Holding his hand out, he motioned with his fingers.

  What was he after?

  The wiggling increased. She shrugged and put her hand in his. His grip tightened, but not so much she couldn’t pull away had she wanted to. He stepped forward and tugged. She fell in beside him, leaving her hand in his.

  “Lydia, I’ve told you I’m smitten. I want to be more than just colleagues, and I have plenty of money.”

  “But you shouldn’t spend it all on me.”

  “If you don’t want to go, that’s fine, but haven’t things changed between us since you didn’t want it to appear you weren’t paying your way? You’re comfortable with our relationship, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, if you do want to go, then please don’t allow a little cash to stop us from enjoying an evening out.”

  His logic always sounded so good.

  How could she argue? And did she even want to? She liked her hand in his.

  The decision fell on her in an instant, and she bumped her shoulder into his.

  “Fine. You can pay, and I must admit, Jacob, that I rather like the idea of us being more than just colleagues. However, keep in mind we haven’t known each other for even a whole month yet, so . . .”

  He didn’t respond. Just kept strolling along hand in hand. Hopefully though, he’d gotten the message. For the time being, holding hands would be as far as their relationship would progress.

  At the walk’s end, the highlight of Jacob’s day waited.

  “Thank you, kind sir.” She extended the hand he’d been holding, palm down.

  Bending slightly at the waist, he put lips to her skin and started counting the booms in his chest, rising up after the eighth. A beat longer than the day before. How he loved the smell of her, the warm touch of her skin.

  If only . . .

  “As much as I hate it, I bid you adieu. Good night, fair lady.”

  For an instant, it appeared she puckered her lips slightly. Like she wanted him to kiss them, but then she nodded, smiling, and backed up a half step.

  “Good night. See you tomorrow morning.”

  Almost giddy, he wanted to skip all the way home.

  How one so young and beautiful could be interested in an old man, he couldn’t figure, but she hadn’t mentioned his age once. He could be her father.

  Balderdash! He quickened his pace to time and a half. She agreed to go with him next week and had let him hold her hand!

  Best of all, he was certain she’d acted like she wanted him to kiss her.

  What a glorious day that would be!

  Once that happened, it would be a short road to matrimony.

  The relationship’s progress bolstered his resolve not to take that first drink. He’d lose her for sure if she ever found out how much he drank, and he’d been successful in avoiding the temptation of the morphine.

  He hadn’t endured any melancholy though. Still. He was thankful he’d kept his syringe in its leather pouch untouched in his desk drawer.

  The knowledge that Mis’ess Banks wouldn’t let him oversleep comforted him even after the parlor’s clock chimed twelve.

  Chapter Seven

  Lydia went out of her way the next morning to get close enough to Doctor Johnston to smell his breath. She watched him like a barn owl eyeing a rat, too, but neither her nose or what she saw indicated he’d been drunk the night before.

  Or that he’d taken a shot of whiskey to chase the hairy dog away. Was that right? She’d read somewhere about drunks and dog’s hair, but whether or not she had it right . . . what did it matter?

  Other than a third cup of coffee instead of his normal two, he seemed hale, hearty, and a fine fellow.

  What novel had that come from?

  Why did she feel the need to analyze him anyway? Especially based on the lies Nancy had told on him. The man showed no signs of being a drunk. And he was smitten with her. She liked that word he’d used.

  Still . . . she needed to uncover the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. She’d never loved a man before. Perhaps she’d been smitten a time or two, but . . .

  Was what she experienced in her heart love or some other emotion that wouldn’t last?

  Maybe she should talk with someone older and wiser. Nancy just wouldn’t do, especially knowing she wanted him for herself. She’d said so herself—that she’d marry him!

  How could a body trust anything that came out of that woman’s mouth?

  If only her mother didn’t live so far away.

  Matron Rowland would tell her the truth, but then she’d have to explain about the relationship between her and Jacob—except she’d call him Doctor Johnston. The lady already seemed biased against him though.

  And that just wouldn’t do anyway. What if the woman forbade her from seeing him again? She couldn’t stand that. She’d . . .

  What?

  Quit?

  Would she give up medicine to be with him?

  That sounded like love, didn’t it?

  That evening once off Infirmary property, Jacob slipped his hand into hers. “Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

  “Really?” She squeezed and grinned. “I know the days of the week.”

  “I know you do.” He chuckled but didn’t stop walking. “Anyway, Mis’ess Banks said she’d love for you to come for supper tomorrow evening.”

  “Oh. Well. That wouldn’t . . .” She stopped the refusal mid-throat. Mis’ess Banks!

  That would be perfect. Who knew the man better? And the dear lady was surely incapable of telling a lie. “Tell her I’d love to come, but I have one condition.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He glanced at her. “What is it? Something special you want to eat? I’ve already laid in a case of tabasco, so you needn’t be worried about that.”

  “No.” She giggled. “Anything she cooks will be delicious, but if I come, I must insist on helping her with the dishes.”

  “I have no objections if you can talk her into it.”

  “You’ll have to twist her arm if she balks.”

  All right.” He laughed. “Maybe we can slip off a few minutes early from work. Sunday afternoons are usually slow, once we get all the Saturday night brawlers patched up and on their way home.”

  The rest of the way to her boardinghouse, she kept up her end of the conversation, but mostly she thought on having Mis’ess Banks alone for at least twenty minutes. Even if Jacob tried to help, she’d shoo him away.

  Or perhaps let him do it all if he refused to leave.

  Then she’d have the older lady in the parlor to herself.

  All thought of the morrow fled at her door. He released her hand and faced her.

  If only the social graces considered it proper for a man smitten to kiss the lady of his desire goodnight, but her mother’s voice in her head told her over and again, do not dare to let a man take any liberties, not even one kiss.

  Would Mama approve of his kissing her hand? She extended it palm down as had become the sweet custom of an evening. As always, a warmth spread from his lips to her heart.

  The slightest of tugs would bring him up and close, but she mustn’t give in. Was he counting the seconds? He rose up after the longest time yet; she was sure of it.

  “Good night, sweet Lydia.”

  Instead of flinging herself into his arms, she backed up a step, making her mother proud. “Good night, Jacob.”

  Always the best part of her day—his lips on her skin—turned into the worst as he walked away, leaving her there alone. She made herself go inside.

  It might be true love.

  How could she know for sure?

  Everything was ready, but Diana checked it all again.

  The crispy fried chicken warmed in the oven, stewed potatoes steamed, the cream gravy thickened nicely, but not too thick; hot but not scalded.

  Giving it a quick stir to blend in the crust from the sides of the skillet, she spooned out an errant kernel of corn. Perfect.

  The front door creaked; she opened the oven, set the chicken on top of the stove, then slid in the pan of rolls before hurrying out to greet them.

  The couple, walking hand in hand, stopped at the hall tree. Jacob put his hat on the right-hand hook then smiled.

  “Mis’ess Banks, if supper tastes half as good as it smells, I’m liable to make a fool of myself eating too much.”

  “Why, Doctor Johnston. You say the nicest things. Lydia, you look lovely, dear. Would you like to help me get things on the table?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am.”

  “The chicken can go in that bowl right there.” She nodded with her head toward her favorite hand-painted ceramic serving bowl.

  Stopping at the stove, she turned and faced the younger woman. “Jacob told me about your condition, dear, but here’s how it is. In my home, guests don’t do dishes.”

  “But . . . Well.” The girl smiled and nodded. “You see, the truth of it is that my condition was only an excuse. I had really just want to speak with you in private. I hoped to get your advice.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, that’s a different matter now.”

  “So, won’t you please let me help you clean up? We can visit while we work.”

  “All right, of course, but tell me, dear. Has something happened?”

  “Oh, no. It’s . . .” The darling girl blew all her breath out her nostrils, making too strong a sound to be called a sigh, more like a huff. She shimmied past then transferred the golden chicken pieces to the bowl.

  “We can just wait until later. I wouldn’t want Jacob to grow suspicious.”

  A dear child, the girl was, and so good for Jacob. Dreaming of the future, she envisioned herself holding a laughing baby over her head. She just couldn’t wait! Mercy, she’d been waiting her whole life for children.

  Perhaps, the lovely young woman might give her the grandbabies she’d been loving in her mind’s heart all those years.

  “Of course.” Diana grabbed the crock of steaming potatoes before leading Lydia into the dining room. “We’ll speak later then. I suppose I can let you dry just this one time without the sky falling down.”

  “Perfect. Thank you, ma’am.”

  The sweet child seemed to love the meal every bit as much as Jacob. Through the years, Diana had known plenty of folks who’d enjoyed her cooking, but none boasted as loud or as often as her almost-son.

  The darling man adored it, he’d said, especially her fried chicken! And he’d shared it every time a body would stand long enough to visit a mite.

  The man would probably eat it seven days a week, if she’d cook it for him.

  Normally, she enjoyed a second cup of coffee with cobbler, but the young lady was apparently anxious to clean up. Curious over what advice she might be asking of, Diana wouldn’t mind missing the coffee to get on into the kitchen.

  Could it be about love?

  Or maybe she wanted to be taught how to cook.

  Had he shown her his melancholy side?

  Or could it be Jacob had imbibed too much at work again?

  Oh, she hoped not.

  Surely it wasn’t about quitting him.

  Could he handle it?

  Of course, the good doctor read one of his books, oblivious to her ruminations and the real business about to take place.

  If he even had a clue, the purpose would be obscured behind the scullery maid chores. She and Lydia made the first trip together, clearing the table.

  If he only knew . . .

  With a nice stack of dishes in her hands, she remembered the day’s post. “Your latest Boston Medical and Surgical Journal came today, Jacob.”

  “Oh, good. I’ll be in the parlor when you two are finished.”

  Lydia didn’t say anything until her second trip back with what looked to be the last of the dishes. She grabbed the offered dish towel and went to drying the ones already washed.

  She glanced at the door leading to the hall then back. “Mis’ess Banks, ma’am. I’ve been practicing what to say, how to say it, but . . . well, here it is.”

  “Go on, dear.”

  “Jacob says he’s smitten and has hinted of marriage, but . . . I’m just not sure I know my own heart. I mean, he’s a great man.”

  “He truly is.”

  “And he’s the best doctor I’ve known. He’s easy to be with. Handsome but not vain. And though I know it isn’t proper, I’m so tempted to kiss him. Something terrible, I mean. What do you think?”

  “Has he been anything but a gentleman, dear?”

  “Oh, no. Certainly not. He is always the epitome of the perfect gentleman. Completely. About a week or so ago, I started letting him kiss my hand—only when we part. And just yesterday, we held hands for the first time.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “It is, and it seems so natural. I’m very fond of him, of course.”

  “Why, yes. It would be difficult to spend any time at all with him and not be fond; are you smitten as well?”

  “No. Maybe. I just don’t know. Did you? How’d you know you fell in love with Mister Banks?”

  “Mine and your romances are not the same, dear. Our families had known each other for years, but he was older. I hadn’t realized, never dreamed he might be interested in me”

  “I imagine you were a beauty in the day.”

  “Well, he asked my father, and they agreed we were a good match. For months, I was mad at the both of them, but by our first anniversary, I was head over heels in love with him.”

  “So, your marriage was arranged?”

  “In a way, yes. If only I could have given him a son . . .” She looked off, daydreaming, then met Lydia’s eyes with a smile, “my life would have been complete.”

  “I’m sorry, Mis’ess Banks.”

  “It is what it is, dear.”

  “So, what do I do? Should I let him kiss me or not? How can I be sure I’m in love? Or even smitten! Can you give me any advice?”

  What should she tell her?

  That she was the tonic that soothed his troubled soul?

  Turning sideways, she wiped her hands on her apron then put them on either side of Lydia, holding her arms to her sides.

  “In the years I’ve known Jacob, he has never been happier than he is right now. He isn’t a perfect man. The Good Lord knows none of us are, but if I was fifty years younger . . .” She smiled.

  “He’s almost perfect though, right? Except I’ve heard around the hospital that he, uh . . .”

  “You shouldn’t be listening to any gossips, sweetheart. From what you told me, and what I’ve seen, you should be listening to your heart and not your head.”

  Holding hands on the walk to her boardinghouse, neither helped her position nor brought any answers.

  Should Lydia’s mother’s warnings about not trusting her heart hold more sway than Mis’ess Bank’s advice to do just the opposite? Mama didn’t know Jacob, not like his housekeeper anyway.

  The lady even said she would choose him to marry herself if she were younger. What if . . .?

  “You’re being quiet this evening. Something wrong?”

  “No, not really.” She glanced up. “It’s just that . . . Well, I’m having trouble knowing my own mind. I’m conflicted.”

  “About what?”

  “You. Us. I enjoy being with you so much.” She swung her hand, holding his forward and high. “For instance, like holding your hand.” She squeezed then filled her lungs. “It’s . . . well . . .” What was she trying to say?

  Was it truly necessary to ask him about Nancy?

  How badly did she need to know?

  Should she discover that he had indeed impregnated the woman, would that change her heart—the very organ her mother and the Bible claimed was easily deceived?

  Should she listen to her heart anyway? Pay caution no never mind?

  “What are you trying to say?”

  She looked up. Miss Trudy’s stood only two blocks away. “I don’t know. Just take me home. I need to think.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Have I done anything to—”

  “No, Jacob. It’s me. I . . . just don’t know.”

  Once again, the urge to have him kiss her lips instead of her hand plucked her heartstrings like a master harpist.

  However, while she might not know her own mind at the moment, she knew such an action would only exacerbate the problem and open a door she wasn’t certain she was ready to walk through.

  His lips on her hand was bad enough, sending their sparks up her arm then straight to her heart on their way to stir the butterflies in her tummy.

  Then again though, if she did let him kiss her—for real—would she know then whether or not she truly loved him?

  As usual, he raised up with twinkles in his eyes and the sweetest smile. She placed the kissed hand on her chest and covered it with her other, backing up a step.

  “Do you love me, Jacob?”

  “I do. Yes.” He’d proclaimed himself without hesitation.

  “How do you know?”

  His smile grew wider, and his eyes bigger as he raised both brows. Even his shoulders rolled back, and he stood a dash taller.

  “You, dear Lydia, are one in a thousand-thousands. The more I get to know you, the better I like you. At this point, I cannot imagine my life without you in it.”

  Could she imagine one without him? She returned his smile and sighed heavily.

  “Good night, Doctor Johnston.”

  “All right then.” He backed down the steps. “Until tomorrow.”

  As she waited for sleep that night, two questions dogged her hard.

  But could she stand knowing the answers?

  Chapter Eight

  For the next three days, no answers presented themselves, but Lydia hadn’t asked the questions either. Somehow, she had resisted inviting him to kiss her for real, but her indecision over it tortured her.

  Like an alkaline mixture to her sour-self, Thursday the fifth of June dawned.

  In addition to it being the first day of the second month of knowing Jacob and beginning her nursing career at Touro, it also happened to be her and his half day off. She so wanted to finally make up her mind.

 

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