Kitabı oku: «Crescent City Courtship», sayfa 2
She led the way out of the waiting room into the well-stocked dispensary, then into a third room. She lit a gas lamp on a plain side table. Bathed as it was in quiet shadows and antiseptic odors, the room looked inviting enough. John was glad he’d elected to come here, rather than the hospital.
“A maternity call I made late this afternoon. Breech delivery.” As Winona turned down one of the four beds with movements unhurried but efficient, John kept an eye on Abigail. She stood just inside the room, hands clenched in the folds of her skirt. She looked more than out of place. She kept looking out the window as if expecting to be followed. “This is Abigail Neal,” he said.
Winona, in her unassuming way, exchanged nods with the other woman.
“We lost the baby,” John said as he laid his burden on the smooth, clean sheet.
“Bless her heart,” Winona breathed, touching Tess’s wan face and pulling up the top sheet.
“She’ll be fine, but we need to arrange a burial in the morning.” John took the baby out of Tess’s arms. “Where’s Dr. Laniere?”
“Gone to deliver another baby.”
John winced. “Gone how long?”
“Maybe an hour. He’d just come back from the hospital and sat down to supper. Miss Camilla’s upstairs puttin’ the children to bed.”
“All right. I’ll stay until he comes back.” John glanced at Abigail, who looked like she might topple over, if not for the wall behind her. “Winona, could you fix Miss Neal a cup of tea and a biscuit or two? Maybe find her a clean dress and a nightgown for the patient?”
Winona nodded. “Was just goin’ to suggest that. Be back in a bit.” She paused in the kitchen doorway and gave Abigail a kind glance over her shoulder. “Ma’am, there’s a chair over there in the corner if you want to sit down.”
“Thank you—” But Winona had already disappeared. “What a lovely young woman.” Abigail moved the wooden straight chair close to the bed.
“Yes, and she’s a wonderful cook, too.” John had been moving about the room, but when the silence became prolonged, he looked around to find Abigail, head bent, folding pleats in her ugly skirt. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
John shrugged and moved to the window, where he stared at his reflection in the dark window. He hoped the professor would be back soon.
Chapter Three
Abigail straightened the lye-scented sheet across Tess’s shoulders and brushed the lank hair away from her face. The chair beside the cot had become most uncomfortable in the last hour, despite the pleasure of the tea and biscuits Winona had provided.
Tess, now clothed in a plain white nightgown Winona pulled from a supply closet, was finally asleep. Abigail herself had been given a faded dark blue cotton dress with elegant jet buttons marching up the front and ending at a neat white stand-up collar. She couldn’t remember ever having worn such a lovely garment.
She looked up at John Braddock. He had ceased prowling the room and now towered at the foot of the bed, holding Tess’s nameless little one close to his sharp-planed face. He had not put the baby down once since he’d picked her up. Expression somber, he brushed the waxen cheek with his knuckle, then examined her minute fingers one by one.
Abigail wondered what drove the emotions that crossed his expressive face. Was it remorse for the loss of his little patient? Did he regret his earlier condescension?
She could hardly believe some of the things she’d done and said to him in the past few hours. Up to this point, her anger at him and fear for Tess had given Abigail strength beyond herself, but something about the young doctor’s tearless grief flayed her emotions. She bent to lay her forehead beside Tess’s shoulder and let hot tears soak the sheet. She was empty. She didn’t know what to do, where to turn.
“Birth and death, all at once.”
Abigail turned her head. “What?”
“I never realized how closely tied they are. Some of us get a lot of time and some get none at all.” John lifted his gaze from the baby’s face and Abigail saw stark confusion in the heavy-lidded hazel eyes. “Do you think it’s all predetermined? Am I wasting my time?”
“I don’t know.” She sat up and scrubbed away her tears with both hands. “The baby might have been dead before you got there.” It was hard to admit that. “Tess would’ve died, too, if you hadn’t come. I was thinking—I’m not sure I could’ve carried on if she had.”
John’s face was a study in consternation. “Is she your sister?”
“No.” Abigail adjusted the sheet again and checked to make sure Tess’s breathing was still regular. “Six months ago I arrived in New Orleans with nowhere to go, no family and no friends. Tess took me in and helped me find a job.”
He stared at her and she felt her face heat. What must she look like to this educated, expensively dressed young high-brow? Even in stained and wrinkled clothing, with his thick hair falling into his eyes from a deep widow’s peak, he looked like he belonged in somebody’s parlor.
“Where did you come from?” His elegantly marked brows drew together. “You don’t look like the usual fare from the District.”
Abigail came out of her chair. “Give me that baby right now—” she tugged at the infant corpse—” and get out of here.” When he resisted, looking down at her as if she were crazy, she glared up into his multicolored eyes. “If you don’t like the way I look, go put on your smoking jacket and settle down for a beer with the fellows. Then you can laugh over us slum wenches to your heart’s content and not think about us one more second.”
The fellow refused to behave in any predictable way. He hooked his free arm around Abigail’s shoulders and yanked her close, the baby between them. “Abigail, I’m sorry.” His voice was husky, almost inaudible.
Abigail stood with her face buried in the fine, still-damp wool of John’s coat, the soft, bulky shell of a baby pressing against her bosom. Her world shifted.
How long? How long since she’d been held in the hard strength of a man’s embrace? Not since she was a small girl, before her mother left and her father became the Voice of God.
She ought to pull away from this improper embrace. Humiliating to need it so much. No more crying, though. She stood stiff, wondering what he was thinking.
“Braddock, what’s going on here?” The deep, resonant voice came from the doorway.
John Braddock let Abigail go and stepped back. “S-Sir! I’m so sorry, but I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Looked to me like you knew exactly what you were doing.”
Abigail turned, straightening her hair and smoothing her skirt in the presence of the tall, distinguished man who strode into the clinic carrying a black medical bag. His thick black hair, gray-shot on the sides, and the lines fanning out from intelligent black eyes put his age somewhere in the mid-forties, but the trim, athletic figure would have rivaled many a younger man.
Abigail glanced at John, waiting for an introduction. The younger doctor seemed to be struck dumb with mortification. She dropped a curtsy toward the professor, whose mouth had quirked with disarming humor. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Laniere. I’m Abigail Neal. I’m the one who came for you on behalf of my friend Tess.”
“Ah, yes.” Dr. Laniere’s expression sobered. “The difficult labor.” He approached Tess and bent to lay a gentle hand against her forehead, then lifted her wrist to check her pulse.
Abigail met John’s gaze. She started to speak, but he shook his head once, hard, his lips clamped together. “Prof, the baby didn’t make it.” At the professor’s inquiring look John continued doggedly. “Breech presentation kept the baby too long without oxygen. The mother was losing blood quickly, so I made the decision to save her.” His tone was firm, almost clinical, but Abigail heard the note of distress in the elegant drawl.
The young doctor’s contained anguish inexplicably drew Abigail’s sympathy. She had a crazy urge to comfort him.
Dr. Laniere steepled his fingers together, propping his forehead against their tips. For a moment the only sound in the room was Tess’s harsh breathing, then the professor dropped his hands and looked up with a sigh. He approached John to clasp his shoulder. “We’ll talk about your procedures later, Braddock.” He laid his other hand on the baby’s head, as if in benediction. “Why did you bring him here?”
Although he’d missed his guess at the swaddled infant’s sex, Abigail noted with gratitude that he didn’t call the baby “it.”
“They wanted a burial and didn’t have any place to go,” said John. “I told them you’d help us find a minister and a gravesite.”
“Did you?” Dr. Laniere sounded amused.
“Please, sir,” Abigail intervened before John’s defensiveness could spoil their advantage. “We’d be grateful if you could help us. All we can afford is the charity catacombs and I just can’t see that poor little one abandoned there.”
Dr. Laniere stood with his hand resting on Braddock’s shoulder, but he fixed Abigail with a look so full of compassion that she nearly broke down in tears again. “I understand your distress. But you know the baby is in the arms of the Father now.” He smiled slightly. “Perhaps, of all of us, the least abandoned.”
Abigail wished she could believe that.
Hope lifted the discouraged droop of John Braddock’s mouth. “That’s so, isn’t it, sir?”
“As I live and breathe in Christ.” Dr. Laniere squeezed his student’s shoulder. “Now let’s see what we can do to make your patient more comfortable and take care of the baby’s resting place.”
“You will not give her that beastly powder.” Abigail stood in the kitchen doorway, effectively preventing John’s entrance into the clinic. The professor had gone to take care of the burial arrangements, leaving the two of them to watch over Tess. “I’ve known women who never rid themselves of the craving, once they taste it.”
John showed her the harmless-looking brown bottle of morphine. “But it would ease her pain and help her sleep.”
“Yes, but if you slow her heart enough, she may not wake up at all.”
“What do you know about it?” John stiffened. “We’ll ask Dr. Laniere.”
She’d studied on her own, but hadn’t known enough to help her mother. “I know what I’ve seen—”
“John, at the risk of sounding uncivil, what are you doing here so late?”
Abigail turned.
A pretty, curly-haired young matron entered the clinic with a baby of about six months propped on her hip. She tipped her head to smile at Abigail around John’s shoulder. “I’m Camilla Laniere. Meggins, say ‘How do you do.’” She picked up the baby’s hand to wave.
John looked guilty. “I’m sorry if we disturbed you.”
“Nonsense. I was just surprised to see anyone here, that’s all.”
When the baby stuck her chubby fist in her mouth, Abigail smiled. “How do you do, young lady?”
“Afflicted by swollen gums, I’m afraid,” said Mrs. Laniere, brushing her knuckles gently across the baby’s flushed cheek. “We came down for a sliver of ice.” She paused, a question in her soft voice. “I didn’t know we had a patient in the clinic.”
Abigail brushed past John. “I’m not the patient, ma’am. My name is Abigail Neal, and my friend Tess is in the ward here. Your husband sent Mr. Braddock to us. He brought us here when—” She faltered. “Tess is very ill. She lost her baby.”
“I’m so very sorry.” Mrs. Laniere reached to clasp Abigail’s hand. She glanced at John, heading off his clear intention to continue the opium debate. “You did well to bring them here, John. What have you done with my husband?”
John blinked, reverting to some instinctive standard of manners. “He’s taking care of laying out the—the body. He sent Willie to find a couple of grave diggers.”
“Ah. Then I assume we’ll have the burial in the morning.”
“Yes, ma’am, before church.” He hesitated. “Because the professor will be back soon, I believe I’ll leave the patient in his hands. She’s resting fairly comfortably now. I’ve a pharmacy test to study for.” He pressed the vial of morphine into Abigail’s hand. “You can trust Dr. Laniere to do the right thing.”
“I’m sure I can.” Pocketing the opiate, Abigail gave him a dismissive nod. “Good evening, Mr. Braddock.”
“Good evening, Miss Neal.”
When he closed the door behind him with a distinct thump, Meg flinched and snuggled her face into her mother’s neck.
Shaking her head, Mrs. Laniere hugged the baby. “Please overlook John’s abruptness. He’s…a bit tense these days.”
“I suppose I should have thanked him.” Abigail leaned against the table, rubbing her aching temple. “Does he think he knows everything?”
“I’m afraid it’s rather characteristic of the genus homo.” Mrs. Laniere smiled. “But John in particular, being considered brilliant in his field, tends to be a bit…insistent in expressing his opinions.”
Abigail laughed. “That’s one way to put it.”
“You must be worried about your friend.” Mrs. Laniere hesitated, swaying with the baby. “My dear, would you care to sit down with me for a cup of tea?”
“I couldn’t impose. Tess—”
“—is resting. We’ll be near enough to hear her if she calls. And I’d like a bit of intelligent female conversation while I nurse the baby.”
Abigail studied Camilla Laniere’s frank, friendly face. There seemed to be no ulterior motive. She smiled faintly. “I’d adore a cup of tea, Mrs. Laniere.”
“Please. Camilla. I’m not that much older than you.”
The doctor’s wife led the way into the kitchen, then unceremoniously handed the baby over to Abigail and began tea preparations. Despite her itchy gums, Meg seemed remarkably placid. Giving a contented sigh, she popped her thumb in her mouth and laid her head on Abigail’s shoulder.
After a startled downward glance, Abigail smiled and patted her charge’s cushioned bottom. Leaning against the dough box, she watched Camilla’s familiar movements around the roomy, well-equipped kitchen. “Where did the servants go?”
“Winona and Willie are our only house servants.” Camilla measured tea into a lovely floral china teapot. “They both go home on Saturday evenings to be with their families on the Lord’s Day.”
“I suppose we interrupted your family time tonight, but I was so grateful when your husband arrived—”
“My dear, you mustn’t apologize.” Camilla set the kettle on the stove to boil and smiled over her shoulder. “Gabriel is always glad to be of service. I would have been down here myself if I hadn’t been putting the children to bed.”
As Abigail stared into Camilla’s golden-brown eyes, something flashed between them—an intuition of friendship, an offer of human connection. Abigail looked away, hardly able to bear this sudden kindness.
After a moment Camilla quietly took the baby, leaving Abigail empty-handed and feeling foolish. “I think you need a place to stay tonight. To be with your friend.” She laughed as Abigail shook her head. “I’m being utterly selfish, you know. Winona and Willie won’t be back until tomorrow evening. If our patient needs something, you’d be here for her.”
“All right.” Abigail returned the smile. “I’ll stay. And of course you must call me Abigail. ‘Miss Neal’ ran away many years ago and hasn’t been heard from since.” Touching the baby’s pink foot, she looked up from under her lashes. “Besides, I have to make sure the Barbarian doesn’t try to feed opium to Tess.”
Feeling a soft little hand patting her cheek, Abigail struggled out of deep sleep into utter darkness.
“Winona! Winona, wake up, I’m thirsty!” lisped the small, invisible person behind the hand. “It’s hot and Mama’s rocking the baby and I can’t sleep.”
Abigail suddenly remembered where she was. Winona’s little room off the clinic, just a few steps from Tess’s bed in the ward. This must be one of the Laniere children.
She sat up. “I’m not Winona, I’m Abigail. But I’ll get you a drink of water—just a minute, let me light a candle.”
“Ooh! Just like Goldilocks! What’re you doing in Winona’s bed?”
Abigail laughed. “Winona will be back tomorrow.” Swinging her legs off the side of the bed, she lit the candle and held it up so she could see the wide, bespectacled eyes of a little boy who looked like his mother—probably around seven years old, judging by the missing front teeth. His hair curled in every direction but down and his nightgown was buttoned two buttons off, so that the hem hitched crookedly around his knees.
He poked his spectacles up on his button nose with one finger. “You ain’t Goldilocks. Your hair’s brown.”
Abigail tugged the braid hanging over her shoulder, wishing for a proper nightcap. “It is indeed. What’s your name?”
“Diron. Are you gonna get me a drink or not?”
Since Camilla had thoughtfully provided a pitcher of clean water and a cup for her guest before retiring, Abigail smiled and poured a drink for the boy. Diron downed it quickly and held out the cup for more. It was then that she noted the small red blister on the child’s forehead.
“Just a minute.” She reached out to push back the bright curls. His forehead was warm.
Enduring her touch with a long-suffering frown, Diron scratched his stomach.
“How long have you been itching?” she asked.
“I dunno. I must’ve got a bunch of mosquito bites. Can I please have some more water?”
“Certainly. But I want to see your tummy.”
She poured the water, then while he drank it, matter-of-factly unbuttoned his nightgown. His chest and upper abdomen were covered with the tiny red blisters. Chicken pox.
No wonder the poor child was so hot and thirsty. Camilla was busy with the baby, but she would want to know.
When Diron finished his water, Abigail took him by the hand and led him into the clinic and through the kitchen. The sound of both of their bare feet slapping against the wooden floors tickled her sense of humor and she enjoyed the feel of his small warm hand in hers. He was a trusting little fellow.
In the carpeted hallway she saw the stairs to the upper floors. It was a large, airy house, bigger than anything Abigail had been inside before, with lots of screened windows and light, gauzy curtains stirred by a cool nighttime breeze.
On the first landing she felt Diron tug her hand. “Miss Lady. I’m tired.” He gave an enormous yawn.
“Would you like a piggy-back ride?” He nodded and she walked down a few steps to let him climb on. “Goodness, you’re a big boy.” She grunted as he clutched her around the neck and waist. “Hold tight now.”
As Abigail trudged up the remaining steps to the first floor, Diron leaned around. “Where’d you get that funny accent?”
“China,” she replied without thinking.
“Oh, pooh. I didn’t believe you was Goldilocks, neither.”
Chapter Four
A chill had sneaked across the river during the night, sending fog drifting across the graveyard, twining through Abigail’s hair and muting her and Dr. Laniere’s footsteps. The ground was soft, even on this elevated patch a mile or so away from the river, and she had to step over puddles of water in the shallow hollows of sunken graves.
Abigail carried the baby, dressed in a tiny white gown worn by Meg just a few months ago. Camilla would have attended the funeral service, but she’d had to remain with the feverish and itchy Diron. Tess was induced to remain in bed only by Abigail’s promise of writing down exactly what was said at her baby’s interment.
They were to call her Caroline.
“Here we are,” said Dr. Laniere, halting beside a tiny fresh grave, barely three feet long and a couple of feet wide. He opened the lid of the small wooden casket he’d carried from the house and looked across the top of it at Abigail. “It’s time to put her in the casket.” His deep-set dark eyes were somber, filled with sympathy. “Remember—”
“I know. She’s with the Father.” Abigail closed her mind against the instinct to pray. She’d been brought up to talk to God at every turn and the habit kicked in at moments of stress. But it was difficult to believe God was really interested in either her or this small wasted life.
Placing the baby in the box, she arranged the lacy white skirts in graceful folds. She was glad Tess couldn’t see this. She could remember Caroline cuddled in her arms like a white-capped doll.
Dr. Laniere placed the lid on the box and was about to lower it into the grave when pounding footsteps approached.
“Wait!” John Braddock ran out of the mist, panting. In one hand he carried his black medical bag. “Professor, I want to see her again before you bury her.”
Dr. Laniere straightened.
Abigail hadn’t expected the young doctor to actually come for the burial. She was even more surprised that he’d apparently already been on a medical call. “What are you doing here?” she blurted, sounding perhaps more defensive than she’d intended.
“I’ve a right to be here,” he said breathlessly. “I delivered this baby, and—” He swallowed. “Let me see her, please.”
When the professor opened the box, Braddock removed his hat, clutching it as he stared at the baby. “I’m so sorry,” he muttered. “I promise I’ll learn to do better.”
Abigail’s throat closed. She didn’t want to like this privileged rich boy. Pressing her lips together, she looked away.
She heard the lid go back on the box and then the gritty sound of wood landing on sand and clay. The two men picked up the shovels left by the grave diggers and began to fill in the small hole in the ground.
The job took less than a minute. She made herself look at the mound of fresh dirt, the only visible trace of Tess’s baby—except the scars on her friend’s body. She thought of her father’s pontifications on Scripture. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord cherishing the death of his beloved.
She couldn’t find anything particularly precious about this stark moment.
“Oh, God, we know you’re here.” Dr. Laniere lifted his resonant voice. “We know you give and you take away and you are sovereign. We pray you’ll remind us of your presence even in the darkness of grief. We pray you’ll be ever near to Tess as she recovers. Please champion these young women and help them find real help as they seek you. Please use Camilla and the children and me to meet their needs. And I pray you’ll hear and meet young Braddock’s desire to be a healer, even as you heal his heart.”
What about my desire to be a healer? Abigail thought as the professor paused. What about my wounded heart? She opened her eyes and looked up just as a ray of sunshine broke through the patchy fog. An enormous rainbow soared from one end of the graveyard to the other. She caught her breath.
“In the name of our Lord, who takes our ashes and turns them to joy…Amen.”
The professor and John replaced their hats. Abigail, shivering in the cool morning dampness, hurried toward the cemetery entrance. She wanted to get back to Tess, to write down the words of the service before she forgot them. Ashes to joy…
“Wait, Abigail.” Shifting his medical bag to the other hand, John caught up with her, took her hand and pulled it through his elbow. “I thought you should know I went back to the District last night.”
“Did you?” Stumbling on the soggy, uneven ground, she reluctantly accepted the support of his arm. “Needed a bit of alcoholic sustenance?”
“No, I—” He gave her an exasperated look. “Must you assume the worst?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know many men who lead me to expect anything else.”
“Well, in this case you’re wrong. I went back there because I’d heard a child coughing in the apartment next to yours. The walls are so thin—”
“Yes, they are.” She didn’t need to be reminded. “That would be the McLachlin baby. He has chronic croup. I’ve tried to get Rose to move him out of that mildewy apartment, but she can’t afford anything better.”
“Well, I went back to see about him. Stupid woman wouldn’t let me in, even though I told her I was a doctor.”
Abigail looked up at him. “To the contrary. For once she was using her head, not letting a strange man into her apartment.”
There was a brief silence. “I see your point.” John opened the graveyard gate and held it as Abigail passed through. “Then perhaps you’d agree to return with me this afternoon and persuade her of my good intentions. I’d like to look at the baby to see if anything can be done about that cough.”
Abigail hesitated. “She can’t afford to pay you.”
“I know that.” He let out an exasperated sigh. “Prof encourages us to see charity cases when we have time. It’s good practice.”
“Oh, well, then. For the sake of your education, I suppose I’d best come with you.”
He stiffened. “Miss Neal—”
“Mr. Braddock.” She squeezed his elbow. “I was only tweaking you.”
He looked at her for a moment before a slow grin curled his mouth. “Were you, indeed? Then for the sake of your education, I’ll allow you to observe a man who practices medicine for more than money. Perhaps you might learn something.”
His eyes held hers. Something shifted between them. Abigail looked over her shoulder to find the professor’s reassuring presence several paces back.
John followed her gaze. “Prof, I’m going back to Tchapitoulas Street with Miss Neal to look after a sick little boy.”
“Fine. Just bring her back before noon and you may stay for dinner, too.” Dr. Laniere waved them on and turned off toward Daubigny Street, where his family attended church.
For the next couple of blocks, Abigail maintained a tense silence. In the distance church bells began to ring. “Are you a church-going man, Mr. Braddock? Perhaps your family will wonder where you are.”
“My family would be quite astonished to see me at all on Sunday before late afternoon,” he said easily. “I don’t live at home.”
“Oh.” When he didn’t elaborate, she looked at him. “Then a wife or—or sweetheart?”
“I assure you I am quite unattached at the moment. Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Of course not.” Abigail looked away, blushing, as they turned the corner at the saloon. “I agreed to come with you to check on the baby.” Her relief that he was unattached was absurd. There was nothing personal whatsoever in his escort.
“Yes, you did. And here we are.” He stood back as Abigail opened the outer front door and knocked on the door across the entryway from her old apartment with Tess.
She could hear the baby crying inside, Rose’s anxious voice, the other two children giggling and shrieking. “Rose?” She knocked again. “It’s Abigail.”
The door jerked open and Rose appeared with the baby on her hip. A little girl and a little boy of about four and five clung to her skirts, one on each side. “Abigail—what are you doing here? Is something wrong?”
Abigail glanced at John over her shoulder. “I brought Dr. Braddock with me. He wants to look at Paddy.”
Rose’s big blue eyes widened. “Paddy’s fine.”
Abigail laid a hand on the baby’s back and felt the rattle of his lungs as he breathed. He’d tucked his face into Rose’s shoulder, but Abigail could just see the curve of a feverish cheek. “Rose. Please let us in. Denying trouble never made it go away.”
Rose stared at John, one hand clasping the baby, the other protectively on her daughter’s head. Abigail knew she must be thinking of the drunken husband who had brought her and the children over from Ireland and abandoned them two months ago. As she’d told John earlier, Abigail herself had little reason to rely on any man’s trustworthiness. But some tiny part of her insisted on giving this one a chance to prove himself.
John seemed to realize he was here on sufferance. “Mrs. McLachlin, I think I know what’s causing Paddy’s cough. If you’ll just let me look at him for a minute, I can give him some medicine and he’ll feel much better tonight.” His tone was, if not exactly humble, moderate enough to reassure.
Baby Paddy suddenly erupted in one of his fits of croupy coughing. Rose took a flustered step back. “All right. Come in, both of you, but don’t look at the mess. The children have been playing all morning.”
Abigail would not have increased Rose’s embarrassment for the world, but she couldn’t help marveling that the young Irishwoman had survived this long on a laundress’s wage with three small children. Clearly she was in dire straights. Except for two dolls made from bits of yarn and a pile of rusty tin cans the children had been playing with in the center of the room, there was little difference between this apartment and the one Abigail had shared with Tess. Poverty had a way of leveling the ground.
To her surprise, as she and Rose seated themselves on the two wooden chairs, John took off his hat, sat down cross-legged on the floor and opened his bag. He produced a couple of splinters of peppermint candy wrapped in waxed paper and smiled at the two older children, who stared at him from behind Rose’s chair. “Look what I’ve got here, widgets. I’ll give it to you, but you have to open your mouths wide and let me see if there’s room for it to go in.”
The little girl, Stella, glanced at her brother. “It’s candy,” she whispered.
“I want it,” he whispered back. The first to conquer his shyness, he edged toward John, who held the candy just out of reach. Apparently seduced by the twinkle in John’s eyes, he dropped his jaw and stuck out his tongue. “’ee? ’ere’s ’oom.”
John laughed and deftly plied a tongue depressor as he peered down the little boy’s throat. “There is, indeed. Here you go.” He laid the candy on the boy’s tongue. “What’s your name?”
“Sean.” The boy danced backward, eliminating any chance of the candy being snatched away. His eyes closed in ecstasy. “Marmee, I like this.”
“Me! Me!” Stella gaped wide as she crowded close to John, gagging slightly as he depressed her tongue. But she patiently held still to let him look at her throat. When she received her candy, she sucked on it furiously, gazing at John with adoration. “Can Paddy have some too?”
