“Thank you for accepting.”

  The Gaiety was everything a body could ask for in a theater, clean and elegant. The seats proved comfortable, but also a bit cramped.

  Then again, she didn’t mind keeping her shoulder pressed into Jacob’s. She loved the play and couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so much.

  Afterwards, he took her to Bourbon Street for what he claimed to be the best gumbo in town.

  Once the waiter brought a bottle of tabasco, she had to agree. From there, he carried her straight home then surprised her when he dismissed the hack and walked with her to the porch.

  She faced him. “Why’d you tell the driver to go on? It’s getting late.”

  “You want the truth or a shrug?”

  What was he thinking? That she’d invite him in?

  “The truth, of course. Always the truth, Jacob. I cannot abide a liar.”

  “I understand. Truth is, I’m smitten with you, Lydia. I figured the walk back to my place would give me time to settle down enough to perchance sleep—even dream of a future with you in it.”

  Well, well! There it was! But was it his true heart?

  “What exactly does smitten mean to you?”

  With a smile, he raised an eyebrow and cocked his head in a fun way she so enjoyed.

  “It’s a prelude to love. I’ve never met anyone like you before. At first, your features drew me, but you aren’t just another comely nurse. You, my dear, are one in a thousand, maybe ten thousand.”

  “My, my.”

  “If it was a hundred years ago, I’d apprentice you to me. Then in a year—two at the most—declare you a master of medicine and challenge any and all to dispute me.”

  “You would do that for me?”

  “Of course. Especially since we’d be married long before then and have a private practice together in a wonderful country town somewhere.”

  Were Jacob’s lips the lying ones her mother warned her about? She certainly loved all his words just then; the look in his eyes as well.

  But Mother had drummed into her how her heart could betray her when it came to men. Instead, in the moment, she let her good sense guide her. She wanted to dismiss him but couldn’t, not until . . .

  “Sir.” She extended her hand, palm down. “Perhaps it’s time we parted ways for this evening. The morning will come early enough.”

  Oh, she did not want him to leave. How could she send him away? She wanted to hear more of his voice, study his handsome face, let her heart waltz to the words he spoke.

  But . . . she had to.

  Four-thirty would surely come, no matter what. Besides, God might only give her so much strength.

  He looked at her hand then smiled. Ever so gently, he put his fingers under hers and lifted it, bending at the waist.

  His lips pressed against her skin, lingered for a blissful moment, then retreated like the gentleman she hoped he’d exhibit himself to be.

  “Good night, sweet Lydia. Until the morrow.”

  She swallowed, sucked a quick breath, then found enough voice to say, “Until then.”

  The walk home didn’t diminish Jacob’s exhilaration, nor did preparing for bed. He lay down, then after too long thinking about Lydia, flung his feet over the bedside to the floor again. He needed to sleep, but . . .

  Against what he’d promised himself, he poured three fingers of whiskey and tossed it back then filled the tumbler three-quarters and took that in two gulps.

  Guzzling another gullet-full straight from the bottle, he fell back into bed. He had to get some sleep. The hazy euphoria carried him there.

  “Doctor? Are you awake? It’s three cock’s crows past five.”

  What? He rolled over and sat up.

  A cannonade exploded in his head. He pushed on both temples, swallowed, then found enough voice to say. “Thank you, Mis’ess Banks.”

  The bed’s lure pulled at him. He could sent word he was sick. How long had it been? But no, he needed—actually wanted—to get himself to work.

  What would she think if he didn’t show up?

  The cure to what ailed him sat on the table; however, she wouldn’t approve. Didn’t he need it though if he were going to go to work?

  Yes, he definitely did. She shouldn’t blame him.

  Especially not when she’d been the reason he couldn’t get to sleep. Just one good slug wouldn’t hurt, and it’d help his pounding head.

  She needn’t even know.

  He twisted off the cap, threw back two—then three—guzzles then put it back in its place, dressed, and hurried to the kitchen.

  As he knew she would, his housekeeper had him a steaming cup of coffee waiting.

  “Thank you, Mis’ess Banks.”

  “Rough night?”

  “Just a bit of trouble getting to sleep.”

  “How was the play?”

  “Excellent.” He nodded then downed two little sips. “Very funny. We both enjoyed it.”

  “I’m so glad to hear it. Is Miss Lydia a pretty lady?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Prettier than the last one?”

  “What?” He chuckled and sat back in his chair, blowing his coffee. “Are you my mother now?”

  “If only. Someone needs to be looking out for you.”

  How could he not smile at the old dear? He took another sip. “This one is very attractive, I’d even say beautiful, but better yet, I fear I’ve met my match.”

  “Oh, Jacob!” She extended her hand. “That’s wonderful! When do I get to meet her?”

  “Don’t know.” He sipped another swallow. “I best get going. I’m late already.”

  With a nod, she turned his attention toward the corner of the table.

  “I put your dinner in your grip.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He stood. “I might be late. Matter of fact, I might be late every night if she’ll allow me to walk her home.”

  “Supper will be waiting whenever you get here.”

  How long had it been that she woke up so excited? She threw back the curtains and breathed in a deep bucket’s worth of love in the spring air.

  She practically floated across Miss Trudy’s board floors, taking a pirouette on the braided rug next to her bed, then all the way to the Infirmary. She looked so forward to the day.

  It didn’t take long for word to get out that Lydia and Doctor Johnston had attended the theater together. Some only wanted recommendations; she advised in favor.

  Others seemed to need a lengthy discussion of her reaction to the performance. Then the envious, of course.

  Nurse Williams fell into that column.

  The day before, she’d acted like Lydia going with the good doctor was a grand idea.

  Or had she been too excited about her pending night out to notice the green tinting her eyes back then. She hated the thought that her relationship with Jacob would ruin any chance of being friends with Nancy.

  There she went again, not using her title.

  How could she be upset with him for it?

  He must have thought her quite the hypocrite.

  Shouldn’t she think of him as Doctor Johnston at work?

  A chance to have a heart-to-heart with the other surgery nurse failed to present itself that day. Perhaps she should just wait. Let the older woman bring it up. Like her mother had told her . . . you can’t learn anything by talking.

  On her way out that evening, Jacob exited his office and joined her at the stairs.

  “Figured I’d walk you home, make sure you get there safely. If that’s acceptable with you.”

  “Yes, of course. I would be grateful for the company.” She grinned at him. “Indeed. I’d quite like that.”

  Staying far enough away so that his shoulder didn’t touch hers, but almost, he looked straight ahead and said nothing. Once the stroll took him off the property of Touro Infirmary, he chuckled.

  “I sure enjoyed yesterday.”

  “Oh, so did I. I just loved it—all of it. By my count, a third of the staff have seen Society. Only Matron expressed anything negative.”

  “That old fuddle dud goes to the theater? Now I’ve heard it all.”

  “I didn’t say that.” She pointed her finger at his nose and winked. “But you’ve captured Matron.”

  Oh, why’d she do it? She giggled.

  “It surprised me, too. Apparently, she and her husband are regular attendees.”

  “Amazing. What’d the Matron say?”

  Breaking the five-minute dissertation down, she gave him a brief summary.

  “Did she have any recommendations?”

  “Oh, she loves anything by Shakespeare if it’s well-acted. Oh wait! She did say she enjoyed Under the Gaslight by Augustin Daly.”

  “I’ve read about that one. She say where it’s playing?”

  “Yes, sir. The Orleans Theater.”

  “Of course.” He snorted.

  Wonder what he was thinking that distracted him.

  “When’s your day off?”

  “I’m not certain. Matron hasn’t said exactly. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, The Orleans doesn’t have matinees.”

  “Oh.”

  Walking in silence for half a block, he suddenly stopped and faced her. “Do you like crawfish?”

  “Well, I can’t truly say.” She grinned. “I’ve never eaten them, why?”

  “Next Thursday. There’s a café I know on the wharf that serves Creole. I really enjoy their crawfish. Would you like to go for supper?”

  “Oh, yes. Definitely.” She grinned so big that her cheeks hurt. Could he see how elated his invitation made her? She should not be so obvious! Why, he could be her father if he’d married young.

  “I mean, I’ll try anything once. Oh, please, let me restate that. I’ll try any food once. Otherwise, how do you know whether you like it or not?”

  At the door, she faced him. The urge to grab both his hands and pull him into an embrace almost overwhelmed her. Instead, she extended only one of hers, palm down.

  Chapter Five

  The memory of his lips against her skin stayed with her through supper and while she prepared for bed. Waiting for sleep, Lydia’s image of her idyllic future life played out across her mind’s eye.

  Then it vanished, and reality reared its no-nonsense head. She’d only known him for three weeks.

  And in that time, she’d witnessed with her own eyes the man imbibing hard liquor.

  What other bad habits or faults in his character was he hiding from her?

  How could he be so horrible as her friend indicated?

  She needed to find time for a good, long talk with Nancy and find out exactly what had transpired that prompted her to issue the warning about Doctor Johnston.

  The next day, nor the one after that, never offered an opportunity to have the heart-to-heart with Nurse Williams. To complicate matters, Jacob walked her home both of those nights—ever the perfect gentleman, of course.

  The only time any contact at all occurred happened to be him kissing her hand after he bade her goodnight.

  She’d come to love his little habit, watching him take her hand, bend at the waist, and lower his head, then his lips, touching her.

  Granted, it certainly seemed—at least to her—his lips lingered a longer time each evening, but not to the point where she ever considered jerking away.

  Monday morning rolled around with an anomaly—no patients to prep for surgery, no need to do anything, really. Everything she could think of to earn her pay, she’d done. She meandered toward the supply room, thinking she’d check that all the supplies sat on the shelves at the ready and waiting.

  As she came out, she almost ran right into Nurse Williams coming down the hall. The lady she’d come to admire looked around, shrugged, then smiled.

  “I say we slip down to the lounge and make us a cup of tea.”

  “Think we should go one at a time or together?”

  “I’ll go first and fetch us some hot water from the kitchen; give me a few minutes then tell Doctor Johnston what we’re doing.”

  The teapot sat on the table. Nancy nodded toward the chair across from her. “What did Jacob say?”

  “Nothing, really.” She filled her lungs, steeled her nerves, and opened her mouth. “Umm, how well do you, uh . . . I mean what . . .”

  Oh my!

  “Spit it out, girl. What do you need to say?”

  “Well, I want you to tell me all about you and Doctor Johnston! What happened! How it ended—if it has ended! I know that’d be so rude, and that it’s none of my business.”

  Her colleague studied her fingernails for a moment then grinned. “You’ve already got it bad, huh? He invited me into his office one evening; I’d been having a hard day.”

  Nancy’s lips pursed. Her eyes closed. Then her head went to waving back and forth like watching a tug-a-rope game.

  “When was this?”

  Opening her eyes, she tilted her head a bit to one side. “I was promoted to surgery two years ago . . . So, a week or so after that, I guess.”

  Why had she interrupted her? Except . . . something that happened way back then . . . Did it really even matter?

  Still, she needed to know. Or at least she wanted to know.

  “What happened?”

  “One of the new patients that day reminded me of my husband. So much so, I thought it was really him—that they’d somehow made a mistake, that he hadn’t been killed in battle.”

  “Oh, Nancy!”

  “It wasn’t, of course, but Jacob had seen my reaction to the man and quizzed me on how I knew him.” She shrugged. “Over the course of the day, I told him about it.”

  Lydia waited a moment. “So? What happened in his office that evening?”

  “We both got drunk and cried on each other’s shoulder over our lost loves.”

  Decorum dictated she not ask the next question, the one she really wanted to know the answer to. Or did she? In an instant, she changed her mind and asked a different one to keep the lady talking. “Was that evening the only time?”

  “No, but . . .” She shook her head. “After a couple of months, we agreed we shouldn’t see each other anymore.”

  The door opened. Doctor Johnston’s head poked inside the room.

  “I need you two. A runner came. There’s been a big fight on Bourbon Street. A wagonload of wounded is headed our way.”

  Nine men and one half-grown boy rode in the ambulance wagon.

  Most had been stabbed, but two had bullets lodged in them. One jaw got broken—representing the various and sundry wounds and injuries cared for that afternoon.

  Plenty hectic, but well-organized.

  The three doctors worked their way through the ten, deciding who needed surgery first and who could wait.

  Of the three physicians, Johnston rose above as the calmest, surest. His snap judgements proved true time after time.

  Doctors Smith and Bensadon showed competency, of course, but they were more than a bit slow in coming to any decisions. However, they were older. Perhaps the extra experience gave them pause to consider other options.

  Who could know their thoughts? She wasn’t sure about the other two men but couldn’t be prouder of Jacob and the way he handled his job.

  Was there anything about the man she didn’t like?

  That question lingered at the back of her thoughts as the patients were moved upstairs to surgery two at a time, and she administered chloroform, then closed the wounds.

  It didn’t work its way back to the forefront of her thoughts until quitting time. Unlike most days, she didn’t leave until a quarter to seven. Jacob walked by her side as had become the custom.

  Almost to her boardinghouse—the busy day had earned the majority of the conversation. He then surprised her.

  “Thursday, my housekeeper Mis’ess Banks has asked if you’d like to take dinner with us. She’s dying to meet you.”

  So, a housekeeper. She studied him a few seconds, her heart booming so loud, he could surely hear it! Why hadn’t he said something before?

  “Does this lady live with you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He nodded. “I actually bought the property from her. She made it a condition of the sale that she could stay on. Don’t know what I’d do without her. She took the room over the carriage house.”

  What else about the man did she not know?

  Besides Nancy, how many other war widows had he helped or comforted over the years? With over half a million men dead and more than that number wounded, the numbers of that group had soared.

  Indeed, a plethora of such women, young and old, vied for every eligible man.

  Perhaps the invitation posed as her opportunity to see just who the lady was to Jacob. Meet her and see for herself if he lived with an opponent.

  What a ninny to think such thoughts!

  But . . . she certainly wouldn’t be doing anything wrong accepting a supervised dinner invitation from him.

  “Well? What do you think? We’ll be chaperoned the whole time.”

  “Yes, but we’ll have to swing by my room sometime before we go to Bourbon Street, so I can change.”

  “Not a problem. From my place we can walk to yours then go on to the Quarter. We’ll get a hack to bring us home. Should be plenty of time to do all that and still be in bed by eight.”

  Once again, it seemed his lips lingered a fraction longer on her skin. Perhaps she should stop letting the man kiss her hand . . . but she so enjoyed what had become the way he always took his leave from her.

  What would his lips to hers be like?

  She’d almost let that lieutenant kiss her—then she would have known. The last male she’d kissed had been her father, the horrible day he and her brother left them and marched away to war.

  The whole county had turned out to cheer them and the others who’d joined up on their way to whip the Yankees. But that didn’t count. It had been his lips on her cheek and vice versa. She’d never really kissed anyone for real.

  Plenty of soldiers had tried, but Mother had warned her and was somehow always around at the right time.

 

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