The Thorn Keeper

by Pepper D. Basham

  “I know the openness of this room causes anxiety for you, so Dr. Ross and I plan to move you to a room of your own tomorrow. A place where we can display all of your medals above your bed.” She pulled her hand from his and smoothed his blanket. “But for now, you need to rest here while we prepare your new room.”

  He obeyed momentarily, taking the morphine without incident and relaxing back into the bed, but it was a calm before another storm. David had seen only a few other soldiers wounded to such an extent from shell shock, and each unique case held one similar characteristic—unpredictability.

  “I’ll begin readying Grandmama’s office this evening,” Catherine whispered to David as they walked away from the cot. “With some help from Michael, I think it’s possible to have it prepared by tomorrow.”

  “Your Grandmama won’t mind?”

  She shrugged her rebel shoulder. “I see no reason why. Grandmama has no use for it across the ocean.” Her smile tilted. “And what mother doesn’t know…”

  The glint in her eyes, paired with that smile, produced a river of warmth over David’s skin, enchanting him. Moths to flames and all that…

  “Would you truly send a wire to Clayton’s wife?”

  She stopped her forward momentum, her gaze searching his as if his question surprised her. “If someone you loved were injured, wouldn’t you want to know about them? Hear of their care?”

  He stared down into the sapphires, lost and wondering at this complete enigma. “Of course.”

  Her grin curled up on one side. “I’d be tempted to storm the trenches of France myself to find someone I loved, so I can certainly send a wire or ring a loved one for these soldiers.”

  He had no doubt she would consider a trip to war-torn France without a second thought. What would it be like to possess love from such a woman? His breath clutched closed at the treacherous thought…well, not quite as treacherous as he’d expected.

  Her eye contact wavered and she stepped back, another strand of raven slipping from beneath the cap. “Rhodes and Brown have taken a turn for the worse. Neither of their amputations are healing as they should. I think…”

  “Gas gangrene,” he finished, curbing his emotions from following the dark feeling at the mention of the word. Another byproduct in a world of new and dangerous weaponry.

  She took a few more steps away from him, her expression the tell-tale marker of those two young soldiers’ futures. A fading hope.

  “I’m going to have Grace make some more Coltsfoot tea to ease the breathing of the more severe men in the East Room. I heard them gasping for air this morning and have to try something to help them.”

  “Have her add Karaway…or lavender, if she has any. It may provide additional relief.”

  She nodded but didn’t look up again as she exited the room. He followed her movements. The simplicity of the gray dress and white apron failed to hide the well-endowed curves she possessed.

  He squeezed his eyes closed against his musings. What was wrong with him?

  “Using some of Grans home remedies?” Jessica emerged beside him, arms crossed over her chest. “Coltsfoot and Karaway?”

  David nodded, following her gaze to the twenty beds, all filled. “University taught me carbolic acid and garlic, but with some of the wounds, it’s not enough. Even if all it means is to ease someone’s passing, I’ve found the natural options beneficial.”

  Jessica’s sigh drew his attention. “I’ve been gone for two months, and the papers are sharing the same story about the war. Thousands of wounded and dead, and now months of a stalemate?” Something like a growl rolled from her curled lips. “If they’d place a few more women in charge, we’d make progress. Men think solving a problem takes blowing up the countries of Belgium and France.”

  “You know it’s more complex than that.” Though wading through the wounded and dying made one question everything and grasp for any solution, any blame. “We have news of ten new wounded in transport. You couldn’t have arrived at a better time. Nurse Dougall has opened up the wing beneath the children’s ward.”

  David looked over at Clayton’s bed. The man slept an unnatural sleep, forced upon him by medicine, but his body twitched with continual discomfort, both in mind and body.

  “Catherine needs to get faster if she’s going to continue to provide real assistance.” Jessica raised her brow. “At her pace, we’ll have three men sutured before she completes one.”

  “She’ll improve, and at an impressive rate, I’m sure. I’ve been training her myself since Ashleigh traveled to the States, and she’s made great progress. She’s talented in this occupation….and intelligent.”

  “Oh…I’m sure she is.” Jessica’s laced her imitation with sarcasm. She released a controlled stream of air through her nose, a better sign than the sirens of the village warning of an impending explosion. “We need to talk.”

  The tone set David’s spine straighter. A storm of conflict brewed behind his sister’s expression – one he didn’t care to weather at the moment.

  “After I make rounds.”

  David barely had time to skim the letter from Aunt Maureen before Jessica barged into the small former breakfast room he now used as an office. Aunt Maureen’s note was short, but a stinging reminder of her wager…and the power she brandished.

  Your presence is requested for luncheon this Friday at The Rose House. Your great grandfather has sent you a letter concerning important information for you and your father. Please arrive promptly at 2.

  Sincerely,

  Maureen Cavanaugh

  David groaned as he slid the card back into the envelope. His aunt had wasted little time to begin spinning her wheel of control, not waiting a fortnight before involving James Cavanaugh, the patriarch of the Cavanaugh family. It didn’t help that his only X-ray machine had stopped working three days ago, and he had no funds to replace it. For the sake of the wounded as well as the workers, he couldn’t maintain this threadbare hold on monthly expenses.

  “There you are.” Jessica marched into the room, her green eyes shooting enough accusation to cause him to brace his hands against his hips. She walked up to him and did the same. “What do you think you are doing?”

  David blinked from the impact of her words. “Saving lives? Tending the wounded? Attempting to find a few seconds of solitude?”

  She looked up at the ceiling in exasperation and then crossed the room to stand in front of him. “Is there some understanding between you and Catherine Dougall?”

  Of the list of accusations he’d imagined, this one hadn’t entered his mind. “To what are you referring?”

  She stared at him as if weighing his sincerity and then dropped her head into her hands. “Oh, David, for such a brilliant man, you are impossibly oblivious.” She rested her hand on his shoulder. “Catherine is weaving a web to ensnare you, and you can’t even see it. Do you truly believe she’s interested in helping dying men in a bloody hospital for nothing other than service? She’s out to catch you.”

  David allowed Jessica’s words to sink into the silence, trying to take into account that his sister hadn’t witnessed Catherine’s change, hadn’t seen the sacrifices she’d made, even when she thought no one was looking.

  “I understand your concern, but I believe you’re wrong.”

  Jessica crossed her arms, her static smile consolatory. “Brother dear, you may be two years my senior, but when it comes to the manipulative nature of women, I am much more qualified in the matter. It wasn’t even four months ago that Catherine Dougall was plotting to ruin her sister life and seduce an earl’s grandson into marriage. What on earth could have possibly changed to such an extent that she would lower herself to serve dying men, suture blinded soldiers, and post letters to poor families in her spare time?”

  “Have you such little faith in the power of God to change people?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Most people, but not someone like her.”

  David lowered his head and sighed. “Does As
hleigh share your sentiments about her sister?”

  The question made its mark. Jessica turned away. “Ashleigh has always been an optimist.”

  “And, perhaps, her vision is clear, and she’s seeing the same as me. There is nothing Catherine can win from her service here or in the orphanage. Her life choices before were based on selfish ambition, misguidance, and desperation. Faith changed her, perhaps more dramatically than most, but certainly as real.”

  Jessica lips set in a frown. “You’ll have to forgive me if I’m not as trusting as you are, and it’s plain to see how she affects you. Take care.”

  A rush of warmth shot from his chest into his cheeks at the acknowledgement. He cleared his throat and stepped back. “I’ll admit, I am attracted to her, and her kindness to me has been endearing. But attraction does not equal action. Between Aunt Maureen’s offer and my plans for the hospital, my head is firmly set on succeeding in my professional goals, despite what you might perceive of my heart.”

  “Men know little about their hearts. Even men as compassionate as you.”

  “You have no faith in my choices, then?”

  Jessica shook her head, her accusing finger returning to its position at his chest. “Attraction is often the first step toward action. You know her reputation, her past. If she is playing games with all of us, you won’t be the first to fall under her spell and, I daresay, you won’t be the last. I don’t want to see you wounded or have your reputation sliced apart by association.”

  “Your concern is appreciated but misplaced. I’ve worked closely with her and feel I know her.”

  “That’s the problem. You’ve worked close enough for Catherine Dougall to get her claws into you. She can’t be trusted, especially where men are concerned.”

  A slight movement at the doorway caught his attention. Heat drained from his face as Catherine stood waiting, her stormy gaze moving from his face to his sister’s. Her expression—too cold, too statuesque—gave nothing away.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation, Doctor, but I wanted to let you know that Rhodes passed away five minutes ago, and Webb won’t be far behind. Should I send for Reverend Jasper?”

  “Catherine...”

  David started to speak but Catherine raised her palm to quiet him. “Please, just answer the question.”

  David’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, please send for the reverend, and understand our conversation was—“

  “Private.” She nodded. “Yes, and I’m sorry I came upon it. Under the circumstances, I believe Jessica or Emmalyn would be a better assistants for you in the future. I will busy myself with sutures and wound dressings.”

  “Catherine, please.”

  “You have a surgery in ten minutes.” Her gaze whipped to Jessica. “If I am not needed, I’ll see to the reverend.”

  “Please, go.” Jessica said, her tone dismissive. “I’ll assist him.”

  With one more glance of those dark, intense eyes, she bowed her head and walked away.

  An uncustomary heat rose like a bonfire from his chest to his face. He turned to his sister. “You are my sister, and I love you. That will never change, but don’t pretend to know my mind. I will make my own decisions. Whether they be of the hospital or the heart, they are mine to make.”

  Chapter Eight

  Catherine steered the Model T Touring down the lane, tossing one last look over her shoulder as Roth Hall disappeared behind her. She’d left poor Mason in the wheel’s dust, waving his cap and calling for her to stop, but she craved the distance and the freedom from everyone’s infuriating judgments. One of the benefits of a house with too few servants was the ability to slip away to the motorcar unnoticed.

  Or, at the very least, unnoticed by someone who would snitch on her.

  Mason cared for his reputation far too much to admit Catherine took the car without chauffeur or chaperone…and he’d failed to stop her. She’d taken Nathanael’s bottle to him after leaving the conversation with David and attempted to calm down from what she’d heard, but the walls of Roth Hall closed in.

  She fisted the steering mechanism with a tighter clasp. Jessica Ross had changed the dynamics of everything. Her suspicion, though founded in Catherine’s own mistakes, reopened fresh wounds. David, Ashleigh and Michael had come to accept her as a ‘new creation in Christ.’ Her mother’s indifference held little shame or condemnation, but with one condescending glare, Jessica Ross reminded her of who she used to be, of a stained past and a tarnished future.

  And her influence would change David.

  The cool morning breeze, scented with pine and purpose, breathed life into Catherine’s face. In the distance, the sun fell low, almost touching the layered hills, and Catherine reached out, new and stumbling, to this God who had saved her.

  “I don’t understand what you are doing.” Her voice barely rose above the rumbling of the motorcar. “I don’t understand how I can serve you…or help people if all they see is the person I used to be.”

  The wind whispered in her ears, and sudden awareness breezed over her thoughts.

  I can use you where you are. I can use you as you are.

  Catherine scanned the woods lining the lane, but nothing hinted at the voice whose words spoke almost audibly, pressing in on her spirit. Where she was? A broken, fallen woman who still fought a battle with rebellion on a daily basis. Even now, she drove unescorted toward town, knowing full well her mother would be appalled.

  A grin shifted her frown upward. But things were changing. Like the binds of the infamous corset, society’s hold on a woman’s role began to loosen into something with a better fit. Or, at least, a better fit for her. Independence, being valued more for one’s mind rather than family pedigree, brought with it a sense of rightness, like when she used to choose the perfect ensemble for a house party.

  Oh, the memory of feeling beautiful! Adored.

  Doubt pinched at the sweet taste of recollection. She’d destroyed that delight with her own hands, her own actions, but was it truly a dead dream? Did God have qualms with Catherine’s love for fashion? Did He require her to give up those delights as the ultimate antithesis of what she used to know? In exchange for her soul?

  Her thoughts took a downward turn. She’d always enjoyed making things beautiful. From her dolls in childhood to the rooms under her control. The look of sheer adoration on Meredith’s face when wrapped in Catherine’s coat left a gaping longing. With Meredith’s young age and her menial rank in the Cavanaugh home, she’d probably never worn anything as extravagant as Catherine’s silk, embroidered motoring coat with a hint of satin collar.

  Had she felt beautiful, special for one moment, before all went dark? Catherine looked over the expansive, rolling countryside, stretching with layers of green all the way to the autumn blue skyline. The winding road split a gray trail through the forest ahead, with sunlight filtering golden bands through the overlapping trees, a halo for her path.

  Surely….surely He loved beautiful things too.

  The thought pooled with comfort over the open wounds left behind from her ravaged dream and Jessica’s truth-tinged words. Bringing beauty to Meredith had fed something innate in Catherine. A need. Sending notes to the loved-ones of the soldiers, sharing in their joy of sweet words from home, brought some sort of sweetness to the wounded…and even the dying.

  But what on earth could God do with Catherine and her love for beauty? She cringed at the preposterous and probably heretical notion. Wasn’t she supposed to give up all earthy loves for the goodness of God’s call?

  I have made you beautiful.

  An inexplicable comfort wrapped around her wounded soul and bandaged it with renewed hope.

  The village emerged in the valley, scattered buildings wrapped around a quaint main street. She’d always enjoyed the prospect from the hill when approaching Ednesbury. Grandmama’s family must have chosen this reason to situate Roth Hall overlooking the town before they were forced to sell most of Ednesbury to the Cavanaughs. Cat
herine parked at a distance from the main street to avoid attention to her clear lapse in proper decorum by showing up unescorted… and driving. She removed her motoring goggles and slid across the seat to the door. These automobiles, American or English, were not made with women in mind. Not at all.

  After wrestling between her skirts and the narrow floor space, she finally stepped from the car, but her sleeve snagged, halting her movements. The silk ribbon embroidery lining her coat ripped off and remained hooked on the latch of the car door.

  Catherine grabbed her sleeve and examined the damage. The length of the gash along the seam line forced a whimper from her throat. Her lovely, coral French design of last year? She groaned and threw her motoring goggles into the front seat of the car with enough force they bounced to the floor.

  She pitched her gaze heavenward and then closed her eyes, releasing a slow stream of air through her nose.

  “Use me as I am, Lord? Stripped to pieces? Threadbare?”

  Her whimper melted into a sad chuckle. “What good could knowing social rules and fashion do for the kingdom of heaven?”

  If memory from childhood served her, angels wore white robes without one stitch of embroidery on them.

  She closed the car door and looked toward town, only to find a mother and child staring at her as if she’d gone ’round the bend and back again.

  Catherine smiled. “I was talking to God.”

  The woman’s brows shot higher.

  “Sometimes, one simply must speak to the Almighty aloud, don’t you think?”

  The woman bowed her head, took her daughter’s hand, and continued walking a bit more quickly.

  Catherine sighed and started her walk. First, send the telegram to Grandmama, and second, collect Reverend Jasper. She walked passed a few streets and then turned up Old Rutland, keeping back from Main in the hope she might avoid any unwelcome collisions with Dr. Carrier or Lady Cavanaugh. Either thought left a bitter taste in her mouth and a fiery fury of heat beneath her skin. The insensitive, ruthless people!