doubly so if you had pledged to share your life with that person.
She sank down beside the grave site and struggled to compose her thoughts. You knew I would come, didn�
��t you, Cissy? Was your husband so crushed by your loss that he could not tell me of your death until after the funeral?
She yanked up shoots of the green grass poking up from the earth beside her and crushed them in her palm. I would have come, Cissy. You know I would.
She removed the straw hat and bowed her head. The angle of the sun shifted and she felt its rays warm her shoulders and then burn slowly through the light muslin shirtwaist she wore. She did not care. She rolled the sleeves up to her elbows and stayed where she was beside her sister’s grave.
She tried to stop feeling, stop thinking. Instead, she steadily shredded the grass under her hand and stared at those yellow roses. They were beginning to wilt in the sunshine.
Suddenly a chill swept through her. How strange loss could be. When Mama was killed, Papa straightened his shoulders and went back to his desk at the bank. He had provided for Cissy and herself, sent them to private schools and later to the music conservatory. They had maids and cooks and tutors, but the hole in their hearts yawned like a chasm. Papa bore it best. He never wept, as she and Cissy had.
Remembering those black days, she turned her face up to the sun and lost track of time.
* * *
“Ah, glad you back, missy. Doctor go see boy who have chicken spots.”
“You mean chicken pox?”
“Ah. ‘Pox,’” he pronounced carefully. “Learn new English word. Make stew for your supper. Tonight I play fan-tan with friend Ming Cha. You stay here with baby?”
“Me? But I know noth—”
“Not hard, missy. I show.”
Sam demonstrated how to heat the nippled bottle of milk and sprinkle some on her wrist to check the temperature, and then, with a wide grin that showed his elusive dimple, he was gone.
Oh, well. How hard could it be to feed a month-old baby?
Besides, she must learn these things if she wanted to bring her plan to fruition.
She dawdled over her stew and the fluffy dumpling Sam had added, listening for Rosemarie’s hungry cry from upstairs and praying desperately for the doctor’s return.
Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 Page 2
