The Doctor's Lady (2 page)

For the first time, Dr. Ernest’s lips cracked into a semblance of a smile, only it was stiff and almost contemptuous. “Ah, the glorious
Missionary Herald.
What would we do without it and all its glamorous reports of mission life?”

Her confidence faltered, and for a moment she couldn’t think of a rebuttal. She grew conscious of the fact that everyone in the congregation was watching their exchange and she was making a scene unbefitting a lady.

“Sit down, Priscilla.” Her mother’s angry hiss pulled on her.

Priscilla lowered herself but couldn’t stop from uttering one last word on the matter. “Dr. Ernest, I’m sorry your friend lost his wife. But she died in a glorious cause and surely went on to receive an unfading crown.”

His eyes widened, almost as if he were seeing her for the first time. “There’s a good chance any missionary—man or woman—could end up a martyr,” he said slowly. “Unfortunately, the
glorious cause
seems to be partial to martyring inexperienced young ladies.”

Her mother pinched her arm, and Priscilla pressed her lips together to refrain from further discourse. Let him have his morbid views of women missionaries. There was no sense arguing with a man she’d never see again—especially since they were headed to opposite ends of the earth.

Why, then, did she feel compelled to prove herself to him?

“My husband is giving Dr. Ernest a portion of the offering,” Mary Ann whispered, peeking around the doorframe.

“I certainly didn’t mean to imply that we should shun him altogether.” Priscilla stacked the Sunday school materials. “Do you think everyone thought I was uncharitable toward him?”

The question had plagued her all through the children’s lesson, and the satisfaction she normally drew from teaching had deserted her.

Mary Ann ducked into the small room. “Well, I’m sure if you were uncharitable, it was only because he deserved it.”

Priscilla slid the bench against the wall. “You’re right. It was his fault. If he hadn’t been disparaging, I wouldn’t have needed to rise to my defense.”

Mary Ann grimaced and grasped her bulging middle.

Priscilla spun away, searching for something else to tidy, trying to ignore the sudden pang of longing in her chest.

“Don’t worry about me,” Mary Ann said. “This happens all the time lately. Dr. Baldwin tells me I’m just having false labor pains.”

Priscilla’s gaze slid involuntarily to her sister’s stomach, to her fingers splayed there, to their slow circular caress.

“I guess it’s pretty common.” Mary Ann stuck a fist into the lower part of her back and then arched. The waist of her dress pulled tight. “Enjoy your girlish figure while you still have it. I’ve heard that it’s gone forever after the birthing.”

The sting in Priscilla’s chest swelled into the base of her throat. Once again, she glanced around the room, needing something else to look at—anything besides her sister’s swelling body. If she could give up her girlish figure, she certainly would.

She shook the thought from her mind and tried to muster a smile for the two young girls who’d stayed behind to help her pick up. “What would I do without my helpers?” She forced cheerfulness to her voice.

The girls smiled.

“If I could, I’d pack you in my trunks and take you to India with me.”

They giggled.

“Teacher! Miss White!” A young boy’s urgent call sent her heart into a dash. She rushed across the room. When she stepped into the sanctuary, she averted her eyes from the adults still meeting for their class. She pressed a finger against her lips, signaling for the boy, one of her Sunday school students, to be mindful of disturbing the question-and-answer time the congregation was having with Dr. Ernest.

“Miss White!” The breathless boy dashed toward her, wiping his red nose across his coat sleeve. “It’s my brother, Rudy. He’s hurt bad.”

“Oh dear.” Anxiety put a hustle into her efforts to retrieve her heavy winter cloak and follow the boy outside.

Clutching fistfuls of her dress, she strode across the wide lawn, her boots squishing into the February mixture of old snow and new mud.

When she reached the boys surrounding Rudy, she was puffing. “I shouldn’t have let you children out early,”

They hung their heads and moved back to let her approach the boy sprawled upon the ground.

She stepped into the circle, took one glance at Rudy’s face, and gasped. She could only stare with a sickening roll of her stomach at the smears of blood.

But when his eyes opened, she read the pain in them and dropped to her knees beside him. “Rudy, what happened?”

The boy managed a groan, the white of his eyes bright against the grime. Blood oozed from a gash above his eyebrow.

She slipped her hand under her cloak to her pocket. Her fingers fumbled at the drawstring, trembling in her haste to retrieve the handkerchief she kept there. “Tell me what happened, boys.” She swallowed a swell of bile.

“We were having a snowball fight,” Rudy’s brother offered. “I guess some of the snowballs ended up having a few rocks in them.”

“Ended up?” She gripped the crisply pressed cloth with its perfectly creased edges and hesitated for only a moment before lowering it against the boy’s gash.

Rudy winced.

Priscilla jerked back. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No. Press it hard.” Dr. Ernest’s command was soft and accompanied a rustling next to her.

She glanced sideways, and the clear eyes of Dr. Ernest met hers.

“We need to stop the blood flow.” He knelt next to her. “Once we slow the bleeding, I’ll be able to take a look at the damage.”

She nodded and dabbed the handkerchief against the gash.

“Harder.”

She pushed.

Rudy squirmed and clenched his teeth together.

“Keep pressing,” Dr. Ernest said calmly.

At the blood, the dirt, the loose flesh on Rudy’s head—her stomach rolled, and she wanted to drop the cloth and scramble away before she embarrassed herself. But she forced her fingers to stay in place until a splotch of bright red seeped into the linen and spread like the fringes of a web.

Dr. Ernest combed strands of hair away from Rudy’s forehead. “Guess you boys learned a lesson.”

They nodded mutely.

Priscilla took a steadying breath, knowing she had to stay and prove that even though she was a lady, she could withstand the discomfort of viewing an injury. And if she could stay poised during the situation, she could surely withstand the harsh realities of missionary life.

Dr. Ernest’s long fingers wove through Rudy’s hair and then moved to his face, brushing at the mud and pebbles.

She tried not to stare at the multitude of white scars that slashed across the tanned flesh of Dr. Ernest’s hands, but the puckered lines drew her attention. He’d certainly suffered incredible trauma to acquire so many lacerations.

“You’re doing fine,” he said to Rudy.

After another minute, he spoke again. “Let’s have a look at the damage now, shall we?”

She hesitated, and then lifted the bandage, making a point of focusing on Dr. Ernest’s face and not the oozing wound.

His wrinkled forehead framed tender but probing eyes. “Son, you’ll need a handful of stitches, but other than that, it’s safe to say you’ll live.”

Rudy gave the doctor a tremulous grin.

“I’ve got my supplies at Dr. Baldwin’s house.” He pushed a clean portion of the handkerchief back against the wound. “Hold this tight and head on over there so I can stitch you up.”

Dr. Ernest hefted himself to his feet then reached a hand toward Priscilla. He towered over her. He’d neglected his cloak, and his shirt stretched against the hard strength of his arms and shoulders.

If she hadn’t witnessed the gentleness of his hands, she wouldn’t have believed a man of his magnitude capable of it. She placed her hand into his. And when his fingers closed around hers, she drew in a sharp breath. His touch was gentler than she’d imagined.

Without any effort, he drew her upward until she stood. This time when his gaze met hers, a hint of humor crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“You did a good job holding yourself together.”

Was he mocking her?

The tiny crook of a grin answered her question.

“I’m a teacher, Dr. Ernest. Not a doctor’s assistant.” She tugged her hand out of his grip.

“Eli, you and Miss White make a good team.” Dr. Baldwin clapped Dr. Ernest on the back.

“Well, you know me. I prefer working by myself.”

Priscilla glanced at the crowd that had gathered, and a rush of embarrassed heat pulsed through her. She was making another spectacle with Dr. Ernest.

Taking a step away from him, she shook the folds of her cloak and brushed at the mud clinging to the embroidered edges.

Mother moved next to her and narrowed her eyes at Dr. Ernest before handing Priscilla the gloves she’d dropped in her haste to leave the building. “You’re a mess.” Mother tucked a strand of loose hair behind Priscilla’s ear.

“I’m fine.”

“And you’ve soiled your dress.” Mother frowned at the soggy spot on her skirt.

“Hate to be the one to tell you this, ma’am—” Dr. Ernest’s grin crooked higher—“but a little mud and blood is hardly the worst of what your daughter will experience when she gets to India.”

Mother lifted her nose and peered at him over the top, evaluating him from his head to his boots. Then she sniffed and clutched Priscilla’s arm. “Come now, dear. Let’s get you home and cleaned up.”

“Speaking of India,” Dr. Baldwin said, stepping toward them, “I’ve got a letter for you, Miss White.”

Priscilla froze. Even her heart floundered to a stop.

“I’ve just returned from a Board meeting in Prattsburgh with Dr. Ernest.” The old doctor handed her an envelope. “The Board asked me to deliver this to you.”

Excitement clutched her middle and twisted it. She took the letter and tried to stop the sudden shaking of her hands. Finally the Board had made its decision. She had no doubt they’d approved her for mission work. Everyone had told her she was an ideal candidate for one of the rare teaching positions they assigned to unmarried females.

The Board had made it clear they preferred sending married couples to the mission field. But she’d explained in her correspondence that she would never marry. If they wanted to use her, they would have to take her as she was.

Now, after months of waiting and raising support, she needed only to find out exactly where in India they were sending her and when she would leave. Mrs. Wilson’s school for girls, perhaps? She’d just read an article in the
Missionary Herald
about how proficient the young heathen girls were becoming in their needlework.

“Thank you.” She smiled at Dr. Baldwin. But instead of returning her smile, he glanced at his shoes.

She stared at the letter, and her heart lurched. Was she really ready for this? Once she read it, she might as well kiss Mother and Father good-bye.

“Go on, open it!” someone called.

Of course she was ready. Past ready. She’d wanted to go since God had laid a calling upon her heart at the revival meeting when she’d been a girl of fifteen.

She pressed her finger into the seal, broke it, and then unfolded the crisp paper. God had given her the burden and desire to use her gifts to help save depraved souls. And now it was finally time. . . .

“Read it aloud,” another voice said.

Eager eyes watched her. “Very well.” She lifted the paper and cleared her throat. “‘Dear Miss White,’” she began, but the next words stuck in her throat. She scanned the sheet, and her chest constricted painfully until she could hardly breathe.

Quickly she folded the letter. “I think I shall wait—”

Mother snapped the sheet from her hand. “Priscilla Jane White, you’ll do no such thing.” Before she could think to react, Mother unfolded it. “These people are your biggest supporters. They deserve to share in your excitement.”

“Mother,” she murmured, “I’d rather read it in private—”

“My dear, stop being so modest.” Mother stepped out of her reach and settled her spectacles upon her nose.

“Perhaps Miss White is right,” Dr. Baldwin said.

“Nonsense.”

“Mo-ther . . .” Priscilla’s whisper contained all the agony roiling through her heart.

Mother adjusted her spectacles. “‘Dear Miss White.’”

Dr. Baldwin’s eyebrows drooped together over sad eyes. Even though he was on the Board, she knew their decision wasn’t his fault. He was the only other person in Angelica, besides Mother and Father, who knew the truth. He’d been the one to give her the diagnosis.

He’d known how important this position was to her—one of the few positions for a single woman. He knew just how much she longed to leave Allegany County and all the friends and family who would never understand why she couldn’t get married.

“‘We regret to inform you that at this time we cannot accept your application . . .’” Mother’s voice trailed off.

An awkward silence descended over the gathering. Mother read silently and then creased the letter back into its original fold. “Well.” She pursed her lips together. “I’m sure there must be some mistake.”

Each beat of Priscilla’s heart spurted pain and confusion into the rest of her body. Her mother was right. The Board had made a mistake. Surely once she informed them the unmarried teacher position was her only option, they’d reconsider.