The Last Bloom

by Roberta C. M. DeCaprio

  Charlotte Malone, or Lottie as she was called, partook nightly in alcohol…a nip here, a dram there, soon became her comfort from the loneliness of an absent husband and a sanctuary from a spoiled, overbearing daughter. He often wondered why Doctor Malone didn’t seek professional help for his wife, being in the high medical position that he was. He had to know someone who could bring a remedy to Charlotte’s daily stupors and incapacitations. Then again, his wife’s absence left him free to dabble in all sorts of pleasures away from home, which his close association as of late with Doctor Malone had brought to his attention, as well as Hemsley’s habit of overly catering to Dorothea by granting her every whim. How Charlotte stood a chance to have any sort of voice in her own home—ever, especially when Dorothea was a child—was a mystery to him. No doubt, thus the reason she chose to numb herself from the frustrations and confrontations surrounding her with spiked tea or coffee during dinner and many glasses of port wine that followed.

  Blanche smoothed her apron, looking slightly peeved she’d no longer be privileged to continue the conversation. “She’s having tea in the dining room.”

  Charlotte Malone being up early and having breakfast in the dining room came as a shock. Most evenings, dining at the mansion ended with Hemsley and Blanche escorting Mrs. Malone to bed. He’d offered to help, but Dorothea always distracted him in some way to remove focus from the embarrassing situation. And it was rumored Mrs. Malone would not be heard from again until late afternoon the following day.

  He inclined his head politely. “Thank you, Blanche.” He forced a smile in her direction before making his way to the dining room.

  Surprisingly Charlotte Malone looked particularly pulled together; eyes clear and bright watched his entrance. Smiling like the cat that got the cream, she greeted him with a lilting tone to her otherwise drone of a voice. “Well, the good Doctor O’Clarity has arrived.”

  So sorry to complicate your plans, he wanted to say, but instead he nodded politely. “Good morning, Mrs. Malone.”

  Her smile froze upon her face, looking stale and unnatural. “I suppose you’re looking for my daughter.”

  “I was told she’s in the garden with a visiting family member,” he said.

  She arched a brow. “Yes, but you see, he’s not really a blood relative,” she retorted, emphasizing blood relative. She waved a hand casually in the air. “But I’m sure Blanche has sufficiently explained the situation,” she added sarcastically.

  “She has.” He moved to take a seat opposite her at the dining room table. “But suppose you explain the reason you didn’t want me, your daughter’s fiancé, to interrupt them?”

  Mrs. Malone reached for the teapot resting beside her plate, then motioned for him to hand her the cup in front of him. He complied, and she poured him the tea. After handing him the cup, she indicated the cream and sugar decanters upon the table. “Please, help yourself.”

  “No, thank you. I drink it black.”.

  She sat back in her seat. “You’re a nice enough young man, Doctor O’Clarity. My husband is very fond of you and raves about your work, but you are not right for my daughter.”

  “Because I have not yet placed a ring upon her finger?” he snapped. Before the elder woman could answer, he went on. “I explained to Dorothea my desire was for her to wear my grandmother’s ring which I plan on getting the next time I travel to Eagle’s Landing to visit my folks.”

  Mrs. Malone locked her gaze on his. “I was thinking more because you are sincere, polite, and ready to please my daughter at every turn.”

  He frowned. “And don’t those qualities make for a loving and successful marriage?”

  “For Dorothea, yes. But not for you.” Mrs. Malone sighed heavily. “My daughter, though I love her dearly, will make your life miserable. She will walk all over you in no time, if she hasn’t already. You will never satisfy her, no matter how hard you try. I’ve spent the better part of twenty years giving all I could to that child, only to learn it’s never been enough…or exactly what she hoped. Trust me on this. Dorothea won’t appreciate or be content with anything you do, nor will she wear your grandmother’s ring.”

  “Dorothea and I love each other, things will be different for us,” he said. “She will accept my grandmother’s ring because I’ve told her how much her wearing it means to me…to my family.”

  Mrs. Malone chuckled lightly. “Oh, you think so?” She leaned forward in her seat. “The two of us went shopping a few days ago to Unser’s Jewelers. Do you know what my daughter tried on for the better part of an hour?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “Diamond rings. The stones of ample size…rings you could never afford to purchase. And when I pointed that fact out to her, she informed me that if you truly loved her, you’d find a way.”

  Brodie’s face burned with rage. “And you believe Drake Nolan can find a way?”

  “Yes, he has better means,” she said softly. “He’s known Dorothea longer and better than you do. Since they were children, he had a knack for how to handle her, with just enough control to keep her in line, yet still pampered and treasured.”

  Brodie’s heart raced. “Why then, if he’s such a perfect match for Dorothea, has he not claimed her hand before now?”

  Mrs. Malone folded her hands in her lap. “He did, before he left for Germany to complete his medical studies.”

  He arched a brow. “Obviously Dorothea refused his proposal because she doesn’t love him.”

  “Dorothea refused his proposal because she wanted him to finish his studies here,” she said. “When Drake held strong to what he wanted to do, Dorothea decided to teach him a lesson. And you were just…”

  “Convenient for her to carry out her plan,” he finished.

  Mrs. Malone nodded. “I’m so sorry, Doctor O’Clarity.” She sighed again. “Now that Drake’s returned, I’m sure Dorothea will decide to marry him.”

  Despite the broken heart he now felt, he squared his shoulders and stood. “I need to talk to Dorothea.”

  “Talk to me about what,” came a voice from behind.

  Brodie turned to see Dorothea entering through the doorway, her hand familiarly looped around the arm of a tall, thin man standing way too close beside her.

  Chapter Five

  Cassia Rose woke, inhaling the fragrant spring air ruffling her bedroom curtains. She smiled to herself. She’d missed the warmth of an Arizona morning. England, with all its charms, lacked the frequency of the sun’s heat. Even on the nicest of days, she sensed a bit of a chill in the air.

  She inhaled again, this time filling her nostrils with the delicious aroma of pancakes, sausage, bacon, and coffee. Her mouth watered as she remembered how pampered and satisfied she felt after one of her mother’s home-cooked meals.

  “The woman is a genius,” she mumbled, throwing aside the quilt and draping her legs over one side of the bed. To be able to make something from nothing, and have it taste amazing, seemed to be Amanda Holmes’s specialty.

  Cassia yawned and stretched before reaching for the robe across the foot of her bed. “Poor man who marries me will probably starve to death.” Even though her mother taught her to cook, her focus was practicing medicine. Donning the robe, she glided her feet into her slippers and made her way to the kitchen.

  The scene greeting her was heartwarmingly familiar. Mama was busy at the stove, bustling around like a busy bee, with frying pans cooking on every burner. Papa was seated at the table, hunched over his open Bible with several sheets of paper and a pencil in hand while composing his sermon for Sunday’s service. It mattered not it was only Wednesday. Papa’s routine was to contemplate a new sermon on Monday, write a rough draft of his thoughts on Tuesday, do research on the subject on Wednesday, combine the outline of thoughts and the element of research on Thursday, edit on Friday, and make a finished copy on Saturday.

  Looking up from his work, he smiled at Cassia. “Did my baby girl have a good night’s sleep?”

  She nodded, coming over to plant
a small kiss atop his head, which still housed a crop of thick hair. Though, most of it now had turned gray. “It was good to sleep in my own bed.” She stole a piece of bacon set aside on the counter. “Is there anything I can help with, Mama?”

  Amanda, working right along at flipping pancakes, glanced in her direction. “You can help us eat it all.”

  She giggled. “That won’t be a problem, especially with the bacon.” Her mother always made the bacon crisp, the way Cassia liked, and lots of it, too, as it was her favorite breakfast meat.

  “What are your plans for today?” her father inquired.

  Before she could answer, her mother indicated a satchel hanging from a peg by the back door. “Clara Morris dropped that off earlier for you.”

  She frowned, reaching for the satchel and pulling out a large-brimmed straw hat, a red checkered shirt, and a pair of denim overalls fit for a teen boy, but surprisingly her size as well.

  Her mother chuckled lightly. “Aha, you’ve been gifted with garden clothes. Must be Clara needs help with tending the herbs.” She brought the plates of food to the table and set them down. “I’d say Clara’s just planned your first day back home.”

  “Well, we did talk of readying my medical bag with healing properties,” she mused aloud. “I’d say it was only fitting to get that task done before I’m called into service by Dr. O’Clarity.”

  Her father, eyeing the overalls, arched a brow. “I remember a time when men’s trousers were only worn by men, and if a woman donned them… Well, it would be quite scandalous.”

  She placed all the items back into the satchel, hanging it again on the peg, and took a seat beside her father at the table. “Mama wore trousers, didn’t she?”

  “Aye, only once,” her father emphasized. “While she induced me to help save Proud Eagle from the clutches of Lieutenant Ryan Duffy.”

  It was a story Cassia knew well. Her mother’s plan to rescue her first husband called for Amanda to dress like a man while she entered the military fort where he was being held before a hanging sentence was carried out.

  “And I’ve always said, wearing trousers to work or ride in is much easier, very comfortable, and more efficient than a skirt,” her mother added. “I’m pleased to see my idea has finally caught on and become permissible.”

  “I second that notion,” she said, diving into the bacon.

  “Hmmm,” her father grunted.

  Both women giggled at his retort.

  ****

  Cassia, carrying the leather, monogrammed medicine bag Aunt Marrietta gifted her, made her way to Clara Morris’s home. Walking the two short blocks to her destination, garbed in her new clothes, she inhaled the warm breeze playing with the curls framing her face. Cassia was content and hopeful. Finally she was beginning her medical career. It took forever to get to this point, but hard work and determination had paid off. And today, though it only concerned her with preparations, was her first day on the job.

  She found Clara in her yard, dressed in clothes similar to her own, snipping plants. The Morris’s garden was nature’s apothecary, stocked with several types of healing herbs, their properties shared and passed down through Rowena Cooper’s family and used by the entire Western world for over a hundred years. As well as generations of many Indian tribes, thanks to the Western Apache Shaman, Owl Woman.

  As she and Clara worked into midafternoon, the Arizona sun grew hotter. Clara handed her a red, paisley-printed bandana for wiping her brow. The material’s pattern was similar to what the railroad workers wore tied around their necks. And in an instant, Tucker O’Clarity filled her thoughts.

  Where was he now? What was he doing? Was he well? Did he have someone to love? A family? Did he ever think of her as she so often thought of him?

  Cassia sighed heavily, her anguish over Tucker coupled with the heat. “I forgot how intense Arizona’s sun can become, especially when one is out working beneath it.”

  Clara, resting back on her haunches from her work, glanced over at Cassia. “I believe we’ve got enough to make several jars of salve, bottles of tincture, and pouches of tea.” Her eyes rose to the afternoon sky, and with her own bandana, she wiped her neck. “And the sun’s only goin’ get fiercer from this point on.” She stood, brushing dirt from the worn knees of her overalls. “I’d say it’s about time to splash our faces with cold water and enjoy a cool glass of lemonade.”

  Cassia stood, brushing her clothes. “I’d say that’s a capital idea.”

  Clara laughed. “Ya sound like one of those English gals.”

  She joined in on her friend’s mirth. “I imagine after eight years some of their phrases were bound to rub off on me.” She smiled and bent to retrieve the basket she’d been filling with herbs. “But at heart, I’m still just a prairie girl. And this prairie girl can’t wait to drink a glass of lemonade.”

  Clara’s home was efficient with all the modern conveniences of a stove, ice box, and indoor plumbing. The décor, however, was modest. The furniture was well worn and mostly hand-me-downs, yet it all came together with a down-home, cozy look.

  The walls, scatter rugs, and upholstery consisted of light colors and soft tones. Her kitchen, like all country homes, was the center of Clara’s household where everyone gathered the most to eat, drink, and tell stories. The kitchen table served many purposes: turning into a desk when paperwork and ledgers needed tending, a seamstress’s surface where patterns and material was spread for sewing, as well as Clara’s apothecary counter where she bottled her herbs for medicinal purposes.

  Clara’s husband was a dairy farmer. The milk, butter, eggs, and cheese Eagle’s Landing residents purchased at the town’s general store were the product of his efforts. He also added home delivery to those town districts too far from the store. Her children, ten-year-old Morgan and eight-year-old Blythe, helped before and after school, and during the summer. Clara did her share, as well, making the farming business a family affair.

  Clara placed a cool glass of lemonade before her friend and made up two finger bowls filled with hot soapy water. “Can’t be havin’ a medical person, such as yerself, carin’ for folks with dirt beneath the nails, especially since they’re such nice hands to boot.” Clara held out her hands, scrutinizing the condition they were in. “Mine have seen their days for sure,” she added with a frown, before placing a bowl in front of Cassia and a small scrub brush. She set a bowl and brush for herself, and for a time the two women tended their nails and sipped the lemonade in silence.

  Clara’s hands were small, but strong and muscular. The tips and pads of her fingers were laced with cuts and scars from the laborious chores they helped her perform. Her nails were short but evenly cut and filed, not ragged or yellowed, yet still very much a farmer’s wife’s hands: sun-kissed, wind-blown, and freckled.

  Cassia finally broke the silence. “Applying lotion will help to mend the cuts,” she offered.

  Clara chuckled. “The number of times I wash my hands in a day…well, let’s just say I’d be usin’ a powerful heap of lotion.” She sighed. “Nope, these hands don’t have time to be pampered, never have, come to think on it. If I wasn’t helpin’ Ma with the chores when I was a youngun’, I was doin’ my share as a wife and a very young wife at that since I married Owen the day after I turned eighteen. Between plantin’ in my garden, milkin’ the cows, collectin’ the eggs and feedin’ the chickens, washin’ the clothes, cleanin’ everythin’ from wood floors to baby bottoms, and makin’ the meals, these hands have been in and out of hot water more than a provokin’ child.”

  She studied Clara’s face. “Do you ever regret getting married and being a farmer’s wife?”

  Clare screwed up her freckled nose. “I wouldn’t go as far as to say I regret my choice, because I love my husband and my children with everythin’ inside of me. But I think it would’ve been nice to be me, for a while…travel a bit, like you’ve done…see places other than Willow Creek and Eagle’s Landin’.” She giggled like a school girl. “Wear fa
ncy clothes, put on fancy creams like those I see advertised at Remington’s Department Store, to make a woman feel pretty, like them there city gals in the ads with their hair all done up in curls. It would have been nice to be able to meet new folks, see how they live, and such the like.” She wiped her hands on her apron, stood, and gathered the bowls. “But that wasn’t the way of it for me. I went from my parents’ home, doin’ what they told me, to my husband’s home.”

  She frowned. “Isn’t Owen good to you?”

  “Owen’s a good man, and as a good man he treats me fair and righteous, loves and protects me. He’s never raised a hand to me, and for that I’m grateful. I know plenty of women puttin’ up with husbands who beat them. Constance Wilson, who lives at the edge of town, has a sister livin’ in Alaska. She’s married to a logger and gets her bared bottom switched by her man like she was one of the children.”

  Cassia gasped. “Why does she stay?”

  “Where’s she gonna go, with five children, no schoolin’, and no money?” Clara countered. She shook her head. “Besides, the Bible’s rule is that women must obey their husbands. It’s a vow we take on our weddin’ day. That’s why I count my blessin’s every night I bed down that I’ve a reasonable spouse instead of one that’s ruthless, imposin’ upon his wife such violence.” Clara arched a brow. “But still and all, as good and kind as Owen is, I’m held accountable for fixin’ the meals, sewin’ the clothes, keepin’ the house, teachin’ the children right from wrong so they’ll grow to be fine adults, and the like, for him to be doin’ what needs to be done to keep this farm goin’.”

  “And if you didn’t do all those things, strayed from protocol, do you think Owen would beat you?”

  Clara cocked her head to the side, contemplating the question before answering, and that slight pause gave Cassia chills down her spine.

  “I don’t rightly believe he’d beat me,” Clara finally said. Her brows furrowed. “But he’d be mighty mad.” She shrugged. “I probably couldn’t blame him much. Without my help, Owen would have an overwhelmin’ work load, one that would put any single person into a grave much sooner than need be. And as long as I’m healthy, can do my share, I don’t mind.” She glanced around the room. “This is my home, a home I want to keep for my family. It’s just sometimes I would like to do somethin’ for just me.”