Mercer's Belles

by Heather B. Moore

  “During the sickness, he made the toast when I asked. He filled my water bucket. He was so sweet and eager to help. His apron was always so clean.” She cringed, shook her head. “I can’t stop imagining him under the water, pulled down, unable to . . .” She swallowed hard, lifted her eyes to Albert, as if gauging if he was worthy of more. Albert waited. Finally, she took a long breath and said, “I watched my husband die at Chaffin Farm.” She shuddered, took a shaky breath. “He was too close to a cannon explosion and riddled with bullets.”

  Albert shuddered with her. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

  Cora wrapped her arms around herself. “He and I were . . . not close. It was . . .” She shook her head, the dark emotions filling her expression. Albert felt an instant burst of anger toward her husband. How could anyone be cruel to such a woman? She sighed and went on, “Thinking of Kinny in the water, frightened, it makes me wonder if Thomas was frightened. Even as he lay dying I could not tell what he felt.” She looked up, her eyes widening in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  Albert put his arm around her shoulders, pulled her close. He knew he shouldn’t, but the night opened a window of possibility that the day would surely slam shut. And her empathy touched him deeply. “I understand,” he said quietly. “I watched a close friend die after he lost his legs to a cannon shell.” He shuddered at the memory of Gabe Hutton on the bloody cot, shaking uncontrollably and eyes wide with that fear. Albert pulled her a little closer. “Gabe was my closest friend and sparring partner. We grew up together. He’s responsible for this crooked nose. He thought I had stolen a girl from him and caught me with a nasty jab. For the record, I had nothing to do with his romance troubles. It was another of our friends.” A half smile, followed by a heaviness in his chest. “Yes, I understand, Cora.”

  Cora let her head rest against his biceps. “I’m so sorry, Albert.” After several quiet moments she said, “Kinny was a good sailor. The waves didn’t bother him. On that horrible night, when the waves were the worst, he helped me get some extra food for—” She flinched and pressed her mouth shut.

  Why had she stopped? “For what? Are you not getting enough food?”

  She sighed, pulled away from him. “Not for me. Never mind.”

  “Is everything all right, Cora?” He realized he’d slipped into using her first name without her permission or the social connection to warrant it. It felt so natural . . .

  She looked up at him, her eyes still luminous in the oily darkness. She seemed to consider something and then said, “Everything is fine. Thank you, Albert. Just a girl who took longer to get over the sickness than others.”

  He relaxed at her return of his first name but was still curious what she meant. He knew her answer was a lie, and he was certain she knew he’d picked up on the falsehood. But there was a warning in her expression, so he asked nothing further. He circled back to the lost cook. “Good sailors don’t fall over the railings. It’s so strange.”

  “The ship was rocking a bit. Perhaps he just lost his footing? An unfortunate accident?” Cora pursed her lips, unsatisfied.

  Roger Conant approached, face stern. Albert asked, “What is it, Roger?”

  “I’ve discovered the whole story,” he announced solemnly. “The boy had fallen in love with Miss Barlow, our piano-playing songbird. Earlier this evening she jilted him for one of the older sailors. Kinny took it badly and also took a whole bottle of whiskey as medicine for his broken heart.”

  “But there’s no alcohol on board,” Cora said, “except for Dr. Barnard’s supplies. Did Kinny steal it from the medical office?”

  “No, he wasn’t a thief,” Roger answered. “Mercer declared none was allowed served to the women, but plenty of the crew have their own collections of libations. The head cook, apparently, harbors the largest. Kinny took the bottle from his cabinet.”

  “He was drunk,” Albert confirmed, heart heavy.

  “The only mystery left,” Roger said softly, “is whether the alcohol made him clumsy or . . . hopeless.”

  Cora sucked in a breath. “You don’t think . . . Miss Barlow is charming but not worth his life.”

  Roger gave a weak smile. “Oh, fair nurse, a woman has no idea the sway she can have over a man.” He looked between Albert and Cora. Albert pressed his teeth together, worried what the outspoken man might say.

  “Thanks for telling us, Roger,” Albert said to avoid any comments about him and Cora.

  Roger nodded. “And so the Continental endures her first tragedy.” He glanced at the ocean. “And the evening started out so lovely. Such a shame.” He took a loud breath. “I hear there’s hot coffee in the saloon. You both look like you could use a cup. I certainly could. Shall we?”

  Cora felt the chill of the night down to the center of her bones; a hot coffee sounded amazing. And she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep, so she might as well feel awake after the exhaustive worry of the last two hours. She hated that young Kinny had died; sorrow weighed down her heart. Or at least part of it. The other part had been thrilled to stand next to Albert. His body-heat-warm jacket around her, his shoulder pressing close to hers. The quiet kinship of enduring the bleak tragedy and sharing others.

  She walked between Roger and Albert, Roger in the lead. They descended the stairs and stepped into the hall toward the saloon. A chilling scream burst from one of the rooms.

  Cora jerked away from the sound and closer to Albert; Albert’s hand came to her waist. “What is that?” Cora whispered, her heart rate kicking up.

  Roger grimaced. “It’s coming from Miss Barlow’s room. She must have heard the news.”

  Cora shivered. “She’ll feel responsible. Oh! Listen to that crying.” With a shy glance back at Albert she stepped away from him, brushing at her skirts to hide her awkwardness.

  Roger nodded. “I’ll go to her, help calm her. Save me some coffee, friends.” With that, the reporter hurried down the hall and into one of the staterooms.

  Cora’s awkwardness increased without the buffer of Roger between her and Albert. Standing beside him at the railing, under cover of the dark and chaos, hadn’t bothered her—it’d felt normal, natural—but now, belowdecks, reality crept back into her mind.

  You’re supposed to be avoiding him.

  He smiled, his gaze knowing, his eyes tired. “I’d still very much like that coffee. Join me, Mrs. Martin?”

  A warm tremor teased her spine. “My pleasure, Dr. Cunningham.” She turned away quickly to avoid her attention lingering on his face too long and led them to the saloon. The cook had set out coffee with some bread and honey. A few others congregated at the tables, palms pressed to the warmth of their cups, heads bent low with whispers. Cora poured two cups, handed one off. Albert nodded his thanks and led her to the corner table. Did he know it was her favorite spot?

  How could he? We’ve never been in here at the same time.

  He sat with a sigh. “I like this spot. A little more privacy, but you can still see the whole room.”

  Cora gripped her cup tighter, hesitated a second before lowering to her chair. “I know. I always sit here.” She imagined that each time she’d sat with a book or a meal Albert had been there moments before or after. Passing trains, ghosts sharing a haunt but never meeting.

  His eyes widened a fraction before his gaze lowered to his coffee. “We seem to have much in common, Cora.”

  She nodded slowly, sipped, unsure what to say. Instead of responding directly to his intimate observation—which felt somehow dangerous and definitive—she asked, “So Gabe was responsible for your nose, but where did you get that scar above your eye? Looks like a nasty laceration.”

  Albert’s hand wandered absently to the diagonal gash above his right eyebrow. A flicker of a smile moved his lips, but the expression was melancholy. “My father was my first boxing instructor,” he started slowly, eyes glassy with reminiscing. “He’d boxed at university and wanted me to do the same. A family legacy, I suppose. Well, he wa
s . . . very serious.” He gave her a significant look, which Cora took to mean his father was not only serious but also cruel. She nodded somberly, and he went on. “When I was ten he said I was ready to fight him, ready to face an opponent. He was”—his fingers stroked the scar—“merciless. He fought me as if I were a man his same size. And at the time I was not. I didn’t yet have this height or bulk. I was . . . scrawny.” A small smile. “Two minutes into the fight he caught me with a left hook. My forehead split open, gushing blood in my eyes. Of course, he saw that as no reason to stop.”

  Cora gasped. “He made you continue fighting?”

  Albert nodded, sighed with disappointment. “It’s probably why it scarred so badly. It was left gaping open for nearly an hour before he allowed me to shuffle off to our gardener, who was handy with a needle and thread.”

  “The gardener administered your sutures?” Cora leaned forward to examine the old scar. Albert obliged and leaned in as well. She shook her head. “That explains the uneven margins.” Her hand came up before she could stop it, fingertips brushing the textured skin. “It didn’t heal straight or flat.”

  Albert met her eyes, their faces only a few inches apart. “No, it did not,” he whispered.

  Cora dropped her hand, sat back, and paid extra attention to her coffee, working hard to ignore the tingle in the sensitive pads of her fingers and insistent flutter in her belly. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “My curiosity has no manners.”

  Albert remained leaning over the table, studying her intently. “It’s quite all right,” he finally said. “I have that same problem.” He said it with significance, pointing out yet another thing they shared. He finally sat back, picked up his cup.

  Cora took a shaky breath. She knew she should get up, go to the safety of her room, but she felt rooted in place under the spell of Albert’s mist-gray eyes and their shared stories.

  After a few moments of silence, he cleared his throat. “I was supposed to be at Chaffin Hill.”

  Cora’s head lifted, her pulse skipping oddly. “What do you mean?”

  “I had been assigned to help Dr. Rand, but then my services were diverted to Peeble’s Hill. Their surgeon caught a bullet to the head.”

  Cora’s stomach tightened. “I heard that, poor man. To think . . . we might have met before.” In her mind, she saw the round enclosure of Fort Harrison, the legions of soldiers stacked deep all around it. He would have been in that medical tent . . . with me. He would have been there for those long bloody nights, for Thomas. She shivered again, unsettled. She didn’t like that her mind was throwing out the idea that she and Albert were fated to meet.

  My life is not that charmed. This is just coincidence.

  “So that’s how you heard about me,” she said slowly.

  Albert nodded. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to see your work firsthand.”

  Cora took a long pull of her hot drink. She realized she still had Albert’s coat draped around her shoulders. It now felt a burden, an obligation, instead of a comfort. Too many things were already trying to weave her life together with his. She slipped the fine black coat off and held it out. “Thank you for that. I almost forgot I had it on.”

  “My pleasure.” He tossed the coat over an empty chair, his expression suddenly urgent. “Cora, I’m sorry about that day and the stitches . . . Dr. Barnard—”

  She held up her hand. “No, don’t. You must protect your career. Truly good surgeons are hard to come by.” She regretted the compliment. Stop that. Stop encouraging this ill-fated connection. She licked her lips, adjusted her cup. Find something neutral to discuss. “What are your plans after assisting Dr. Barnard?”

  “I’m bound for Seattle, to establish my own practice. There’s great need, and I have a fondness for forests.” He smiled, eyes alight with the anticipation of his future.

  Cora couldn’t smile back. An unsolicited image of working side by side with Albert, building the practice together, raided her thoughts. Reason was swept aside as she imagined their life . . . together. A powerful ache pinched her gut.

  “Are you all right, Cora?”

  She flattened out her expression. “Fine. Fine. Just . . . tired.”

  Albert nodded, still suspicious.

  “I think I’d better—”

  “Nurse Martin! Nurse Martin!”

  Cora spun in her chair at the frantic sound of her name. Sally, nightdress flapping around her legs and black shawl half fallen from her shoulders, came running into the saloon. She skidded to a stop as Cora stood to catch her. “Sally? What’s wrong?”

  “You must come.” Her worried eyes flitted to Albert. “You must come now,” she repeated instead of explaining.

  Albert stood too, looking from the wretched girl to Cora. “What’s the problem, Mrs. Martin?”

  She didn’t look at him. “Nothing. Everything is fine.” Cora stepped away from the table.

  “Obviously it is not,” Albert asserted, authority in his voice now. He turned to Sally. “I’m Dr. Cunningham. Is someone injured, sick? Do you need assistance?”

  Sally gripped Cora’s hand, her eyes wide with panic. She opened her mouth and then closed it. Cora answered for her. “Albert, I’ll attend to this. Sally’s sister requires some assistance. I’ve helped her several times before. Nothing to worry about.”

  Albert narrowed his eyes at Sally, who trembled by Cora’s side. Cora was just as anxious to get to Pearl as her sister, but she couldn’t have Albert suspicious or, worse, following.

  He started to shake his head, “Cora, I can—”

  “Perhaps you had better check in on Miss Barlow.” Cora put a warning in her voice and then met his gaze. Albert stared back, none of his suspicions put at ease.

  His expression hardened. “Perhaps you’re right.” He nodded, snatched his coat from the chair so roughly the chair hopped and landed noisily. “Good evening, ladies.” He marched out of the saloon.

  Cora winced, feeling totally deflated. Sally tugged on her arm. “We must go!” she hissed. “Something’s wrong with Pearl.”

  Anger forced tingles of irritation down Albert’s arms. He flexed his fists over and over as he made his way to Miss Barlow’s room. What am I so upset about? Cora was right, I should check in. But he knew the frenzied girl who’d come for Cora meant something serious.

  He stopped walking.

  I’m mad Cora turned me away. I’m angry I’m not still with her.

  The source of his irritation turned his stomach.

  How did I become so attached so quickly?

  Albert rolled his shoulders, took a breath. Cora’s ties to the blond woman meant nothing to him. Cora was more than capable of dealing with problems. His attention and skills were required for other matters.

  Albert tried to make this narrative erase Cora’s floral scent and full lips from his memory. But all he could think about was how it would have felt to kiss her standing at the railing above decks, cold winter air swirling down from the stars. The power of the daydream nearly made him turn to seek out Cora. Instead he stood tightening his fists so fiercely his arms trembled.

  No more fantasy! You’re a doctor, not a silly boy.

  Albert turned into the open door of Miss Barlow’s room, and chaos smacked him in the face. Barlow was face down on her bed, wailing and rocking while three other women knelt around the narrow bed, trying desperately to calm her. Huddled against the wall, Roger and Mercer were face to face, locked in some heated debate. Albert blinked quickly, surveyed the mess once more, and then folded his arms.

  “That’s enough!” he boomed.

  Roger and Mercer’s heads swung his direction, both faces red with fury. The kneeling women startled with tiny yelps, eyes blinking up at him. Miss Barlow’s wailing did not change in the least. Roger stepped forward. “Oh, thank God you’re here, Cunningham. Will you please use those boulder fists to punch Mercer in his insipid face at once?”

  Mercer balked. “Now, see here, Conant—”

  Al
bert lifted a warning hand at their red-haired leader. “This woman is suffering, and you stand here arguing with Conant. Explain.”

  Mercer scrunched up his face. His hair was more wild than normal, and he looked a bit too much like a circus clown. “I was merely helping Miss Barlow understand her actions and the dangers of flirting with men. She caused this—”

  Albert was across the room and Mercer’s thin lapels were locked in his grip before he could stop himself. He knew only half this anger and energy came from Mercer’s gross behavior. The other half was tied to a tall nurse somewhere else on the ship. Albert put his face in Mercer’s. “How dare you put that man’s death on this young girl. Foster’s death is no one’s fault but his own. He chose to drink. He chose to walk topside.”

  “Yes, but . . .” Mercer sputtered, his face going cherry red, “if she’d only controlled her base desires—”

  Albert yanked the man’s lapels, lifting his polished shoes off the ground. He threw him out into the hall, restraining himself enough to keep Mercer on his feet but stumbling into the wall opposite the door with a somewhat satisfying thump. Albert spun back around, displeased to find Roger grinning from ear to ear with blatant satisfaction. Albert shook his head. “Please leave Miss Barlow to me. Everyone out. Now!”

  The women sprang to their feet and scuttled away like crabs on the sand, keeping their eyes averted. Roger clapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you for that, friend. Made my whole week.”

  Albert grunted. “Get out, Conant. Let me help this poor girl in peace.”

  “As the doctor orders.” Roger walked to the door and then turned back. “Did you leave our fair nurse unattended?”

  “Of course not. She . . . went back to her room.”

  Roger’s eyes narrowed slightly, picking up on the lie. “All right then. I’ll say good night.” He closed the door behind him.

  Albert turned to his patient, surprised to find Miss Barlow sitting up, legs straddled out under her skirts, face splotchy, and eyes pulled wide at him. “Doctor, is that true?” she asked, her voice rough from her lamentations.