A Place in Your Heart

by Kathy Otten

  Her hand clamped over her mouth. Her eyes welled with fresh tears.

  He extended his arms. “Gracie, come.” It must have been wrong for she stood there staring at him wide-eyed. She made a loud choking sound behind her hand and fat tears spilled from her eyes.

  She rushed forward, colliding against his body. Her hands wrapped around his waist, tugging on the back of his coat as she grabbed fistfuls of wool.

  He wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on top of her head, not sure what else to do.

  Great wrenching sobs shook her body. “Why did he have to d-die?”

  Charles stiffened. Despite the warmth of the sun on his shoulders, cold washed through him.

  “I m-miss him so much. I want him back. I want what we had back.”

  He flinched. The kiss he’d thought to press against her hair vanished with his gasp of breath as the pain of her words pierced his heart.

  What had he been thinking? He would never be her William. Perhaps it was just as well he was leaving.

  Not knowing what else to do, he let her cry a bit longer then gave her back a couple of awkward pats.

  Gradually, her body stopped shaking. There were a few more sniffs then she pushed away.

  Keeping her head lowered, she slipped her hand into her pocket and withdrew a lacy white handkerchief. She blew her nose a couple of times then shoved the wadded up cloth into her pocket.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, sniffing again. “A lady should not be blowing her nose in front of a gentleman.”

  “No need to apologize, Mrs. McBride. And fear not, there has never been the hint of doubt in my mind that you are anything but a lady.”

  Glancing up, she gave him a quick smile. “Thank ye, Doctor Ellard.”

  Well, at least he’d finally done something right. She’d smiled—at him.

  “I did not mean to weep all over ye. ’Twas only that the old goat riled me temper so I could think o’ nothing but rapping him over the head with his cane.” She turned and seated herself on the chapel steps.

  “I’ve had that same thought many times.”

  She swiped her fingers across her reddened cheeks. “Ye have? Grandfather ye said?”

  “Former Pennsylvania State Senator Foster Harrison. My maternal grandfather.”

  “I’d not have thought. Ye look nothing like him.”

  “I suppose I must take after my father.”

  “Ye don’t know?”

  He shook his head. “He died when I was seven.”

  “And yer mother told ye naught about him?”

  He almost smiled at the trace of outrage in her voice—outrage for an injustice done to him. “She died as well. There was a typhus outbreak in Philadelphia in thirty-seven.”

  “I’m sorry. Do ye miss them?”

  “I never knew them. I used to wonder what it might have been like not to be alone, to grow up with parents, and maybe brothers and sisters. I want a real family someday. If I’d had one perhaps I wouldn’t be…”

  He gave one shoulder a quick shrug. “But all I had were stories my grandfather told of my mother when she was a girl. I carry her likeness. Do you want to see?”

  He slipped free the buttons of his coat and removed his watch from the small front pocket of his waistcoat. He popped open the cover, glancing at the tiny painted miniature of someone more girl than woman, with blonde hair and blue eyes, who must have been younger than Gracie at the time it was painted. He passed it down to her.

  The gold chain pooled in her palm, and she cradled the open time piece in her hands as though she were afraid she’d break it. “She’s very pretty.” Reaching out her finger, she lightly traced the image. “And ye’ve no notion o’yer father?”

  Charles shook his head. “He was alone in the world when he married my mother. Anytime I asked about him, my grandfather said he didn’t know. He did work in a bank. My grandfather gave me his watch so I’d at least have something of him.”

  Carefully Gracie closed the two halves and turned it over. She lightly traced the words engraved in the silver. “Peter,” she read aloud. “All my love, Julia.

  “’Tis a fine name, Julia.” Gracie stood then and passed him the watch. “I’d best get back. ’Tis near time for the medication passes.”

  He returned the watch to his pocket and pushed the end of the chain through the button hole of his waistcoat, then buttoned his coat. He offered his arm, surprised when she actually slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow and rested her palm on his forearm.

  “He’s not that bad,” he said as they started walking.

  She shot him a sideways glance, one auburn eyebrow quirked dubiously.

  “He’s always tried to control my life, but since I moved into my own rented rooms, I think it’s gotten worse—and so has his inclination to wield that walking stick.”

  They stepped onto the plank walkway together.

  “Maybe the army should be putting him and his cane on a horse and let him direct the battles.”

  He chuckled at the image. How easily she moved from tears to laughter. Nothing held Gracie McBride down for long. Of all the people he’d known in his life, Gracie he would truly miss.

  “Pay him no mind, Mrs. McBride. He is an old man, and lonely, and I am all he has left in this world. He does care for me in his way. When I was a boy and ill with fever, he sat by my bedside until I was well. He delayed my start of school and hired a tutor because he thought me too small for my age.

  “Then after the boys in school had beaten me for the second time”—Charles pointed to the scar on his chin and the bump on his nose—“he insisted I take boxing lessons. He longs for great-grandchildren to fill that empty house. And I’d like to give them to him.”

  “Please, Doctor Ellard, ye are making me feel sorry for the old goat.”

  “Believe me, my grandfather is the last person in the world you need to feel sorry for, but a little understanding and a bit of patience would be appreciated.”

  “Me Da always says, ’Tis better to quarrel than be lonesome. Maybe that’s his way.”

  He glanced down and met her gaze. A slow smile tugged back the corners of his mouth. “Yes, in my grandfather’s case I dare say that’s true. Don’t worry. He won’t be staying long. We’ll be going out for dinner soon. I may see him back to his hotel afterward. Don’t look for me until tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be going out as well. Sister Mary and I be—” She cut off her own words, leaving nothing but the sound of their footsteps against the planks.

  “Ah, your cake,” he said as they continued and approached Ward E.

  Sudden tension radiated from her body as though she were poised to argue.

  “I still hold to my opinion,” he said before she could open her mouth. “There will be no celebratory cakes in the ward tomorrow and the tracheotomy case remains where it is.”

  He stepped forward to open the door.

  She squared her shoulders as though preparing for battle then marched past him into the ward.

  He smiled to himself as he watched her go. President Lincoln was wrong. He shouldn’t have chosen Joseph Hooker to replaced Ambrose Burnside and lead the Army of the Potomac. He should have appointed Gracie McBride.

  Chapter Seven

  With her back ramrod straight and her head up, she almost glided down the aisle. Without a hoop beneath her skirt, he could watch the natural sway of her hips. For a moment he wished he could again see that long rope of braided hair, tracing the line of her spine. He’d wrap his hand around it and hang on, letting her lead him into her world filled with people and laughter.

  But convention and practicality held her beautiful red tresses inside that white linen cap, pinned in place at the back of her head.

  He tried to capture this picture of her with his mind, the way a photographer captures an image on a glass plate, that he might remember her during the lonely nights ahead, the same way he easily recalled pages of printed text.

  Again he question
ed why he didn’t tell her he was leaving, but down deep inside he knew the reason.

  Fear.

  Had she heard the whispers? She must have after all these weeks. What did she really think of him?

  He’d bet William McBride had never walked away from a patient, terrified, sick, and shaking like a baby. Certainly Major Carlton had never been charged with dereliction of duty or assaulting a superior officer.

  Any dreams his grandfather held with regards to Charles’ future political career were as fragile as soap bubbles in his palm, bursting into droplets with one simple word.

  Crazy.

  ****

  Silverware clinked against china and low male voices rumbled through a restaurant filled with attorneys, congressmen, and senators. Dark paneling, leather chairs, and pristine linen tablecloths filled the room. Instead of savoring the luxury, it chaffed against Charles like a wool collar at the back of his neck.

  “Grandfather, it must have crossed your mind, at least once, since I began attending lectures at Jefferson Medical College, that I have no interest in politics.”

  Patience and understanding, he’d repeated those words to himself countless times since he and his grandfather were seated.

  He set down his fork and sipped from his water glass. He’d never had what people called a hearty appetite, and years of army fare turned his stomach against the meal of crab and oysters his grandfather had ordered for each of them.

  “A medical profession is fine for now. It should keep you safe, yet create that heroic image you’ll need when you run for office. Yes, the military is an excellent foundation for a career in politics. Look what it did for Washington and Jackson. The people loved them.”

  Picking at his food, Charles half-listened while his grandfather rambled on making plans for a future that would never be.

  “I’m selling the house.”

  The abrupt announcement jerked Charles’ attention from the patterns his fork made in the clarified butter to his grandfather’s shrewd brown eyes. “Pardon me, did you say you were selling the house?”

  “Yes. It’s too big for one person. And there are too many stairs. My knees can’t endure all that climbing up and down.”

  Charles had always pictured his grandfather living in that brick row house until he died. For a moment he wondered why the news left him feeling so detached, why he didn’t feel sadder at the thought of losing such a significant part of his life.

  “I hadn’t planned on selling. I assumed you would have married by now and populated the place with children. You’re thirty-two years of age. What are you waiting for?”

  What could he say? I don’t know how to talk to women? Women aren’t interested in me? Or that the most beautiful one I know wishes I was someone else.

  “And don’t even think about bringing home that Irish wench.”

  Charles’ backbone snapped to attention. The cords of his neck stiffened. “Never,” he snapped, “disparage the good name of Mrs. McBride with that despicable term again.”

  “No!” His grandfather slammed the palm of his hand against the tabletop, rattling the silverware and drawing stares. “I saw the way you watched her.” Instead of pointing his cane, the old man leveled an accusing finger. “This woman may be an adequate hospital nurse, but she is Irish. Any alliance with her will ruin your career. I will not have it.”

  Charles’ pulse beat against his eardrums. Breathe, he told himself. None of this mattered. After Monday he’d never see Gracie McBride again. Let the old man have his plans. Once his party cronies saw Charles’ military record they’d withdraw any support. His grandfather would have no reason to interfere with Charles desire to practice medicine. If the damn war ever ended.

  “I will select a young lady for you. Do you remember Miss Adelaide Emmerson?”

  “Who?”

  “Her father is a retired senator. Her brother has a seat in the House. She is beautiful and well connected. She would be perfect for you.”

  Perfect? The sort of wife Foster Harrison would deem perfect was likely an insipid blonde with money and political connections. A wallflower who knew nothing of life, and with whom he could only expect an existence of polite indifference. Forcing himself to appear calm, Charles reached for his water glass, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his legs. He glanced at his grandfather, who seemed mollified by his grandson’s tacit agreement.

  “I’ve been going through the house, deciding what to keep, what to throw away. It’s been difficult. Your mother’s things. I wouldn’t have to sell if you were to marry and fill the house with children.”

  How many times, as a boy, had he wished his parents had lived? How different would his life have been? Would he have learned to laugh, wrestle with his brothers and tease his sisters, spent his life creating memories with people instead of stacks of books?

  “I have an old hat box for you at the hotel,” his grandfather said. “You left behind a few of your childhood toys and books. You must have attached some importance to them as you’d stored them in the bottom drawer of your wardrobe.”

  Charles had always intended to collect the hat box. However, once he returned from Europe and found a place to set up his practice, the only time he’d gone to the house was for Sunday dinners, and he was usually so furious by the time he left, he never remembered the box.

  “That old stuffed toy is in there. The one you used to carry everywhere. Screamed your head off when you didn’t have it. Glad I took the damned thing away or you’d have taken it off to school with you. Probably still be sleeping with it.”

  Bunzy.

  Those big soft ears had wiped away many tears in the middle of the night when he’d awoken terrified and struggling for breath, when the boys at school had teased and bullied him, or when he’d just wished for his mother.

  He could never remember how Bunzy’s ear had gotten ripped. He only remembered stitching it closed. He couldn’t have been more than seven, but it had been his very first surgery. Afterward, he was careful never to carry Bunzy by his ears.

  Charles crossed his knife and fork on the plate and leaned back in his chair. What little appetite he had was gone. He’d once told the stuffed rabbit all his secrets. There had never been anyone he could trust more.

  Bunzy doesn’t have a mouth. He will never tell.

  A sharp pain stabbed like a needle through Charles temple. Wincing, he pressed his fingertips against his head, rubbing hard tight circles as the pain eased.

  “Charles, are you listening to me?”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied automatically, lowering his hand to the napkin in his lap.

  The old man frowned, his disbelief evident. “I asked if you wanted to come get the box or shall I have it sent to the hospital?”

  “I won’t have the time to see you back to your hotel. I need to start my rounds soon. Just send it when you can.”

  “All right then.” His grandfather laid his napkin on the table and pushed to his feet.

  Charles stood and handed the man his walking stick. “It was good seeing you again, sir.”

  They made their way outside. Charles hailed a cab and helped the older man inside.

  “Thank you,” his grandfather murmured and settled himself on the seat. “I assume your regiment will be the same as before? Sixty-ninth Pennsylvania?”

  “Yes, sir, at Falmouth.”

  His grandfather reached into his coat and withdrew a black purse. “Take it.” He leaned through the door, extending his hand to Charles.

  Charles shook his head. “Hooker got us all our back pay. I’ll be fine.”

  His grandfather shoved the purse against Charles’ chest until he had no choice but to accept the money.

  “Nonsense,” he snapped. “You’re too thin. You’ll need funds to buy food from the suttler, and you’ll need to acquire a horse.”

  Resigned, Charles slipped the purse into his pocket, “Thank you, sir.”

  “You shall hear from me soon.”

  Charles
merely nodded, then stepped back, signaling the driver to move ahead into traffic.

  He watched the departing cab for several seconds then started back to the hospital.

  ****

  Doctor Ellard said little during Sunday morning inspection. Gracie wasn’t sure if he was being stubborn over the issue of the cake or if something else bothered him.

  When Gracie approached Sister Mary, with the idea of baking cakes, she had been sympathetic to Doctor Ellard’s position that no one soldier be singled out above the other. Conceding the man had been right, Gracie decided to compromise and suggested they bake loaves of gingerbread for all the wards. The Sisters at Our Lady of Charity thought it a marvelous idea as gingerbread was a favorite among the men. Not only did the nuns allow Gracie and Sister Mary to use their kitchen, they all pitched in to help.

  When the nuns swept into the ward that afternoon with several loaves, Robbie had no idea that he’d been the inspiration.

  With the fiddle on his shoulder, he walked up and down the ward playing requests for most of the afternoon.

  “Why don’t ye take the instrument with ye?” Gracie suggested as they prepared the evening medications.

  He shrugged. “It’d be great to have, but I got no place to keep it. ’Sides the rain and cold will ruin it, and I’d have to worry it don’t get broke.”

  “Then I’ll be keeping it safe till ye return.”

  He nodded. “Don’t fret, I’ll be back.”

  “Ye’re so tall, promise me, ye’ll keep your head down. And no foolish frontal assaults at Marye’s Heights.”

  He rolled his eyes and grinned. “I’ll be fine. Reckon I survived this long…”

  She glanced pointedly at his shoulder.

  “Hell,” he said with a shrug, “they was so many bullets flyin’ around that day, I don’t think it was even a Reb who shot me.”

  His bizarre logic baffled her. Shot was shot, and dead was dead. What did it matter where the bullet came from? She set her bottles, ointments, and lists on her tray. Then again, what did it matter if he needed to believe the lie?

  “Ye best go on and get your supper, now.”

  He moved off down the aisle as though he hadn’t a care in the world.