The Doctor's Undoing (7 page)

He put his glasses back on. “Why not fencing?”

“It seems so...” She searched for the kindest word. “...impractical. When are these boys ever likely to use such a skill?”

Dr. Parker picked up the last of the wooden rods and tossed it into a barrel that stood in the corner of the room. “I'll admit, it is a gentleman's sport. But learning to command their bodies, to strategize, to keep a cool head in a fight, to outsmart an opponent rather than outbrawl them? I think those are highly practical skills.” For just a moment, a rakish grin filled his face. “But I would be lying if I said it isn't occasionally useful for me to put a few of the older ones in their place. They always think they can best me in a duel.” He slid his foil into its case with a defiant air. “And they are always wrong.”

Ida crossed her hands over her chest. “I underestimated you, Dr. Parker.”

He laughed. “It is, of course, just plain fun, as well. One day I hope to be using more than broomsticks, but from a nurse's standpoint, perhaps that is an advantage.”

“Oh,” she said with a laugh, “you'd be surprised how much damage a blunt object can do.”

“Perhaps to a wild, ferocious West Virginia elephant?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You deserved that.”

“I'd prefer the boys not picture you as a gunslinger nurse from a Western novel. Children's imaginations tend to run wild with the tiniest bits of information we give them. I like us to be deliberate in the role models we present here at the Home.”

“Oh, and you are nothing if not deliberate. A
deliberate
man hands a dozen boys sticks and sets them loose to whack at each other.”

“A deliberate man
trains
a dozen young men how to use those sticks and channels their considerable energies someplace positive so they don't whack
at
each other. Surely the army taught you boys must burn it off somewhere.”

Hadn't she had that very thought upon hearing about Mr. Grimshaw's chess lessons? “I heard an officer back at Camp Jackson once say that's why God gave us push-ups.” Dr. Parker gestured through the door and she exited the room ahead of him. “Musketeering aside, they do need practical skills, too, don't they? Apprenticeships and such?”

“Yes.” Dr. Parker turned, fished a set of keys from his pocket and locked the door behind them. “Most of the older ones take posts at trades around the city, when they can be made to fit around their lessons. I'm careful where we send them, though. Some of the ‘apprenticeships' out there aren't much more than indentured servitude. I'm sorry to say the war's left enough orphans that some don't think twice about taking advantage of them. My father had an excellent record for looking out for the children's welfare here, and I aim to keep it that way.”

Ida decided it was time to ask the question that had been sitting on her tongue all week. “May I ask you something, Dr. Parker?”

He clasped his hands behind his back. “Well, I've not seen you hesitate yet.”

She stopped for a moment, wanting to get the question out before they descended the staircase from the third floor. “Why do
you
think y'all haven't been able to keep someone in the nurse's position here?”

He paused for just a moment, and Ida wanted to stomp on her own toes.
When will I ever learn to keep my mouth shut?

“Miss Landway, I can't decide if I find your directness refreshing or startling.”

“A little of both?” she offered meekly, wondering if her tongue would soon place her at the end of the long line of former Parker Home for Orphans nurses. She'd spent a hundred nights on her knees repenting outbursts of an unguarded tongue—she dearly hoped this post wasn't about to become the casualty of yet another.

Dr. Parker leaned against the banister, which promptly gave a worrisome groan and popped a screw to bounce along the top stair. “I would say,” he said wearily as he bent to pick up the wayward hardware, “that it is because it is a big, endless job for which we don't pay nearly as well as we should. We're forever making do and patching up.” He rocked the banister back and forth, testing to see if it would hold without the screw. “I spend much of my time beholden to donors, but the money we receive is never enough. Quite frankly, it's my hope the army is better training for what we face here.”

The answer satisfied her. Ida was used to uphill battles and making do, and she'd met plenty of nurses who weren't. “Smart thinking.”

“I do hope so.” He started down the stairs, then stopped. “Oh, but one thing.”

“Yes?”

“I must ask you to steer clear of the boys' fencing lessons from now on. We're up here every Thursday from three to four. It really is a ‘no girls allowed' thing.”

Ida blinked at him. “You're serious.”

“Silly, I know, but there are so few things we can give them, and they seem to take to the exclusivity of it. I indulge them.”

“So if a female student asked to learn fencing, you'd deny her?”

“Nonsense. It would never come up.”

Ida thought of her friend Leanne's husband, Captain John Gallows, and how fiercely he prickled at being forced to learn to knit as a promotional stunt for the Red Cross. Some gender-based “traditions” really begged to be knocked down. “You're sure of that?” Lady Gwendolyn seemed a perfect candidate for Pirate Queen if she wanted to raise a little trouble...

...which she did not. This was neither the time nor the place.
Guard my brain and my tongue, Lord, please!

“Well, yes, I expect I am,” Dr. Parker was saying as he continued down the stairs.

“Of course,” she said, following him.
You've got your yarn, why on earth would you go stirring up more trouble?
Ida applied her most congenial tone. “Whatever was I thinking?”

Chapter Eight

S
aturday morning passed in relative quiet—three splinters, two sore throats and one very nasty skinned knee. Ida had been at the Home almost two weeks, and was beginning to feel something close to “settled in.” As such, Ida took pride in the calm she displayed when Mr. MacNeil pushed into the infirmary with a cluster of irritated-looking boys in his wake. “I've got trouble for ye, Nurse Landway.”

Ida's definition of trouble had changed considerably in the past fourteen days. The boys looked in no danger, save a collection of annoyed expressions. “They look rather healthy to me.”

“They won't in an hour or so. I found these lads playing with a pile of rocks.”

Ida didn't see any blood or bruises, so they hadn't been throwing those rocks at each other at least. “Rocks?”

“A pile of rocks that was sitting under a patch of poison ivy. They'll have gotten it all over the lot of 'em. Should I throw them in the showers?”

She stood up. “Goodness, no. That will only spread things more quickly.” She'd meant to include calamine solution in her list of needed supplies—the tiny bottle she had in her cabinets wouldn't come close to covering the yards of soon-to-be-itching skin standing in front of her.
Time to get creative.
Ida ushered the boys into the office, calculating the number who entered against the amount of baking soda she had in her stores. “Mr. MacNeil, would you have time to dash to the kitchen and fetch up all the baking soda they can spare? We'll need more than I have here.” The Scotsman nodded. “And some oatmeal!” she called as he ducked out the door. Even the unscientific home remedy could be called into service with this large a case.

Ida stared at the motley lineup, some of whom had already begun to scratch. “All right, gentlemen, off with your shirts. And whatever you do, don't touch your faces.” Immediately, as if by command, the one on the end scratched his nose. “I said
not
to touch your face!” She poured water into a bowl and began mixing all the baking soda immediately at hand.

Twenty minutes later, the line of boys more closely resembled a whitewashed fence, patched and smeared as they were with baking soda. She'd commandeered a line of chairs from a nearby classroom and now had them applying the paste to their ankles just in case the offending leaves had wandered into their pant legs. Anything more intimate than that would have to be tended by Dr. Parker.

“Resist the urge to scratch,” she warned, “or I'll have to resort to my mama's trick of putting socks over your hands.”

“How long 'til it stops itching?” one boy asked, wrinkling his nose repeatedly, trying to sooth the itch without actually scratching. Ida's heart twisted for the boys—it would be a long night. In this heat, it would be a long week—maybe even more.

She couldn't bear to tell them. “Longer than you'd like. But you look to me like a tough lot. You'll get through it.”

“They'll have no choice,” came Dr. Parker's deep voice from the doorway. He stood holding a pair of serving tongs, a small stack of boys' undergarments and a pillowcase. “Off with your clothes, boys. They'll have to go.”

“But there's a girl here!” a boy protested, thrusting a hand so closely to Ida that she had to duck out of the way to avoid contact. Just the thought of being around so much rash had already made her feel itchy. She shot up a prayer of thanksgiving that she had moved all the donated yarn into her rooms in the dormitory.

“There is a
lady present
,” Dr. Parker corrected. “One whom we shall thank for her service before we politely request that she leave.”

“No need to twist my arm,” Ida said, gathering up her paperwork. “I'll come back in an hour to scrub things down and make up some more paste for them to use tonight. Two hours, actually. Lock the infirmary up after yourself, Dr. Parker. I don't want anyone wandering in here until I've washed it all down.” Two hours would buy Ida enough time for an oatmeal bath of her own. Poison ivy was nasty stuff—a wily enemy if ever there was one—and a preemptive measure might at least soothe her mind if not protect her skin.

* * *

The night was brutally hot, and Ida slept fitfully as she worried about the poor lads and their itchy fate. Finally, just after dawn, she gave up on further rest. After dressing and trying once again to tame her unruly curls in the oppressive humidity, Ida headed down to the staff dining room in the hopes that coffee might be had.

She pushed the French doors open to find a haggard Dr. Parker slumped backward in his usual chair at the head of the table, fast asleep. He'd been up all night from the looks of it. She ought to simply back out of the room and let the poor man doze, but the sight of him glued her feet to the spot. He looked different. Unkempt and unguarded, more human than she'd ever seen him even during the fencing lesson. His dark hair, usually trim and slicked in place, hung mussed over his forehead. The shadow of whiskers peppered his strong jaw in a way that should have made him look rougher than usual, only his face was still somehow gentler than his usual expression. She'd almost forgotten he wasn't much older than her twenty-eight years—he bore himself with such an elder respectability.

He sniffed and shifted in his sleep, and Ida smiled at the uncharacteristic scruffiness of the gesture. She'd thought of him purely as a superior, an administrator, but he was still a man. A very tired, very dedicated man. It struck her, as she smiled at the empty coffee cup and an uneaten plate of toast on the table in front of him, that he didn't smile enough. With his eyes and features, he had a very nice—if rare—smile.

She really ought to leave—he'd be mortified to know she found him this way. The upstanding Dr. Parker mortified—she couldn't imagine such an expression on that face. Then again, looking as he did now, she could. She'd do what she'd do for any friend found in such a state; she'd wake him and send him off to bed.

Turning to the sideboard, Ida placed her hand on the coffeepot, glad to feel it was still warm. No one else was up; evidently the good doctor could make his own coffee. Ida poured a cup, trying to make just enough noise to allow Dr. Parker to wake up with her back turned to him, which seemed the kindest way. Most doctors she knew were light sleepers of necessity.

She heard him shift in his seat again, but when she turned around he still had not woken. Taking a second cup from the sideboard, she poured the doctor a replacement coffee and faced him. “Dr. Parker?” she said as gently as she could.

He grunted, his nose twitched, but still he slept.

“Dr. Parker?” she said a bit louder, then, “Dr. Parker?” again, a bit louder still.

He jerked awake in such a startle of arms and legs that Ida nearly dropped the cup she was holding. “What? What's wrong?”

It was wrong to laugh, but the man looked so wearily disoriented that it was just too hard not to offer him an understanding chuckle as she placed the coffee down in front of him. “Good morning.”

He squinted, then ran his hands down his face. “I'm so terribly sorry. I must have dozed off.” His jacket was folded over the next chair, his sleeves were rolled up and his shirt was a maze of wrinkles. He blinked and groped for his glasses, which sat on the table in front of him. “What time is it?”

“Not quite six.”

He groaned. An entirely human, entirely unadministrative groan. “I'd cut down every hedge on the property if that would keep last night from happening again.”

“I suspected the boys would be miserable. I didn't count on them taking you down with them.”

“A few of the boys had started to blister. Someone needed to watch them.”

There were easily half a dozen people Dr. Parker could have assigned to sit up with the boys. “It didn't have to be you.” Still, Ida admired that he'd taken it on himself. For all his procedural nature, the doctor cared deeply about the well-being of his charges. Indeed, he seemed personally invested in every child's welfare, as if he took the burden for all their care solely on his own shoulders—and had something mountainous to prove.

He gulped the coffee down eagerly. “If they had been girls, where would you have spent the night?”

She sighed and sat down. “At their side.” How many times had she slept in a chair at the army hospital, keeping watch over a critical patient or even just a frightened one? But that was a nurse's place, was it not? She was no administrator. “How did the hedges get so out of hand?”

“Mrs. Leonard was the one who tended to the plants and flowers. MacNeil does his best, but cobbling this place together on the meager budget we have doesn't leave him much time for gardening. We've become a bit overgrown, I'm afraid.” He yawned. “And now we've paid for it dearly.” He put his glasses on and started to rise. “I'd best get up there to see just how dearly.”

She reached out to stop him, her hand landing on his bare forearm. The touch startled both of them, and Ida drew her hand right back, regretting the impropriety of that gesture toward her employer. She covered the awkward moment by gesturing to the plate of toast and asking, “Is that all you've eaten?”

He began rolling his sleeves back down as if it were necessary to hide the contact. “They'll be up in the kitchen soon.”

“It's Sunday,” she corrected. “Not for another hour. I reckon the boys are out cold, so why don't I make you some eggs? I'm not entirely lost in a kitchen you know, even one as large as this.” If she could keep him occupied long enough for the rest of the staff to be up, she stood a chance of him letting someone else see to the boys while he managed some real sleep. The army was a fine education in how lack of sleep could muddle a soul's thinking.

“I suppose I could be persuaded.”

“You suppose nothing. Nurse's orders.” She took the now-empty coffeepot from the sideboard. “And don't think I don't know how doctors make some of the worst patients around,” she called as she pushed open the door that led from the staff dining room to the kitchen. “But you make a decent cup of coffee, so you can make more while I scramble up some eggs.”

Ida cocked her head toward the kitchen, giving the bleary-eyed doctor her best “do as I say” glare. Her stern look melted into a smile as he followed her obediently into the kitchen.

* * *

Daniel was too tired and too hungry to even consider the suitability of being found alone at dawn with the fairer sex in the Home's kitchen. Most of the staff members were women, for goodness' sake, and this was far from the first time a childhood illness or issue had kept him up all night. With fifty-eight children in residence—sometimes more—someone was always sick with something. The pressures of medical as well as administrative oversight that generally came to bear on him were what made an on-site nurse so essential to his ability to keep going.

Last night's itchy, blistering boys, however, had been exceptionally difficult. “I feel as if I've spent the night herding wild boars.” He allowed himself a rare complaint while preparing a second pot of coffee. This morning, it felt as if he'd require a third pot before lunch.

“Did the baking-soda paste help at all?” Miss Landway said as she bent into the kitchen pantry. It was too close to their earlier encounter—how had the woman become so adept at holding conversations when her head was stuck in cabinetry?

Daniel spooned grounds into the percolator. “Difficult to say, although if they've slept this late, we have reason to hope. They may owe whatever little comfort they have this morning to your fast action.” He added an extra spoonful, wanting the strongest-possible brew this morning.

“You ought to dunk the lot of them into an oatmeal bath when they wake up. It will help with the itch. Yourself, as well. I did so—just to be safe—and told Mr. MacNeil to do the same.” Miss Landway lit the fire under a frying pan and set a lump of butter in to sizzle while she broke eggs into a crockery bowl. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. He doubted many of the women in his social circles were such competent cooks. The army had done right by Ida Lee Landway—she seemed ready for anything.

“MacNeil? In an oatmeal bath?” He surprised himself by managing a small chuckle.

That caught her attention. “Why, bless my soul, Daniel Parker,” she exclaimed, an egg still in one hand. “An actual laugh. I wasn't sure you still had one.”

Her astonishment stung just a bit. “Am I that serious?”

Sitting back on one hip, her eyes softened as if she'd realized the sharp truth in her teasing. Daniel couldn't remember the last time anyone else had dared a joke at his expense. “I suppose you have to be. But I'd like to think you don't have to be all the time.” The pan's sputter pulled her back to the task, and she began beating the eggs with trademark enthusiasm. “What do you do for fun? Other than swordplay, that is.”

“Fun?” It bothered him, once spoken aloud, the utter shock he'd given the word.

“Yes, fun. That thing people do when they're not at work.”

When they're not at work.
When was Daniel ever not at work? When was the last time he'd been anywhere but the Orphan Home and his family home? Men his age often went “out with the boys,” but in fact Daniel was
always
with boys—and girls. Perhaps Mother had good reason to declare concern over his social life, or more precisely the lack thereof. Daniel tried to craft an answer that didn't sound pitiful, and when he came up short he simply didn't reply.

Miss Landway banged a spoon against the bowl she was holding. “Mercy, you do have
some
kind of fun, don't you? Is that why this place is so confoundedly gray?”

He squared off to stare straight at her. “What?”

He watched her choose her reply. She had an earful to give him—even half-asleep he could see it boiling behind her eyes—but she was weighing the consequences of such frankness to her employer. Still, the boiling won out, for she launched into a speech, waving the spoon to and fro for emphasis. “There's not a speck of color in this place. Children live here, Daniel Parker, not soldiers. Even Camp Jackson managed more color than these dreary walls. Rooms here should be red and green and blue and yellow with stripes and happy polka dots. Some days I feel choked just walking down the hall.” Her volcano sufficiently erupted, she made a
harrumph
sound and began attacking the eggs as they cooked. “Well, that's what I think.”