Heart of the Lonely Exile (16 page)

Still the child said nothing, and Daniel found himself comparing this wan, passive little girl with
his
Ellie, who at the end had shown much the same lifelessness.

The child made her first sound when Dr. Grafton knelt and began an examination of her throat. At her whimper of pain, he stopped immediately, studying her with a thoughtful expression.

Curious, Daniel moved in a bit closer. He caught the faint sour smell emanating from her, saw that her skin was damp with a light coating of perspiration, although the room was cold enough to chill him through his jacket. Her flushed cheeks and glazed eyes marked a high temperature; he wondered if she might not be in the beginning stages of scarlet fever, a disease that lately they had been seeing much of in Dr. Grafton's private practice.

The doctor drew aside the thin, tattered blanket, revealing severe swelling and redness around the child's wrists and elbows; even her ankles
appeared inordinately large compared to her small, thin frame. With great gentleness, Dr. Grafton took her wrist, timing her pulse.

“How long has she been like this?” he asked, looking up at the father, who had come to stand near the little girl's feet.

“This poorly, d'you mean?” He frowned with a considering expression. “Two weeks, mebbe. Before that she was some fevered. Awful sore, too. She's been taking on worse for several days now. Won't even let me touch her but what she cries.”

Turning back to Ellie, the doctor continued to study her. “You feel sore all over, child? Is that it?”

She nodded weakly. “It hurts.”

“Hurts more when you try to move, does it?”

Again she nodded.

Dr. Grafton scrutinized her for another moment, then got to his feet. “Acute rheumatism,” he said flatly. “One of the worst cases I've seen for a spell.”

The father cleared his throat. “Is it something mortal, then, doctor?”

The doctor looked at him. “Mortal? Oh—no, no, it needn't be! But it
is
serious. Has the child been exposed for any length of time to the elements?”

The man merely looked at him blankly.

“Has she been out in the cold and rain for a long period of time? Perhaps when she wasn't feeling well to begin with?”

The man's eyes took on a glint of understanding. “Why…she was,” he said, nodding. “On the ship that brought us over, we laid in water as cold as ice most of the way. For weeks, don't you see? We liked to froze to death, and that's the truth. Ellie, she seemed to take it hardest. She's never been strong, Ellie hasn't.”

Daniel saw the doctor's face tighten, his mouth thin to a hard line, as if the father's reply was no surprise.

“Well, we must get to work on her right away,” the physician said briskly. “And you'll have to help, so pay close attention.”

Over the next few minutes, Dr. Grafton showed the father and son how to apply a mixture of wintergreen oil and laudanum to strips of cotton batting, then wrap them around the little girl's swollen joints.

“And you're to give her this every two hours until her temperature drops and she begins to feel better,” the doctor said, handing the father a small bottle of salicylic acid.

While Dr. Grafton advised the father and his son, Pastor Dalton knelt beside the little girl's pallet. In a soft, infinitely caring voice that almost seemed a contradiction to the colossal size of the man, the pastor encouraged the child, then prayed for her. Daniel believed he had never heard such power as that which fired the big preacher's quiet, yet bold, words spoken on behalf of wee Ellie Higgins. Sure, and the Lord must listen closely to such a man as this!

Outside the building, Daniel asked, “Will she get better, Doctor, do you think?”

The physician regarded him with a troubled look. “We will hope so, but she is in the throes of a critical attack, son. This kind of rheumatism often shifts about in the body, and, depending on where it settles, it can do irretrievable damage. It does not help that the child was obviously frail before she took ill.”

Before leaving Five Points, they called on three other patients: an elderly woman who had broken her hip from a fall down an entire flight of rickety stairs; a newsboy, beaten nearly senseless by his drunken father and given refuge by a black couple in the same tenement; and a young wife, little more than a child herself, near death with childbed fever.

With each patient, Daniel was struck anew by Dr. Grafton's seemingly endless store of patience and genuine kindness. Not only did he treat each affliction with consummate skill, but he treated the person with respect and consideration.

Someday, Daniel vowed to himself,
he
would be a doctor like Nicholas Grafton: a doctor capable of seeing, not only the needs of the body, but the needs of the heart as well. A doctor who saw a
person,
not merely a patient.

16

A
pity beyond all telling
Is hid in the heart of love.

W. B. YEATS (1865–1939)

N
ora appraised her reflection in the mirror with a critical eye. She supposed she should feel grand—even elegant—after all the fuss and bother Sara Farmington had gone to getting her ready for this night.

What she felt, in fact, was more than a little silly.

She had been corseted, laced, and stuffed, like a bird ready for the roasting. And her nerves! Never had she been in such a state, she was sure of it. Perhaps a sensible dress would have made a difference. The frivolous gown that had been altered just for her was at least in part responsible for her discomfort; inside it, she felt clumsy and woefully conspicuous.

And those foolish little silk boots! Walking to the top of the stairs, Nora leaned forward just far enough to eye her white, silk-covered toes. Such vanity! If all this…
frippery
hadn't been Sara Farmington's idea, Nora would have deemed the entire display utterly sinful! But she had enough faith in Sara to trust her judgment about such things. Despite the obvious extravagance and unnecessary fuss, she could only assume she was still on the safe side of sin's gate.

Nora let her eyes sweep down the carpeted stairway to the foyer below. There, looking shy and magnificent in evening dress and white satin waistcoat, stood Evan, gazing down at his shiny shoes. His left sleeve hung empty against his side, and with his right hand he toyed nervously with his mustache.

At last he looked up and saw her. A light filled his eyes, a glow unlike any Nora had ever seen. Sure, he must think her a foolish, foolish woman, dressing up like a lady of society!

But Evan didn't seem to think any such thing. He extended his hand to her as she came down the stairs, saying, “Why, N-Nora, you look absolutely b-b-beautiful!”

Nora felt her cheeks redden under his wondering gaze.

“Are you r-ready to go?”

“Aye,” she said. The room had suddenly gone warm, but Evan didn't seem to notice. He took her wrap from her and, with an awkward movement, attempted to place it around her shoulders.

At that moment Lewis Farmington burst into the foyer from his study. “Evan, my boy!” he began, then stopped and eyed Nora with a long, approving look. “Why, Evan, I do believe you will be escorting the most beautiful woman at the opera tonight.”

Evan nodded and managed a “Y-Y-Yes, sir,” while Nora's face flushed an even brighter red.

“Didn't want you to forget these, son,” Farmington said. Slapping a pair of kid gloves into Evan's hand, he spun on his heel and disappeared into his study. “You go on ahead,” he called back over his shoulder. “Sara and I will be along shortly.”

Evan looked first at the gloves, then at Nora, then back at the gloves again. Bewildered, he quickly stuffed both gloves into his right-hand coat pocket.

Nora looked up into his face, her soft eyes forcing him to meet her gaze. Slowly, and without a word, she reached into his pocket and retrieved the gloves. After a quick glance, she tucked the left glove gently back into his pocket.

“Give me your hand,” she said simply.

“Nora, I—I—”

“Give me your hand, Evan,” she repeated. Dropping his eyes, he held out his hand, mutely, submissively, like a little boy.

With infinite tenderness, Nora shook open the glove and fitted it over Evan's extended hand. His whole arm trembled as one by one she smoothed
the supple leather over his fingers. He could feel her touch beneath the leather, and when she turned his palm upward and bent her head to button the tiny pearl clasp at the wrist, he closed his eyes, afraid to breathe.

She was so close, so close. Dared he think that this small gesture of compassion, this moment of tenderness, signified more than just the kindly act of a generous woman? Could she hear his heart pounding, feel his pulse throbbing at the wrist under her delicate fingers?

At last Nora looked up, but she did not let go of his hand. Their eyes locked, and for a brief moment Evan thought he saw something—
something
—behind her expression.

“Evan—” she began.

“Yes? Y-Yes, Nora?”

“I—I want you…to know…”

Evan's heart raced. “Y-Yes?”

Nora dropped her eyes and drew her wrap around her. “I just want to thank you…for escorting me tonight. Sure, and I don't doubt it will be a fine, fine evening.”

The spell was broken. Evan let out a deep sigh and smiled at her. “Sure, and it will be, lass,” he answered.

Nora laughed lightly at his attempt to mimic the Irish brogue. He extended his arm, and together they walked out into the chill evening, where Mr. Farmington's carriage awaited them.

They were seated in the—the
balcony,
it was called. In truth, they were suspended in midair! The very thought of it—a floor in the air with red velvet sofas and armchairs!

Nora dared not lean too far forward. High places had always made her head spin. And yet she suspected that her light-headedness might be caused by more than the altitude.

Her plush chair was sandwiched between Evan on the one side and Sara Farmington on the other. She could feel Evan's nearness, even though their elbows were not touching. She studiously avoided looking at him, tried to put the thought of him out of her mind.

Looking up, she studied the opulent painting of three rather dandified-looking men gazing down upon the stage. “Would you be knowing
who those men on the ceiling are, Evan?” she asked, her gaze still fastened on the lavish ceiling.

Evan glanced from her up to the ceiling. “Why, yes, that's M-Mozart, of course. And Rossini, and…B-Bellini, I think. Yes, B-Bellini.”

Nora nodded as if those names indeed meant something to her. After a moment, she could not stop herself from asking, “And who, exactly, would they be, Evan?”

He smiled at her. “They're c-composers, actually. Quite b-brilliant composers, all three of them.”

One of the things that endeared Evan to Nora was the way he never made her feel ignorant. Not a bit. He treated her every question with serious consideration.

Nora knew that Evan was quite the well-educated man; to him, many of her questions might seem backward, even ludicrous. Yet never did he display the slightest hint of condescension toward her.

In that respect, he was like the Farmingtons. Although wealthy and privileged, neither Lewis Farmington nor Sara ever made Nora feel less than a person of value. They were kind at all times. They were thoughtful and caring, and not in the least patronizing toward Nora or anyone else who worked for them.

But Evan alone truly made her feel—
worthy.
Worthy and even a bit… special. Evan understood her, and that was the truth. She could not explain how he had come by such sensitivity, but he invariably knew what would strike enthusiasm in her, and just as surely seemed to understand what would anger her or cause her pain.

Stealing a covert look at his profile, Nora could not restrain a small smile. Sure, and God had blessed her with much more than a good friend in Evan Whittaker; indeed, He had brought a kindred spirit into her life.

Obviously, she had no idea how very lovely she was. Out of the corner of his eye, Evan stole yet another glance at Nora, seated beside him. Her lips were turned up in just a hint of a smile, and he wondered what her thoughts were at this very moment.

The first act of the opera was nearly over, but the stage had held but a
small portion of his attention. It was impossible for him to concentrate fully with Nora so wonderfully near.

The theater was warm, with every seat filled, and the faint scent of lilac at his shoulder was almost dizzying. The scent was, he was certain, Sara Farmington's doing; he doubted the idea of perfume would ever occur to Nora, whose very simplicity was one of the things he loved most about her.

He was nearly overcome with her nearness. Lewis Farmington had been right; she was quite the loveliest woman in the theater. Sara Farmington had seen to it that Nora lacked not one small detail in her appearance. Dressed in a gown of deep rose satin with a delicate lace flounce, she was exquisite. From the sprigs of flowers in her hair to the tips of those smart little silk boots that seemed to fascinate her so, she was nothing less than enchanting.

Her dark gray eyes, always enormous, tonight appeared even larger. Her wonder seemed to increase with the evening. Everything was new to Nora, of course—new and fascinating.

The theater itself
was
quite an achievement, Evan had to admit, with its one magnificent chandelier, the mosaic ceiling, the tiers and amphitheater all furnished with crimson velvet sofas and armchairs.

He found it somewhat lavish for his taste, but, then, Americans did seem to like things done up in excess. As for the performance itself, Teresa Truffi, the soprano portraying the sad Elvira, while no means a great singer, nevertheless had a certain quality in her voice that moved the audience nearly to tears a number of times, himself included. The tenor singing the outlaw Ernani's part, however, was mediocre at best.

None of this would matter to Nora, of course. She was wholly enthralled—and somewhat overwhelmed, Evan sensed—by the theater, the opera, indeed the evening itself.

Her profile was near rigid, as if frozen with awe at the action on stage. A wave of tenderness mingled with longing swept over Evan. It was all he could do not to touch her, but at the back of his mind was the ever-present caution that, no matter how much Nora might seem to cherish their friendship, that did not mean she would encourage anything more—no matter what he had felt earlier in the evening.

Unexpectedly, the words of Lewis Farmington came echoing through his thoughts:…
I believe Nora is already very fond of you….If you want the woman, Evan, then court her!

Evan blinked, hesitating only another instant before taking Nora's hand in his own. Incredibly, she glanced down at their clasped hands, then turned and smiled warmly into his eyes.

At that moment, the song in Evan's heart soared, rising far above the singers' voices to drown out the music of the orchestra.