Marjorie gaped at him and her mouth dropped open. Isabel didn’t go that far, but she didn’t quite know what to make of Dr. Abernathy. Loretta smacked him on the arm and giggled, indicating to Isabel that the two were long-time friends, at the very least. Could they be lovers? Scrutinizing the pair, she decided they acted more like brother and sister. Not that you could really tell about such things.
Pretending to be severely wounded by Loretta’s light smack, Dr. Abernathy staggered across the room, clutching his arm, until he seemed to recall that he held something in his hand and stopped, straightening up. “Oh, I forgot. Who wants this . . . this . . .” He squinted at the colorful bottle he held. “Um, I’m not rightly sure what it is, but I think it’s a soothing lotion intended to cure chapped hands or whatever else ails you. Probably from an old Chinese recipe, smuggled into this country by an old Chinese medicine woman.” He twinkled at Marjorie and Isabel. “Are there Chinese medicine women?”
“How in the world would we know?” Marjorie asked shortly, then her face bloomed crimson when Dr. Abernathy grinned directly at her.
“Don’t badger my friends, you beastly man.” Loretta snatched the bottle from Dr. Abernathy’s hand, opened it up, and sniffed. “Oh, it smells divine. You took it in payment for your medical services, I presume.” She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “If you don’t start charging your patients, you’re going to go broke, you know.”
“Pooh. I have enough money to run six hospitals, let alone my little clinic.”
How nice, Isabel thought, wondering where all these rich people had been earlier in her life. Then she wondered if she might have a chance with Dr. Abernathy, who was rich enough to operate six hospitals. But no. He was probably married with seventeen children. Besides, he seemed to be Loretta’s property.
Anyway, she needed a man like she needed a second head. She was better off alone. Or perhaps with Somerset FitzRoy.
Her last thought brought her to her senses, and she chided herself as an idiot.
“Aha!” Somerset said suddenly. “I thought your name was familiar. You’re the Dr. Jason Abernathy who’s trying to get them to revoke the Chinese Exclusion Acts, aren’t you?”
Dr. Abernathy bowed again, this time at Somerset. “I have that distinction.” He straightened abruptly. “If you can call it that.”
“And you run the clinic on Sacramento and Grant. Of course.” Somerset strode up to the doctor and held out his hand. “You are performing a valuable service to the community, Dr. Abernathy. I salute you.”
Isabel watched all this with growing interest. If Somerset liked the doctor, he must be a good man and not a bounder.
Instantly, she asked herself how she’d come to that conclusion. For all Isabel knew, Somerset himself had performed only one good deed in his entire life by saving herself and Eunice. Granted, that was a highly exceptional thing to have done, but it might have been an anomaly.
“But to whom should I give this delightful . . . uh . . . .” He sniffed the bottle’s contents. “Well, whatever it is, who wants it?”
“I believe,” said Loretta, “that Miss Eunice would benefit from a rare Chinese lotion.”
“I believe you’re right, Miss Linden. For once.”
She smacked him again, grinned, and went to Eunice, who was staring at the adults’ antics as if she were watching a rare and unusual dramatic performance. Her mouth fell open when Dr. Abernathy bowed over her and held out the bottle. “For you, my dear. Wear it in good health.”
“Thank you, sir,” she whispered. She sniffed the bottle’s contents, as had Dr. Abernathy and Loretta. “Oh, my, it smells heavenly.” Her glowing smile made her mother’s heart leap.
Isabel decided that Dr. Abernathy was a good man, even if he was a bounder. Anyone who could make her daughter happy was all right with her.
Mrs. Brandeis entered the room, bearing a tray laden with tea things, followed by Molly with another tray, this one piled with sandwiches, and Somerset hurried to assist them. They set both trays on the table next to Marjorie’s medicinal pot, and Loretta began pouring.
“Now sit yourself down, Doctor,” she commanded. “And you, too, Mr. FitzRoy. Perhaps you can help us, Jason.”
“Gladly.” Dr. Abernathy, first snatching a sandwich from the top of the pile, plopped down on the sofa next to Marjorie, who bounced once and then scooted over to the other end, as far away from him as she could get. He grinned at her discomfiture. Isabel decided she did like the man, and that he definitely wasn’t a bounder.
Somerset took the chair next to the one Isabel occupied. They smiled at each other, and Isabel felt her heart get warm and her cheeks get hot, which was ridiculous for a woman of her age and with her experiences, not to mention a daughter. She was too old to blush and to get heart-warming palpitations. She pretended she wasn’t aware of Somerset’s presence so close to her and watched Loretta as if riveted.
“As you know,” said Loretta, sitting in a chair facing the sofa and, as usual, not noticing that Marjorie was embarrassed and Isabel blushing furiously, “Miss MacTavish, Mrs. Golightly, Eunice, Mr. FitzRoy and I were all aboard the Titanic. I wrote you about it.”
“Made my blood run cold,” agreed Dr. Abernathy with an eloquently theatrical shudder. Marjorie squinted at him nervously. Isabel thought he was darling.
“Now,” continued Loretta, “since Mrs. Golightly and Miss MacTavish have decided to remain in the United States, they both need employment. Miss MacTavish has agreed to be my secretary.”
“Poor lady!” the doctor exclaimed. “Brace yourself, Miss MacTavish. Miss Linden is brutal with the whip.”
“Och, now, really!” said Marjorie.
Loretta threw a small embroidered cushion at him. He caught it and threw it back, and both he and Loretta burst out laughing. Isabel stared, enthralled. She’d never seen horseplay like this before. It charmed her. A glance at her daughter showed her that Eunice, too, was spellbound and enjoying the show. So was Somerset. His delighted smile made Isabel’s heart turn a back flip and pitter-patter in her chest. Stupid heart. Only Marjorie seemed perturbed by the jolly goings-on. No surprise there. A remarkably conventional woman, Marjorie MacTavish.
“To return to what’s important,” Loretta said loudly, “we need to secure employment for Isabel. She has to support herself and Eunice now. Of course, they will both remain here for as long as they like.” She smiled at Isabel and Eunice, both of whom smiled back, Eunice with unmitigated pleasure, Isabel with appreciation mingled with uneasiness.
“Ah.” Dr. Abernathy turned his twinkly blue eyes upon Isabel. “What sort of work are you accustomed to do, Mrs. Golightly?”
Chapter Six
He would have to ask, wouldn’t he? Embarrassed by her lack of marketable skills, Isabel nevertheless spoke up. She had nothing to be ashamed of, after all. She’d never done anything the least bit underhanded or illegal, and if char work wasn’t elegant, it was paid employment, and she’d done it well.
“I used to do char work in Upper Poppleton.” Encountering a blank stare from the doctor, she recalled their lack of a common language and expounded. “I cleaned houses.”
“Ah.” The edges of his mouth turned down a bit.
Isabel’s heart fell. She was so bloody useless. Blooming useless.
“But Isabel is capable of so much more. Why, she’s got a real knack with words, and she’s a whiz at being a mother.” Loretta smiled brightly at Isabel, who still felt lower than dirt. Few people cared if a woman could read and write, and still fewer cared if a woman was a good mother.
“She’s got other skills, too. Important skills that could and should be put to use.”
This unexpected commendation was plunked into the conversation by Somerset FitzRoy. It silenced the doctor and Isabel. Everyone turned to look at him, Loretta and Dr. Abernathy with interest, Marjorie with disbelief, Isabel with extreme misgiving. She knew herself to be talentless. Unless Somerset was going to make something up out of whole cloth, whic
h would be nice but unlike the person she believed him to be, she couldn’t understand why he’d spoken thus.
He went on, “Mrs. Golightly is quite gifted at handling ill people. Witness Miss MacTavish here.” He gestured at Marjorie, who looked as if she wanted to crawl under the sofa cushions. “With only a little training, she’d make a superior nurse. She certainly has a way with people who are under the weather.” Marjorie, after clearing her throat and twining her fingers together nervously for a second or two, nodded. “Aye, that’s so. She was quite efficient with me.” Staring at the empty cup in her hand, she sounded surprised when she added, “I feel quite the thing now.”
“Ah.” Turning his gaze in Marjorie’s direction, Dr. Abernathy asked, “And what, pray, happened to you that required Mrs. Golightly’s nursing skills, Miss MacTavish?”
Her frown returning along with her heightened color, Marjorie said under her breath, “I fainted.”
“Hmm. Fainted, did you? Odd. You don’t look the fainting type.”
Marjorie puffed up in outrage like a hen who’d fluffed her feathers. “And what, pray, is the fainting type?”
Dr. Abernathy ignored her question. Turning to Isabel, he asked, “Have you ever considered being a nurse, Mrs. Golightly?”
Astounded by the turn of the conversation, Isabel shook her head. “No. I mean . . . I never . . . I mean . . . .” She stopped babbling and took on a cargo of air. “What I mean to say is that I’ve never done anything but char work. Cleaning houses, I mean.”
“That’s not true, Mama.”
This time, everyone in the room turned to stare at Eunice. As usual, the little girl’s composure remained unaffected by this concentrated attention. “You nursed Mrs. Finchley and Mr. Potter, Mama.”
“Oh.” Isabel had forgotten all about Mr. Potter. “That’s right, I did, but . . . well, I wouldn’t exactly call it nursing.”
“I don’t know why not,” said her daughter. “Because that’s what it was.”
“Ah,” said the doctor.
“And they both praised you highly.” Eunice nodded at Dr. Abernathy, as if to confirm the judgments of Mrs. Finchley and Mr. Potter. “Mrs. Potter said that if it hadn’t been for Mama, she would have killed Mr. Potter for being a cantankerous old curmudgeon.”
A few muted chortles issued from the observers. Isabel had forgotten about Mrs. Potter’s declaration, just as she’d forgotten about Mr. Potter, whom she’d have liked to kill, too, the crotchety old bastard. Buzzard.
“Aha,” said the doctor. “So you do have nursing experience.”
“Well, not to say nursing experience. Not really. I’ve not been trained or anything. I only helped out a few people in the village when they needed it. I can’t really say that I’ve ever wanted to be a nurse, but I’m willing to do anything.”She thought about Somerset and said brightly, if mendaciously, “I like plants, too. I wouldn’t mind working in a nursery or for a florist.”It wasn’t a lie, exactly, since she truly had nothing against plants except that they made for boring conversation.
Loretta shook her head. “Nobody would hire you for either job, I fear. It’s totally unfair, but nurseries only employ men, and florists only hire women to sell their bouquets on street corners. You’d not make enough money to keep a gnat alive, much less yourself and Eunice.”
“Oh.” How discouraging. Isabel chewed her lower lip and thought some more, even while knowing it was pointless to do so. No amount of thinking would make her skilled at some kind of employment that would pay her well. Which left the sweatshops and factories and other people’s houses. “I suppose I could operate one of those electrical sewing machines.”
“No!” cried Loretta.
“No!” echoed Somerset.
“That’s terrible work,” said Dr. Abernathy.
Marjorie sniffed.
“In fact,” announced Loretta with vehemence, “some enlightened women in San Francisco, among whom I happen to number, are agitating for unionization for the female sewing machine operators in the city. It’s a crime, the way those poor women are treated.”
Isabel appreciated Loretta’s soft heart and willingness to work for causes in which she believed, but at the moment, Isabel was only really interested in employment opportunities. She guessed sewing was out, especially if there was labor unrest in the various shops. A space of silence followed Loretta’s last comment.
“You can dance, Mama.”
Again, all eyes turned toward Eunice. Isabel felt herself flush.
“Dance?” said Somerset.
“Dance?” Dr. Abernathy’s right eyebrow lifted.
Marjorie regarded Isabel with bemusement.
“That’s right! You can!” said Loretta, as if Eunice had brought to mind something wonderful that she’d forgotten.
Nodding, Eunice said, “Mama’s aunt and uncle, my great-auntie and great-uncle Chesterfield, ran the Palais de Dance in London for many years before they retired to York. Uncle Charlie taught Mama how to talk like someone from London and he taught her all the popular dances. He said she was a naturalist. Mama’s always said that dancing is the only thing she’s any good at, but that’s not true.” She offered her mother a glorious smile.
“I think you mean a natural, sweetie, although . . . well, it doesn’t matter.” Wishing she’d taken the time to tape her daughter’s mouth shut before this conversation began, Isabel added, “Thanks, dearie, but no one needs a dancer, I’m sure.”
Isabel could recall very few times in her life when she’d been this mortified. Now everyone would think her to be no better than she was, and she’d been pretending so hard. She’d finally told Loretta her black secret, because she’d felt she must. But Loretta didn’t count, because she was . . . well . . . Loretta.
“What kind of dancing?”
When she squinted at Somerset, expecting to encounter an expression of severe disfavor on his handsome face, she was surprised that he only appeared interested.
“What kind?” Isabel gestured helplessly. “Oh, waltzing, fox-trotting. The polka. The schottische. Modern dancing. Social dancing.” She omitted mentioning ragtime, which was lots of fun, but was looked down upon by some. Or the tango, which was positively shocking—but fun. Oh, so fun.
“I’ve seen Mrs. Golightly dance, and she’s wonderful. She dances like . . . like . . . well, like Vernon and Irene Castle, only without Vernon. If you know what I mean. She is simply exceptional.” Loretta’s tone was one of awe and absolute approval.
When Isabel glanced at her, she appeared awed and approving, too. How strange. Or perhaps it wasn’t. It had been Loretta who had bullied Isabel into donning one of her own ball gowns and accompanying her to the magnificent ballroom on Titanic’s first-class deck. Isabel had never seen anything so grand, and she’d been terribly unnerved. For one thing, she was a little taller than Loretta and the gown was rather short for her. For another thing, Loretta’s bosom was quite a bit larger than Isabel’s. But the main thing that caused her to feel inferior and afraid was the sheer grandeur of the ballroom and its dozens and dozens of swells. Never, in all her days, had Isabel seen anything to rival that crowd.
And then gentlemen had begun asking her to dance, and she’d forgotten all about being poor and unworthy and had succumbed to the sheer fun of dancing to a sophisticated orchestra. That night beat any dance Isabel had ever attended in Upper Poppleton, where they were fortunate if a couple of the neighbor children could play the fiddle. She’d remember dancing aboard Titanic with wistful pleasure for the rest of her days. That didn’t help her at the moment, however.
“Er . . . yes. I’m not as good as Irene Castle, of course.” She gave a self-deprecating smile—and she lied. She was every bit as good as Irene Castle, actually, but she knew better than to say so since that would be boasting, and nobody liked a braggart. “And I don’t have bobbed hair.” She attempted a laugh, but it came out thin and tinny.
“Ah.” Somerset.
“How fascinating.” Dr. Abernathy.
“She’s spectacular. Truly, she is.” Loretta. With her hands clasped at her bosom.
Marjorie said nothing. Her face spoke for her, and Isabel felt like hiding when she received the message. Marjorie was shocked, both by Isabel’s lone talent and by the fact that she and Loretta must have conspired to allow a third-class passenger to dance in a first-class ballroom, or how could Loretta ever have had a chance to judge Isabel’s skill? Bloody hell. Blooming heather.
Nobody spoke for a moment. Dr. Abernathy sat on the sofa, tapping his chin with his forefinger, and staring at Isabel in a way that made her squirm. Why had Eunice brought up her colorful, but inelegant, relatives and her totally useless, although refined, terpsichorean skills?
But it wasn’t Eunice’s fault. Isabel should have thought to tell her daughter not to mention dancing or her aunt and uncle Chesterfield. She hadn’t, Eunice had, and now they were in the soup. People all over the world looked down upon theatrical folks. Peeking at Loretta, she noted that this universal sense of condemnation didn’t apply to her. Well, of course, it wouldn’t. Loretta was a true original.
Perceiving that she’d dropped a bomb of sorts into the conversation, Eunice swiveled to gaze at her mother. “Is there something wrong with dancing, Mama?”
“Well . . .” Isabel didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t bear the thought of crushing Eunice’s feelings for having inadvertently caused her mother embarrassment.
“No. There’s not a thing wrong with dancing.” Somerset smiled sympathetically at Isabel, who wished he hadn’t. His benevolence made her want to cry.
“Heavens no,” said Loretta with a laugh. “I wish I could dance as well as your mother. When I watched you on the—” She broke off suddenly and shot a glance at Marjorie, having realized that Isabel’s visit to the Titanic’s ballroom wasn’t something she ought to talk about. The anguished expression she saw on Isabel’s face probably reminded her. As, in all likelihood, did Marjorie’s horrified squeak. “Ahem. In any case, I don’t know how much being able to dance will help your mother in securing employment, however.”
Perfect Stranger Page 9
