What Heals the Heart

by Karen A. Wyle

  The doctor smirked. “And are you reliably perceptive as to the nature of a lady’s interest?”

  Joshua clenched his fists as if they held his temper. “I cannot say, sir. But I hope you will consider the possibility that Miss Brook’s uncle, coming on the scene but shortly before he conveyed her here, and utterly unacquainted with me, may have been forced into conjecture, given that he had no way to know what I have just told you.” He waited for some response; none came. “Do you have other questions for me?”

  The doctor set his chair to rocking back and forth, the chair legs in front periodically hitting the floor. “I had thought to confirm Mr. Brook’s account, or else inquire what other gentleman might be the cause of Miss Brook’s distress. As you deny the likelihood of such distress, I have nothing else to ask.”

  Joshua had. “May I inquire whether Miss Brook would be free to leave this establishment, should she choose to do so?”

  The doctor leaned forward, the chair landing with a thunk. “That would depend on the reason for her wish, and the situation for which she intended to depart, as well as the desires of the family that entrusted us with this patient.”

  Joshua found lodgings near the train station and returned to the hospital the following morning. He had promised Clara a report on the doctor’s reaction, a promise that now held unexpected potential for embarrassment. But perhaps her uncle’s misunderstanding would amuse her.

  Unless . . . could there be any kernel of truth in the uncle’s conclusions? Did Clara actually hold him in particular esteem?

  He could not consider himself worthy of her affections, but if there was the slightest chance that she had bestowed them, he would not for the world venture anywhere near that subject. He compromised by editing the doctor’s response in the direction of generalities. This time the nurse had enjoined him to guide Clara on one of the prescribed walks, circling a placid pond; as soon as they had achieved enough distance for privacy, he said to her, “I believe your physician was somewhat disconcerted to receive information from such a quarter, and I cannot say with confidence that he is willing to credit it.”

  She let out a low growl in evident frustration. Then her mood shifted, and she said quietly, “It may be as well if he does not have cause to examine me with more accuracy as to the nature of my indisposition.”

  They passed a paddling of ducks, making their way in determined fashion toward the bank of the pond. Joshua briefly regretted having no crumbs with which to reward them. Clara, looking at them, seemed to have thoughts along similar lines. “If only I could provide them with some of the bounty set before me this very morning! But I had no convenient means of concealing any.”

  As Joshua searched his pockets, finding nothing useful to the ducks, Clara added, “Mentioning bounty reminds me of a question I had, though the answer is hardly my business.”

  “Please ask. I am unlikely to object to answering, but if I do, I will tell you so.”

  “Thank you. It will be easier if I ask in plain terms — how did you manage to make this journey? I have some idea of the expense involved, and I would be unhappy to think you had gone into debt for the purpose.”

  Joshua smiled ruefully. “Little danger of that. I am not the sort of customer of whom bankers dream.” Though he had gone into debt in a way, if not as she meant it. How could he explain without indelicacy? “An establishment that employs me on a regular basis heard that I wished to take the railroad a considerable distance, and was so kind as to pay me for my services in advance.”

  Clara took that in. From the quirk of her mouth, Joshua suspected she knew just which employer he meant. But all she said was, “This establishment obtained its information from . . . I would venture to guess your friend Mrs. Blum was responsible. You confided in her? Did she not attempt to dissuade you?”

  “Not once I explained that I thought I might be of service to you. In fact, she wished to fund the journey herself, as a gift. I did not feel I could accept.”

  Clara’s eyes widened. “That was generous of her. And I admit, I did not think her opinion of me would move her in that direction.”

  He could hardly confirm, but nor could he deny, the opinion of which she spoke, though he thought Freida might have softened toward Clara since she last expressed it. He compromised on saying, “She said nothing during this discussion to suggest any ill will or disapproval.”

  He had been more honest than he intended; Clara gave a quick bark of laughter. “During this discussion. I see. But I apologize. I am making you uneasy.”

  They walked in silence for a minute or two, while Joshua’s mind returned to something she had said to him the day before. “You said, when I came, that you had not wished to see any of your family. Would it be amiss for me to inquire why that should be?”

  She looked away from him, toward the pond but not, he thought, actually seeing it. They walked on a few paces before she said, her voice almost too low to hear, “I had another brother.”

  He walked, and waited.

  “I went to be a nurse because of him, because he was going off to war. I traveled with him and was let to work for his company, until he was sent off, and I — stayed for a while, before moving to a hospital.” A long pause. “The family was told he had died in battle. And I the only one to know, to understand, what that means. The others imagine something swift — a bullet extinguishing him in an instant. They never saw, or heard, or — or smelled the things that let me imagine what he likely endured. And that is just part of what makes me feel like . . . some different kind of creature, pretending to be like them, to be one of them. To be the daughter and sister I used to be. Someone I scarcely remember being.”

  Joshua understood all too well. “I lived in Philadelphia, before the war. When I returned home after all those years of war, they thought I would be the son I had been, the man I was becoming. But he — he died, almost. I left him behind, on some muddy, bloody field, or in a medical tent.”

  She stopped and looked straight at him with her keen eyes. “So you left your family and headed out to start over. Which I have not found the means, or perhaps the courage, to do.” She gazed out at the pond again. “And yet whenever I may return to them, it will be just the same. I will be with them and yet apart from them; and they will know it, and be helpless to amend it.”

  The idea that struck him, with the force of a revelation, would not be suppressed. It came spilling out. “If you could live differently, near them but seeing them only when it would bring comfort to you all, and you were able to use the skills that have cost you so dearly . . . would that be a better path?”

  She looked at him with a mixture of confusion and something sharper. He explained. “It would add much to my practice if I had a skilled assistant. I believe I could increase my fees in consequence, and pay such an assistant a wage sufficient for support.” And if that left him living lean, he had survived worse. “Miss Wheeler’s boardinghouse is a respectable dwelling for a woman. You could take a room there.”

  She said slowly, enunciating each syllable, “You are offering me a position.”

  He found himself smiling. “I am.”

  She waved her arm in a broad gesture, encompassing the hospital and all its grounds. “And you believe I can take such a position without . . . ill consequences?”

  He had, and suppressed, the urge to step closer to her. “Before, you were among those who could not possibly understand. If we were to work together, we would neither of us be alone in that way. If it proved too much for you, you could move back with your family —” She flinched violently. He winced in response, but made himself continue. “Or you could survey other opportunities. They exist, for a woman of your intelligence and will. I am sure of it.” Now he, too, swept his arm across the landscape. “Or you could remain here, making the acquaintance of patients and doctors and ducks. Will that be better?”

  He had startled a snort of laughter from her. It seemed to ease her. She located a nearby tree and leaned agains
t it, facing him. “Should I decide your offer has more benefits than difficulties, do you think I would be free to accept it?”

  He recalled his interview with her physician. “That would be easier to accomplish if we were able to convince your uncle to endorse it — one or both of us.”

  She gave him a sidelong glance. “I don’t believe my uncle trusts you overmuch.”

  Damn and blast, the man must have said something. He could only be glad that it had not prevented Clara from treating him as a friend. And her frank and open manner probably meant that she harbored no such feelings as her uncle had so rashly supposed.

  He did not pursue the fleeting sense of loss that followed this realization. Instead, he pondered the immediate problem. “What did he think of your going for a nurse?”

  Her jaw went taut. “I didn’t consult him. He would have thought me too young, if nothing else. As did my parents, but the thought of someone being of use to my brother overcame their concern.” Her expression softened. “When my uncle found out, he was afraid for me. He’s no daughters of his own, but he has always tried to look after me.” She shifted back to her more usual sardonic look. “As you see.”

  “Besides the danger and your youth, did he think it proper? Did he approve of you learning such skills?”

  She considered the matter. “He liked that I learned quickly in general. As to nursing, I believe he thought it might have its uses when I came to have a family.”

  Whatever thought crossed her mind next, it stole any remaining softness from her face. He needed to know that thought, if only to dispel it if he could. “What is it?”

  She said in a tone devoid of emotion, “If he were convinced that I would never marry, he might consider my having a way to keep myself as a suitable alternative to remaining with my family, a lamented spinster. It would be truth, most likely.”

  “I’ll not have you saying such a thing!” His outburst startled the both of them. She tested him with the blade of her glance as he cast about for a more rational response. “He would believe it to be your melancholia talking, and take it as a sign that you needed to remain for further treatment.”

  She gave a short sniff of agreement and then turned back toward the building. The nurse was approaching to herd her indoors again. Clara rolled her eyes. “It must be time to stuff me like a capon. Shall we both ponder the question until tomorrow?”

  Then, as the nurse laid a hand on her arm to direct her inside, she turned toward him with sudden mischief lighting her face. “‘Virtue is bold.’” And with that cryptic reference, she walked obediently back to her keepers’ care.

  Joshua slept less than soundly. Whenever some noise pulled him to the surface, the creak of bed springs through the wall or boots outside or the hoot of an owl, he lay in bed puzzling out what Clara might be planning. A little before dawn, he came up with one idea, and spent the remaining hours trying to decide what he felt about it. Which would be a waste of time and worry, if he had it all wrong.

  A different nurse brought him to a larger and more finely appointed sitting room than before. Clara was already there, sitting demurely on the sofa. She looked better, brighter. Something seemed to pass between her and the nurse, an almost conspiratorial exchange of glances. And contrary to the rules as told to him before, the nurse shut the door almost all the way as she departed.

  He stared after her and then asked Clara bluntly, “What’s going on?”

  She beamed at him. “Why, good sir, I’m just a happy girl this morning. Your visits must be doing me good. I’m sure the nurse thinks so.” And then, with another flash of mischief: “I may have eased her way to taking that view.”

  It took only a moment to see how this could fit with his early morning speculations. “You’re thinking you should depart without leave, and are preparing them to think we — eloped?”

  “Nothing quite so particular. But I believe we can give them an impression that’ll satisfy them — the doctors and my uncle both. See what you think.” She twisted away, reached into her bodice, and turned back holding a rolled-up piece of paper out to him. The procedure distracted him, but he shook it off and reached for the paper, unrolling and reading it.

  I apologize for my failure to seek permission for the step I have taken. But my circumstances have changed materially, and in such manner as has restored me to myself so much that I do not, in conscience, believe I should any longer divert the attention of this establishment from those in greater need, nor further postpone my transition to future ties and responsibilities . . . .

  Joshua looked up to see her intently watching him read. He handed her back the paper, looking politely away while she hid it again, and stroked his chin, trying to assess their chances. His conversation with Clara’s doctor might make the man less likely to be believe what the note implied, but he would rather not explain as much. “I am not sure the personnel here would be fully satisfied. But they would most likely take the time to consult your uncle, by which point we would be at some distance. And he might be sufficiently gratified at having his suspicions confirmed, if he does not think me a complete villain.”

  Her mouth twitched, probably at the picture of Joshua as a villainous cad. Then her face grew momentarily sober before she said, with an overly casual air that must mask some uncertainty, “This presupposes that your offer of employment remains open. Have you repented of it?”

  “No, indeed. My only concern is that your reputation is likely to suffer if we are known to have traveled together without any sort of chaperone.”

  Clara set her jaw. “I have considered that fact, and am willing to live with such damage.” She stopped and sighed before saying quietly, “I would spare my family their share of any scandal, but I do not believe I can put their feelings in the matter above my own.”

  As always, she had seen to the heart of a question and spoken accordingly. “We are agreed, then.” As for the finances of their arrangement, she was apparently willing to believe his somewhat optimistic words the day before. It was up to him, then, to live up to them. She would need to be paid in coin, for the boardinghouse; but he could live on the payments in kind he received, if coin stayed scarce. “How do you purpose to leave here unobserved?”

  They spent the remainder of the visit plotting. The nurse, Clara confirmed, was well pleased at the thought of furthering a romance, and would bring her to a path bordering a less conspicuous road than Joshua had been using. Joshua had noted the location of a livery stable not far from his hotel; he would hire a buggy and drive them two towns over, there to catch a less obvious train.

  When they heard the nurse approaching, Clara reached out her hand. “It would be well for her to see us comfortable together, I think.”

  He took her hand in both of his, feeling the warmth of it and the strength of her fine, long fingers. He was rather loath to let go and be escorted out.

  Chapter 24

  As Joshua checked out of his hotel, the clerk handed him a letter. “This just came for you by express, sir. It almost missed you.”

  Joshua opened the letter and unfolded it enough to see Robert’s signature at the end. Robert must have had a considerable task to find out the name and direction of the likeliest hotel for him to be staying at. The letter must concern a matter of some importance. But he had barely enough time to pick up the buggy and make his rendezvous. He stuffed the letter in his vest pocket to read it later.

  Clara was walking, or rather pacing, up and down the path when he pulled up. He did not see her trunk, but only a somewhat smaller case placed next to the path. The nurse must have procured it for her.

  Clara waved at someone (presumably the nurse) concealed in the nearby trees, patted the chestnut gelding’s sleek neck, and took his offer of a hand to hoist her case and help her in. That last, he suspected, was for the watcher’s benefit — she could easily have climbed in unassisted.

  He urged the horse on as soon as she was seated. The train was due not long after they could hope to make it
to the station. They left the buggy at the livery stable and hurried along, Clara carrying her own case, despite his offer to do so, and making nothing of the weight.

  They had a hasty argument about what class ticket to buy. Clara adamantly refused to accept a second class ticket. “I will not strain your resources so far, when a sturdy bench is available. After all, I have just come from many days of restorative rest. But you should get a proper seat this time.”

  Of course, Joshua refused to sit in comfort Clara denied herself, and they ended up in emigrant class, only to have another quarrel as to the disposition of blankets. Joshua prevailed only in that they shared the blankets covering them and padding the bench, rather than Clara foregoing both. There was just enough room on the bench for the two of them. At least their close contact fit their story, should anyone notice and remember them, and also allowed them to discuss the future without being overheard so long as they kept their voices to a murmur. Joshua could not help noticing the warmth of her thigh so close to his own — first pleasing, and then an unwelcome reminder of the disaster at Dolly’s weeks before.

  The color was high in Clara’s face, and instead of the near torpor he had observed on his first visit to the hospital, she was more restless than he had ever seen her. He made so bold as to cover her hand with his own. “I hope you are not regretting our ‘bold’ decision.”

  A smile flickered across her face at his reference to her quotation, which he believed to be Shakespeare but had not identified more specifically. She glanced down at their hands; abashed, he removed his from hers. She continued looking down as she said softly, “I am not so much regretting it, given the alternatives, as unsure of its practicality. You are well respected as a physician, but our region is not inhabited by many who can pay what your services are worth. I am concerned that I may deplete your resources without adequately supplying my own.”