Marry Me (24 page)

“Ladies, please. May we go on? Who has something to report regarding the
doctor’s
performance?”

Rachel Cooper spoke up. “I think we can all agree that he’s proved his competency many times over. There was that awful explosion at the mine, Margaret Porter’s chilblains–for which she offered this committee a testimonial–the usual colds and minor injuries, Sid Walker’s rheumatism, the outbreak of chicken pox in the Morrison and Wheeler families, and Ned Beaumont’s unhappy encounter with a mule. Those are the things we know about. We are fortunate that so many people have sought one of us out and shared their experiences with the doctor. My own experience with Dr. Monroe is that he’s discreet.”

There was a general murmur of agreement among the ladies.

“What about Sarah Ann Beatty?” Gracie Showalter asked.

“I think the question we must ask ourselves,” said Rachel, “is whether the outcome would have been any different if Doc Diggins was here.”

The women turned as one to Rose. She was only a Beatty by marriage, but the family was not represented in any other manner.

“You all know that Jack and Will are cousins. That makes them about as close as brothers in other families. Jack’s still grieving hard, mostly because he’s wondering if he’d have his child if he’d let Dr. Monroe cut Sarah Ann. He plainly tortures himself with what he can’t know. I can’t see that that’s any fault of the doc’s.” She picked up her goblet and tapped her manicured nails against the glass before she sipped from it. “I also have to say, since Rachel forgot to mention it, that Dr. Monroe has been very good to the girls at Miss Adele’s place. And he doesn’t expect anything in trade the way Doc Diggins did from time to time.”

“That’s because he has Runt Abbot living with him,” Alice Cassidy said. “He doesn’t have to dally at Miss Adele’s when he can diddle at home.”

Rose’s ebony eyebrows made a feline arch toward her widow’s peak. “That never stopped your husband.”

Alice Cassidy’s face flushed. “You take that back, Rose Beatty.”

Rose could have said that she took it
on
her back, but she didn’t relish the idea of Alice throwing something at her. Besides, it wasn’t true. Thomas Cassidy never set foot in the house when she was the madam, and she doubted that anything about that had changed under Miss Adele’s management.

“I take it back,” Rose said calmly. She left it up to Alice to decide if she was sincere.

Mrs. Duun gently inserted herself into the uncomfortable silence that followed. The pastor’s wife was a quiet, well-spoken woman with more than a trace of her native Norwegian accent still firmly in place. “Julia Hammond is a friend of mine, and I don’t believe she would object to me sharing her observations. You know, of course, that Mrs. Hammond lives next door to the doctor. She tells me that Miss Abbot–I prefer to call her Miss Abbot–rarely leaves the house except on the doctor’s business or to accompany Miss Monroe somewhere. I think we know that to be true. Dr. Monroe spends long hours in his surgery, often late into the evening. Mrs. Hammond can see the lamps burning. She says that Miss Abbot works equally hard, but that cannot surprise anyone at this table as we are all aware that Judah Abbot was difficult and demanding. These are things we know; all else is speculation.” Her gaze swiveled to Alice Cassidy and offered a gentle reproof. “I move that we declare the first half-year with Dr. Monroe a success and order our luncheon.”

“Second,” Rachel Cooper said quickly. Under the table she set her hand hard on Rose’s knee.

Ann Marie called for a vote. Mrs. Duun’s motion passed without any further discussion or dissent. They agreed the luncheon was a success.

“Have you ever seen so much snow?” Whitley turned away from the window to glance back as Rhyne. “I suppose the answer is ‘yes.’”

Rhyne didn’t look up from the book she was reading. “Since you know I’ve lived all my life in these mountains, I thought you could figure it out for yourself.”

Whitley sighed mournfully. “I’m at sixes and sevens. That’s what my mother would say. It means I don’t know what to do with myself.”

As that was not significantly different from Whitley’s usual manner, Rhyne simply ignored her.

Looking around the library, Whitley’s eyes settled on Cole’s writing desk. “I shall compose a letter.”

“What an enterprising idea,” Rhyne said absently.

Whitley made herself comfortable in Cole’s chair. She found the footstool with her toes and nudged it into position under her heels. Opening the lid, she rooted through the contents looking for a clean sheet of paper. Since she didn’t particularly
want
to begin a letter, she wasn’t terribly disappointed when she didn’t find any paper.

Deciding that Cole’s notebooks were probably more interesting than anything she could have written, she opened one and began to read.

It only took her a few minutes to correct her assumption. There was nothing in the notebook to hold her interest. Most of what Cole recorded was in words she couldn’t understand and code she could not decipher. She recognized the names of a few chemicals, sulfuric acid being chief among them, but phrases like
in vitro
and
bacillus
meant nothing to her. Even the drawings left her uninspired. She could appreciate Cole’s careful renderings of what he saw under his microscope, and his stippling was so precise that it gave the tiny squigglers a dimensional effect, but even then they were not worthy of her undivided attention.

She wondered why they commanded so much of Cole’s time.

Whitley returned the notebook to the desk. She dropped her elbows hard on the lid and supported her chin on the backs of her hands. “Why don’t you and my brother speak anymore?”

Rhyne turned the page. “We speak.”

“No, you don’t. Not the way you used to.”

“Whitley, your brother and I talk all the time.” Uncertain that she could remain composed, Rhyne didn’t dare look up even though Whitley had all of her attention now. “What about that letter you were going to write?”

“I don’t want to do that. Besides, my great-aunt owes me a letter.”

“I seem to recall that you are not finished embroidering your initials on the handkerchiefs you bought.”

“One is enough. I shall go mad if I have to do the others.”

Rhyne sympathized. Fine needlework was a distasteful activity. “There is always Jules Verne.” For a moment, Rhyne thought she had diverted Whitley, but when she darted a look in her direction, Whitley was shaking her head and the smile she was displaying did not bode well.

“You’re too polite,” Whitley said. “Both of you. It’s not natural. That’s what I meant when I said you don’t speak the way you used to.”

Rhyne was forced to close her book and set it aside. “There is nothing unnatural about being polite.”

“Too
polite, I said. There’s a difference, and you shouldn’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.”

“Why aren’t you having this discussion with your brother?”

“Because he’s in the surgery. He’s
always
in the surgery.”

“That’s not true.”

“Pardon me. He’s with his patients or he’s in the surgery. He’s avoiding you, so he has to avoid me, too. It isn’t fair, Rhyne.
I
didn’t do anything.”

Rhyne tried to see her way past Whitley’s argument, but couldn’t find a response that would get her there. Whitley was right about all of it. “Would it be better if I left?” asked Rhyne.

“Left? You mean now? You would go to your room?”

“No. I mean find another place to live.”

“And let Coleridge win? Why would you want to do that?”

“There’s no contest, Whitley. I’d leave because you’re so plainly unhappy. That’s what
I’ve
noticed.” “My brother hasn’t.”

Rhyne sighed softly. “I can’t speak for him.”

“That’s because you don’t speak
to
him.” Whitley raised her head and threw up her hands. “Is it because he kissed you? Because if it was, I don’t understand. It seemed as though you were kissing him back. Was I wrong? Didn’t you want him to kiss you?”

Rhyne stood quickly. “This is definitely a conversation you should be having with your brother. I can’t talk to you about it. I’m sorry, Whitley. Excuse me. I’m going to start dinner.”

Watching her go, Whitley shook her head. Kissing didn’t seem so complicated when she and Digger did it.

Rhyne gave Whitley several opportunities after dinner to approach Cole. She had to admit that Cole’s disposition did not invite conversation, but Whitley rarely took her brother’s mood into account when she had something to say. Rhyne was forced to conclude that Whitely wasn’t going to broach the same subject with Cole that she had with her.

That left it to Rhyne to beard the lion.

She took her time tidying the kitchen. It had the desired effect of hurrying Whitley off to bed. Rhyne dried her hands on a towel, removed her apron, and went to find Cole.

He was bent over his microscope when she entered the surgery. She waited for him to finish the drawing he was making before she spoke. As soon as he lifted his pencil, she stated her business.

“I want to talk to you about Whitley.”

Cole rubbed his forehead. “Can it wait?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I thought it could.”

He swiveled sideways on his stool and laid his pencil down. “Very well. What is it?”

“She knows that something’s not right.”

“A particular something?” he asked wearily.

Rhyne pointed to him, then to herself. “She says we’re too polite.”

“Whitley’s not stupid. We’re so polite it makes my teeth ache.”

“I know. Mine, too.”

“All right. Do you have a suggestion? Because I don’t. I don’t know how to go back to what was.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “What time is it?”

Rhyne looked at the clock. “Half-past nine.” She took in his rumpled appearance in a single glance. His hair was deeply furrowed by one too many passes of his hand. Pale violet shadows underscored his eyes. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to just below his elbows. One of his suspenders had slipped off his shoulder, and he’d kicked free of both shoes. His heels were propped on the lowest rung of the stool.

She walked up to him and laid her hand against the side of his face.

“Don’t,” he whispered. But he didn’t remove his cheek from her palm. “We agreed.”

“You said I wasn’t ready. I never agreed.”

“You were repulsed by an illustration in a
book,
Rhyne. Of course you’re not ready.”

Her thumb made a pass across his cheekbone. “You’re putting the cart before the horse. The way I remember it, we were just kissing.”

“There is no
just
kissing.”

Rhyne let her fingertips graze his face, his neck, then come to rest on his shoulder. “Now, see, that’s a lie right there. What parts you had in your mind that were going to happen
didn’t
happen, so it was just kissing. I’d like to try it again, maybe figure out what to do with my hands this time.”

Cole took her by the wrist and removed her hand from his shoulder. “I think you’ve figured it out.” He let her go. It only troubled him that he felt the loss so keenly.

“Did you think I didn’t like you kissing me?” She leaned her hip against the table and folded her arms under her breasts. “Is that why you stopped?”

“I told you why I stopped.”

“Because if you didn’t right then, you didn’t know if you could.” “That’s right.”

“I think you could.” Her head tipped to one side as she studied his face. “You have the nose for it.” “What does
that
mean?”

“It’s noble, remember? You’re fashioned to do what’s proper. Now, if it was crooked like mine …” She shrugged. “You’d be inclined toward the indecent.”

Cole stared at her. “You know that’s absurd, don’t you?”

Rhyne’s mouth flattened momentarily. “Of course I know.” She glanced around for the other stool that she knew was in the room and saw it had been pushed under the table. She pulled it out and sat. “It’s as absurd as the argument you’ve been making.”

“I don’t agree.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” She folded her hands in her lap and inclined her head toward him. “You’re good at healing. It seems like the whole town knows it. When I’m out, people stop me and tell me what you did for them. It takes me twice as long to get back sometimes because of the talk. It’s all about what you do for others. The morning that you stood in the kitchen after Sarah Ann and her baby died, I saw how it tore you up. I meant to give you ease, only I couldn’t, not the way I wanted to, not when I needed the very same myself.”

Rhyne pressed her hands together. She inhaled slowly, trying to calm her hammering heart. “You’re right to suppose there are things I don’t understand–plenty of them, I reckon–but I
know
there ought not to be shame for needing each other. You’re the first person that ever held me, except for those that held me down. That counts for something. The way I see it, we were stealing comfort that morning, and it’s nothing either one of us should feel sorry for.”

Rhyne straightened her shoulders and separated her bloodless fingers. She smoothed her dress over her knees. “Whitley saw us in the kitchen,” she said. “Saw us kissing. And now she sees us going so far out of our way to be mannerly that we might as well live across town. She says it isn’t fair, and she’s right. You hole up in here like your face is on a wanted poster and Whitley and I are the law. Your sister doesn’t deserve to be treated as if she’s the enemy. If avoiding me means you have to avoid her, then we’ve come around to one of those problems with only one solution. I’ll have to leave.”

She stood. “You think about it. Let me know what you decide.”

Rhyne completed all the rituals of readying herself for bed in spite of knowing she was too out of sorts to sleep. At sixes and sevens, Whitley would have said, and Whitley’s mother before that. Had Mr. Shakespeare penned it even earlier? Chaucer?

She thought of all the books in Cole’s library. Could she find the answer there? It was a better use of her time than wondering if tonight was her last evening in this house. The thought had been turning over in her mind so frequently that her head was a regular whirligig.