A Free Heart

by Amelia C. Adams

  “I hate it worse than almost anything. Did the doctor say how long I’d have to stay put?”

  “Until that bone is completely healed.”

  Tom groaned and passed his hand over his face again. “That addition to the hotel will never get built. I was going to have everything done by month’s end, and now . . .”

  “And now you’re not to worry about it,” Adam said from the doorway. “It’s good to see you awake, Tom. How’s the pain?”

  “I’m trying not to think about it, sir. I’d rather talk about the addition, if you don’t mind.”

  Adam nodded as he stepped into the room. “I’m going to hire the work out, along with any other repairs that need to be done. I noticed that you drew some sketches of your plans, and I’ll make sure they’re followed.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry I can’t do it myself.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you got hurt. You have no idea. But we’ll make it as right as we can.” Adam nodded to Harriet. “Miss Martin, it’s time for your break. Go get some rest, and I’ll sit with Tom the rest of the night.”

  Harriet looked uncertain. “Are you sure? I can stay—”

  Adam chuckled. “You’re barely keeping your eyes open. Go to bed, Miss Martin. And the other girls have said they’ll take care of the first train tomorrow—sleep as long as you can.”

  “All right. Good night, Mr. Brody. Good night, Tom.”

  Harriet slipped out of the room and closed the door behind her. Tom gave a low whistle. “She’s something else, isn’t she?”

  “She is indeed. And do you realize she’s the reason you still have a leg right now?”

  Tom tried to remember. “What happened?”

  “She intervened on your behalf when the doctor said he’d have to amputate.”

  “Whoa. Maybe I’ll have to kiss her again just to show my thanks.” Tom chuckled, but a spasm of pain shot through his body, so strong he thought he might vomit. Adam placed his hand on Tom’s shoulder until the pain had passed.

  “You’re going to be all right, Tom,” Adam promised. “You’re going to be all right.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Harriet stumbled to the ladies’ dormitory upstairs and fell onto her bed, not even bothering to undress. At some point, she felt her shoes being pulled off her feet and a blanket being thrown over her, but she couldn’t rouse herself enough to say thank you or even open her eyes to see who it was. The train whistle barely invaded her dreams, and the sun was midway across her window when she finally sat up, startled, wondering what time it was and how long she’d been asleep.

  Footsteps sounded behind her, and she turned to see Jeanette coming up the stairs. “What time is it?” Harriet asked. “Why didn’t anyone wake me?”

  “When Dr. Wayment came this morning, he said to make sure you slept as long as you could,” Jeanette explained. “You had a big shock—you saw Tom fall. He said you needed time to recover from that.”

  Harriet nodded. “I believe he’s right. I must have relived it nearly fifty times by now. But you didn’t answer my question. What time is it?”

  “It’s two in the afternoon. There’s some lunch waiting for you, when you’re ready.”

  “Two?” Harriet was already scrambling for her shoes. She couldn’t believe she’d slept so long—she had responsibilities. “And what did Dr. Wayment say? How’s Tom?”

  “He said Tom’s leg is doing well, and he’s very happy with how the bone is realigned. As long as Tom stays still, we should have a good outcome. Of course, we won’t really know for a while longer—the tissues need to knit, and we’ll be watching for gangrene.”

  “You sound like a nurse,” Harriet teased her.

  Jeanette’s cheeks turned pink. “I admit, I have been thinking about it ever since last night. The whole process was fascinating, and I want to know more about the body and how it works. Do you think I could be a nurse? Do I have the capacity?”

  “I think you’d be a wonderful nurse. You’re caring and compassionate, and you’re certainly a hard worker. Why don’t you ask Dr. Wayment what he thinks? I’m sure he could tell you about training and all sorts of things.”

  Jeanette seemed to consider it. “Thank you. I think I’ll do that.”

  Harriet finished fastening her shoes and then shook her skirts back down. “Do I look at least somewhat presentable?”

  “You’re presentable enough to go check on Tom, if that’s what you’re asking,” Jeanette said. “But I wouldn’t try to serve in the dining room that way—your dress is all wrinkled.”

  “I’ll change before the next meal.” Harriet moved to walk past Jeanette, but then stopped and gave her a spontaneous hug. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for Tom,” she said.

  “I thought you didn’t like Tom,” Jeanette needled her.

  “I don’t. But thank you for helping him anyway.” Harriet spun on her heel and raced down the stairs to go check on the man she definitely did not like.

  * * *

  Tom was slightly propped up on a pillow when Harriet entered the room. Olivia sat next to him, reading a book, and she put it down with a look of relief on her face when she saw Harriet.

  “He wants me to act out the characters’ voices,” she said. “The doctor gave him just a little bit of laudanum this morning, and he’s still acting like a drunkard.”

  “He said he wouldn’t take it unless the pain was much worse,” Harriet said, concern rising in her chest. “Was it bad, then?”“I wasn’t in here at the time, so I don’t know, but I did hear that the doctor had to change out the gauze, and the acid is burning Tom’s skin.” Olivia shook her head. “I’ve never heard my father talk about anything like this. I’d say this is a very strong man.”

  “I agree,” Harriet said, looking down at Tom. He grinned at her, lolling his head from side to side.

  “Hey there, Harriet,” he said. “Miss Markham won’t do the voices.”

  “She won’t? Why not?”

  “Because she’s no fun. She’s no fun at all.” Tom flapped a hand in Olivia’s direction. “What fun is a book without the voices?”

  Olivia thrust the book at Harriet. “Here. He’s all yours. Abigail says she’ll take over after dinner, and you’re not to worry about the next train.”

  “Thank you,” Harriet said. “I really appreciate the way all of you have been filling in for me.”

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep from having to read to him again,” Olivia said with a shudder. “I might even sign up for extra laundry.”

  Harriet took the chair Olivia had just vacated. “How are you feeling, Tom?”

  “I feel terrible. Just terrible.” He sounded cheerful about it, though, so Harriet was unsure whether to believe his words or his attitude. “And you look lovely today.”

  She blinked. “I do?”

  “Yes, you do. You should always wear your hair like that, with little wisps around your face.”

  She reached up and felt her hair. “Oh, I’m a mess! This isn’t lovely, Tom—this is a disaster!”

  “It’s a lovely disaster.” He grinned again.

  She exhaled with impatience. “Are you sure the doctor only gave you a little bit of laudanum and you didn’t drink the whole thing?”

  “He was very careful,” Tom replied, dragging out his R’s. “I told him. I said, ‘Doctor, my father was a drunk, and I don’t wanna be a drunk.’ So he gave me just a few little drops. And I’m in pain and I’d like to shoot my leg off, but somehow, I don’t care. Isn’t that the strangest thing you’ve ever heard?”

  “That is strange.” Harriet would certainly hate to see Tom out-and-out drunk. Just this much was far too ridiculous. “Have you had anything to eat?”

  “Olivia brought me up some broth, and Dr. Wayment said I could have some real food tomorrow if things look good. You look good, Harriet. You look real good.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

  “Tom! You’re starting to embarrass me.” Harriet didn’t know whether t
o be shocked or flattered. She definitely felt a lot of both.

  “It’s all right. Don’t worry about it.” He flapped a hand at her. “And by the way, yes, I forgive you.”

  She froze. “What?”

  “You asked me to forgive you. And you said you wouldn’t be sup. . . superior anymore. Or something like that.” He closed his eyes and nodded. “I like that. I forgive you.”

  Oh, no. Oh, no. He’d heard her. She thought he’d been asleep. But then, didn’t she want him to hear? Wasn’t she planning to tell him as soon as he woke up? He wanted to talk about it now, while he was as good as drunk. That was hardly a way for an apology to be delivered and received. Well, there was nothing she could do about it. “Thank you, Tom,” she said after a long delay. “I appreciate that a lot.”

  “That’s good.” He went silent, and soon his chest began to rise and fall in rhythm. Rest was the best thing for him right now—Harriet was glad he’d be able to get some.

  A moment later, he stirred. “I love you, Harriet,” he sighed, then went back to sleep.

  Harriet stared at him, her eyes so wide, she could feel them straining. What had he said?

  Elizabeth came into the room a moment later, carrying a plate. “Jeanette said you just woke up. I thought you might want something to eat. What’s the matter? You look upset.”

  “I’m not sure what I am.” Harriet took the plate and set it down, then moved to the end of the bed and lowered her voice. “He’s talking in his sleep, and he just told me that he loves me. Of course I know he doesn’t mean it, but that’s what he said.”

  “How do you know he doesn’t mean it?” Elizabeth asked. “If he’s talking about you in his sleep, that means he’s dreaming about you, and why would he dream about you if he’s not in love with you?”“Because he’s drunk, that’s why! Because he’s hurt and in pain and half out of his mind.” Harriet pressed a hand to her head. “He couldn’t have meant it.”

  “Are you wishing he didn’t mean it, or are you worried that he doesn’t?” Elizabeth asked.

  Harriet was brought up short. “I . . . don’t know,” she said at last. “Not too long ago, I detested him. Right now, I can’t decide if I should be elated or horrified.”

  “You’re trying to decide if you should be? My, that’s a very logical way to go about deciphering your feelings. I usually let my heart do that for me.”

  “But that’s just it! My heart makes terrible decisions. Sam died because I loved him. Maybe I’m the sort of person who should never be trusted to figure these things out on her own. Maybe I need someone to do it for me. Will you do it for me, Elizabeth?”

  Elizabeth chuckled and shook her head. “I can’t tell you how to feel or who to love. That’s entirely up to you. But you have to remember—Sam’s death was not your fault. Have you forgiven yourself yet?”

  Harriet nodded. “I don’t know how much progress I’m making, but I’m trying,” she said. “Talking to Jane was good for me.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Now, get some food inside you. You look hungry.”

  “I am. Thank you, Elizabeth.”

  As Harriet spooned down her stew, she studied Tom. He was pale, but not gray—what an improvement. What were her feelings for him, exactly? He wasn’t handsome, not like Mr. Brody, but he was very pleasant to look at, and the longer she looked at him, the more pleasant he became. He was completely incorrigible—but he was also entertaining. Proper behavior seemed a foreign idea to him, but then, he was sincere. She’d rather have sincerity than propriety. This right here—this confusing mix of thoughts and emotions and opinions—this was what made Tom so annoying. She liked him, but she shouldn’t like him. He went against all her ideals and standards and expectations.

  But maybe that’s exactly why she should like him.

  By the time Abigail came to give Harriet a break, she was no closer to determining her feelings than she had been before. It was the worst puzzle she’d ever tried to solve.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dr. Wayment smiled and nodded as he examined Tom’s leg. “You’re doing very well. I see no traces of infection, and I daresay there won’t be any. We’ll keep applying the acid as a preventative measure, of course, but if I were to give a prognosis at this early point, I’d say that your leg has been preserved.”

  Tom exhaled loudly. “Thanks so much, Doc. That means the world to me. How much longer do you think I’ll be down?”

  Dr. Wayment chuckled. “It’s only been a few days, Tom. How long do you think it takes a bone to knit?”

  “Well, it used to take my granny about three days to knit a sock . . .” Tom pretended to do the math in his head, counting on his fingers.

  The doctor laughed right out loud that time. “I’m sorry, but it won’t be that fast. Plan on a month, and at that point, we’ll see. We can’t rush this. Your future health depends on what we do right now. Let me get some fresh gauze.”

  “Dr. Wayment?” Jeanette had been standing in the corner, and Tom had all but forgotten she was even in the room. It was easy to forget her most of the time, actually. She was a sweet and pleasant girl, but she hardly ever spoke, and she got lost in all the chaos of the hotel.

  “What is it, Miss Peterson?”

  She came closer. “I noticed that Tom’s skin is getting burned, and the edges are showing definite signs of damage. See—here and here.” She indicated with her fingertip. “Is there any way to lessen the acidic effect on his skin while still keeping the disinfectant properties?”

  “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought to look into that.” Dr. Wayment dug in his bag and came out with some papers. “I spent some time the other night gathering every article I could find where Dr. Lister’s name was mentioned. I suppose I’ll have to tell my housekeeper that some good has finally come from my saving all this.” He passed some of the papers to Jeanette and some to Tom. “Let’s all three of us read these over and see if we’re missing something.”

  Tom knew he was supposed to be looking for something specific, but after a moment, he got pulled into the articles and wanted to read every word. This was interesting stuff.

  “What about this?” Jeanette handed the paper she was reading over to Dr. Wayment. “Dr. Lister reported mixing olive oil in with the acid once the initial danger of infection was past.”

  Dr. Wayment read the sheet and nodded. “I believe this is what we’re looking for. Do you have any olive oil in your kitchen, Miss Peterson?”

  “I’ll run downstairs and look.”

  Moments later, Tom braced himself for the new application of acid, but relaxed when he realized that it only burned about half as much. “Thank you, Jeanette,” he said as he sank back against his pillow.

  * * *

  Harriet seemed agitated when she came to see him that afternoon. “What’s the matter?” Tom asked, setting down the book he’d been reading. He had some funny memories associated with it—something about Miss Markham trying to sound like a villainous scoundrel and then threatening to throw the book at him when he laughed. He supposed the laudanum had given him some unusual dreams. He felt much better, though—he’d had a bed bath, and Adam had brought him some tooth cleaning supplies. Nothing like being clean to perk a person up.

  She paced up and down at the foot of his bed. “You’ve been in a lot of pain lately,” she began, “and I know that will put strain on a person. The worst pain I ever felt was spraining my ankle when I was fourteen. I nearly went out of my mind, it was so bad, and that was nothing like a break, so I can’t begin to compare. But I know that when people are hurting, they say things they don’t really mean, and then if they have to numb the pain, sometimes they say even more things they don’t really mean, and it can become rather embarrassing. So I just wanted you to know that I understand.”

  Tom tilted his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Harriet,” he said. “Could you be a little more specific, maybe?”

  “And people talk in their sleep, too,” she rushed
on, almost as if she hadn’t heard him. “So when you put those three things together—the pain and the laudanum and being asleep—it’s only natural that things should slip out.”

  “What kinds of things might those be?” he asked. Really, if she could just answer a simple question . . .

  “Telling me that you love me. Which I completely understand was said during a very difficult time, and I haven’t paid the slightest bit of attention to it. So we can just move on from this point and forget that it ever happened.”

  “Oh, that. No, I wasn’t asleep.”

  She stopped pacing so abruptly, Tom thought it a wonder that she didn’t fall down. “You weren’t asleep?”

  “No, not yet. And I would rather not forget the whole thing happened.”

  “You . . . don’t want to forget?” She was looking down at the carpet and not at him.

  “I’d like to forget the broken leg and the acid and the pain, but not what I said. Forgetting that would be a mistake.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t seem to know how to reply to that. “Um, Miss Hampton is making you some pudding. I’ll go get it.” She almost ran out of the room.

  Tom chuckled as he heard her footsteps thump down the stairs. He had no idea what she was thinking or feeling at that moment, but he’d certainly made an impact on her.

  * * *

  Miss Hampton spooned some pudding into a bowl and handed it to Harriet. “Tell him I hope he likes it.”

  “Thank you. Miss Hampton, do you know where Elizabeth is?”

  “Yes, she’s outside starting the laundry.”

  Harriet thrust the bowl back into Miss Hampton’s hands. “Would you mind taking this upstairs?” Without waiting to hear the reply and only barely noticing Miss Hampton’s surprised expression, Harriet raced out the door and around to the back of the hotel.

  “Elizabeth!” she hissed as she drew closer. She glanced around—she didn’t want the other girls to overhear. “He says he wasn’t asleep.”

  Elizabeth looked up, confused. “He wasn’t asleep?”

  “When he said he loved me,” Harriet whispered. “He says he wasn’t talking in his sleep, and he doesn’t want to forget that it happened. He says forgetting it would be a mistake.”