Lynna Banning (9 page)

What kind of woman would risk speaking the truth to the man who held her purse strings?

Uneducated or not, Erika Scharf was a woman of spiritual depth and uncommon courage. And in a place such as Plum Creek, a town full of meanness and prejudice, in the wider world such as it was today, with its falsehood and opportunism and bitter rivalries, how would she survive?

Worse, living under the same roof with him, a man who ached with need for a woman. God help them both.

Erika opened the front door and stepped back quickly as Tithonia Brumbaugh propelled her husband
through the door and into the main hall. “We want to see Jon—Dr. Callender. Right away,” the buxom woman demanded. “Don’t we, Plotinus?” She yanked on her husband’s arm.

Erika blinked. “Good morning, Mister Mayor. And missus.”

“Right away!” Tithonia repeated.

“Doctor is not yet in office,” Erika explained. “Has not yet had his break—”

“Well, my dear, you’d better go fetch him. This has gone on long enough.” The white lace fichu at her breast trembled in agitation. “Hasn’t it, Plotinus?”

“What? Oh, yes, my dear. Quite long enough.”

The mayor’s wife made shooing motions with her gloved hands. “Hurry up, girl!”

Erika pivoted and flew upstairs, skimming down the upstairs hall until she came to the closed door of the doctor’s bedchamber. She hesitated a moment, trying to collect her thoughts.

What
had gone on long enough? Had Tithonia found out about her harp lessons with Mr. Zabersky? Or had she perhaps discovered Erika had begun attending the Methodist Church evening service on Sundays instead of the Presbyterian morning church gatherings, which the mayor and his wife attended?
Surely freedom in America included choice of one’s religious preference?

She tapped on the door, and it swung open. Jonathan stood before her in a rumpled white shirt, open at the collar, the sleeves rolled up past his forearms. His dark hair looked as if he had combed his fingers through it. The sight of the bare skin at the base of his throat sent an odd pang to her midsection.

“Excuse, please, Doctor. You have patients downstairs.”

His usually impassive eyes hardened into hard gray slate. “At this hour? Is it an emergency?” He reached behind him for his coat and started to draw it on.

“Is the mayor,” she whispered. “And Missus Mayor.”

“Ah. In that case.” He tossed the black serge garment onto a chair and started down the hall, unrolling his shirtsleeves as he descended the stairs. Erika stole quietly after him, one step at a time. At the first landing, she halted. If she peeked around the corner, she could just see the edge of Tithonia’s voluminous green sateen skirt.

“Tithonia. Plotinus. To what do I owe the honor?”

“Now, Jon, you know why we’re here.”

“No, Tithonia, I don’t. Are you ill? Plotinus?”

“Certainly not,” Tithonia snapped. “Not since my Jenny was born have I needed a doctor.”

“Well, then?”

Erika crept forward until she could see the trio.

Plotinus shifted uneasily on the balls of his feet. “Uh, could we talk in your office, Jon? It’s a matter of some importance.”

“If it’s about that Indian boy, he is with his people, miles from the valley. I rode up there yesterday and found them at their summer camp.”

The mayor coughed. “It’s not about them Injuns, Jon, though God knows I wish they’d stay away from town. Makes the folks nervous when they’re about. Why, just last week—”

“Plotinus,” the mayor’s wife interrupted, “don’t wander. Jonathan, we wish to speak to you in private.”

“Of course.” Jonathan ushered the couple into his study. “Erika,” he called over his shoulder, “ask Mrs. Benbow to bring some coffee, would you?”

The door shut with a click, and Erika headed for the kitchen.

The minute Erika entered the warm, pleasantsmelling room, Mrs. Benbow seized her arm. “What’re those two wantin’?”

“Coffee,” Erika answered.

“For starters, that is.” The housekeeper sniffed.
“What’s so hush-up they need to be private, I wonder?”

“You were listening!” Erika said, aghast.

“‘Course I was. I’ve got an idea what this is all about, I have.” The housekeeper gave Erika a speculative look. “Seems Mary Zabersky, Mr. Zabersky’s daughter—the one that plays the piano—belongs to Tithonia’s quilting circle.”

Erika listened with half an ear while she piled cups and saucers and a plate of freshly baked raisin scones onto a silver tray.

“Up to meddling is what I think,” the older woman added. “Just you wait and see.”

Erika fidgeted while the housekeeper poured the coffee into a white china server. She couldn’t wait to take it into the doctor’s study and hear at least a snatch of what was being said.

“And another thing,” Mrs. Benbow continued in her raspy voice. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did!”

Erika came to full attention. “If I did? Did what?”

The housekeeper settled the coffee on the tray Erika held and pushed her gently through the Dutch doors. “Walk slowly, my girl. You’ll be able to hear more.”

Hear what?
Curiosity and dread warred in Erika’s brain. And all at once she was certain.

Whatever mission had brought Tithonia Brumbaugh and the mayor to the doctor’s house this morning
had something to do with her. She would lose her employment. She was to be turned out into the street to fend for herself.

No, he wouldn’t do that.

Oh, yes he would,
a voice countered.
After you told him he was stubborn and opinionated? What were you thinking of, you foolish girl?

Her heart turning to ice, she inched toward the study door.

J
onathan turned to the mayor and his wife. “Now, then, Tithonia, what is this all about?”

Tithonia’s bosom swelled. “Come, now, Jonathan. You mean to say you don’t know? Why, the whole town is talking. Aren’t they, Plotinus?”

“Oh, indeed, my dear. Indeed they are.” The mayor hovered at his wife’s shoulder as Jonathan settled himself behind his desk.

“Talking about what?” he inquired. He hadn’t slept last night, had paced for hours about his room like a caged animal. Toward morning he had tossed himself fully clothed on the damask-covered double bed and dozed.

His head ached. His mouth felt dry. His patience with Tithonia Brumbaugh’s nattering was wearing dangerously thin.

“Jon,” Plotinus began in a hesitant voice. He
tugged at the tie constricting his fleshy throat. “Well, you see, Jon, it’s like this. It’s, uh, come to our attention that—”

“Just exactly whose attention is ‘our’ attention, ‘Tinus? Yours? The employees at Rogue Valley Bank? Tithonia’s?”

Plotinus blinked. “Well, um, you see, we feel—that is, the townsfolk—”

Tithonia jabbed a stiffened forefinger into her husband’s ribs. “Stop stammering and spit it out!”

Precisely,
Jonathan thought. To bring the matter to a head, he decided to help Plotinus out of his verbal wanderings. “It’s about the other night, is that it?” he prompted. “When that Indian boy was run over?”

“Well, kinda.”

Another jab of Tithonia’s forefinger caused the mayor to catch his breath. “Yes. I mean, that’s part of it, Jon.” Plotinus’s face flushed crimson.

“And the rest of it? Come on, ‘Tinus, out with it. I’ve a long day ahead of me with the Bateson twins down with scarlet fever and Miranda Virostko about to deliver.”

Plotinus’s mouth opened and shut, then opened once more. A hoarse, strangled sound emerged. Tithonia waved her handerchief at him and took over.

“Jonathan, we know you’re an honorable man.”

Jonathan stared at the mayor’s bulky wife. Honorable?
Was he, indeed? He didn’t feel so honorable after his troubling dreams about Erika these past few nights. Dreams in which she lay naked under him, soft and clinging. He felt he was being untrue to his wife’s memory.

“And,” Tithonia continued, “we all know the, er, situation you have here.”

Jonathan sighed. Who in the hell was “we”? “Situation?”

“Come, now, Jon, you’re a man, after all.”

A bitter observation rose to his lips, but he bit back the words. Was a man who failed still a man? He kept his face expressionless. “And that means?”

“Oh, don’t you see? Living here in this house together, she’s sure to be compromised!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tithonia. Adeline Benbow has kept house for me since she was widowed seventeen years ago. There’s nothing com—”

“Adeline!” Tithonia’s fichu twitched. “Who said anything about Adeline?”

Plotinus laid a pudgy, manicured hand on Jonathan’s arm. “It’s not, uh, Adeline we’re concerned about. It’s Miss Scharf.”

“Erika? What about her? She’s a bit of a trial at times, but she works hard and cares quite capably for the baby.”

“But you’re a bachelor!” Tithonia cried.

Jonathan shook off the mayor’s restraining hand.
“I am no such thing.” He struggled to keep the bitterness from his voice. “I am a widower, Tithonia. Not a bachelor. There is an infinite difference.”

“But Miss Scharf is unmarried!” the mayor’s wife blurted. “She is young. Unprotected!”

Jonathan’s temples pounded. “From what, exactly, does she need protection?”

“From.from. Her reputation is at stake! Do you understand my meaning?”

“No, quite frankly, I don’t. Miss Scharf is a perfectly respectable young woman, living in a respectable manner in a respectable household.”

“With you!” Tithonia seemed to expand a size larger as Jonathan stared at her.

“Of course with me, as does Mrs. Benbow. This is, after all, my house.” He took a long moment to draw in a long breath and expel it. “What is it you want, Tithonia?”

Plotinus cleared his throat. Tithonia resettled her voluminous sateen skirt and fidgeted with the knotted lace handerchief. “We want you to marry Erika Scharf.”

Jonathan leapt to his feet.
“What?
Are you mad? Marry her! What on earth for?”

The mayor flinched as Jonathan loomed across the desk.

Tithonia held her ground. But, Jonathan noted, she
would not meet his eyes. She spoke into her lap, but the words were distinct.

“To salvage her social acceptability in Plum Creek, that’s why. You must either send Miss Scharf away or marry her.”

“Tithonia, I’ve known you a good number of years, and in all that time you haven’t changed a bit. You are a meddling, hypocritical busy—” He broke off.

“Jonathan.” Plotinus drew himself up to his full height. Even at that, he was still half a head shorter than his wife. “Jonathan, please.”

“I’m sorry, ‘Tinus. It’s just that. Marry her? Good God, man, you can’t be serious!”

“I, er, that is, we. Well, my dear, perhaps you should explain?”

“No.” Jonathan cut Tithonia off before she could open her lips. “No need to explain. I suppose the Presbyterian Ladies Quilting Circle came up with this preposterous idea?”

“Most of the ladies agree. As Miss Scharf is alone, without friends or family to look after her, um, welfare, we feel it to be in her best interest to speak out on her behalf.”

“Does Adeline Benbow know of this plot to save Erika from a bleak social standing in Plum Creek society?”

“Well, no. Adeline wasn’t present.”

“I see.” Jonathan stepped from behind his desk. “Plotinus, take your wife home. Erika Scharf is quite capable of taking care of herself, alone or not. But, as it happens, she is under my roof, and therefore under
my
care.”

“Exactly,” Tithonia snapped. “Such an arrangement is quite improper.”

“Plotinus, so help me—”

“Come, my dear,” the mayor said quickly. “You’ve made your—our—point. The rest is up to Jonathan.”

“You men!” Tithonia burst out. “You can be so pigheaded!”

Jonathan gazed at the mayor’s wife, resisting the urge to throttle her. “I don’t doubt that for a moment, Tithonia.” He understood all too well the nefarious workings of a society-mindful female such as Tithonia Brumbaugh. He supposed Tess would have become the same over the years, given her family background, her privileged upbringing. It pained him to admit it, but Tess had the same tendency toward shallow mindedness he now observed in the mayor’s wife.

Good God, what irony!
Tess herself would have taken up Tithonia’s cause! It didn’t bear thinking about.

His hand on Tithonia’s elbow, he urged the
mayor’s wife to her feet. “Tithonia, Plotinus. I bid you good morning.”

“But Jon—”

“Come back when you have the kind of complaint a physician can pay serious attention to.” He reached for the brass doorknob and felt it turn in his hand.

The door swung open and Erika stood facing him, a loaded tray in her hands. “I bring coffee from Mrs. Benbow. Also some scones. You would like me to pour out cups now?”

Her gaze moved from him to Tithonia and Plotinus, and her face changed. “Something is wrong?”

Tithonia bustled forward. “Oh, no, my dear. Not for long, at any rate. Dr. Callender will put it to rights. Won’t you, Jonathan?”

Erika’s heart contracted. “Ah, I know already. He will send me away.”

“Oh, no, Miss Scharf.” Plotinus nervously patted his wife’s sleeve. “Not send you away. Dr. Callender is going to—”

“Shut up, ‘Tinus.” Jonathan’s voice rang in the quiet room.

Unable to breathe, Erika looked from the mayor and his wife to Jonathan. “Going to…what?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“We will discuss it later,” Jonathan announced. “Leave the coffee, please, and show Mr. and Mrs. Brumbaugh out. They are just leaving.” He lifted the
tray from her trembling hands and set it on top of the medical journals spread haphazardly on his desk.

As she led the couple to the door, Erika caught the quick look of triumph that passed between the mayor and his wife. The expression on Tithonia’s face reminded her of the way Papa’s overfed tabby cat would look at her after it had slurped the thick foam from the milk bucket.

A bubble of unease expanded inside her chest. She longed to be a part of the town doings, make friends with Mary Zabersky and the other ladies, be included in their conversations. Maybe even join the quilting circle. But now she sensed an obstruction of some kind in her path. She didn’t know why she was so certain, but the feeling was undeniable.

She knew it had something to do with her. She just didn’t know exactly what it was.

But at the moment, none of Tithonia Brumbaugh’s busymaking mattered. Doctor had not yet eaten, and the scones were growing cold. Erika jerked her chin up and returned to the study to serve the coffee.

Erika had three more harp lessons with Mr. Zabersky before she began to believe she wasn’t dreaming. At the start of each session, her hands shook so violently she could barely keep them on the strings, but she ended the hour filled with a heady joy, anxious to start another series of practice exercises.

Keeping out of Dr. Callender’s hearing grew easier as the Webbs and then the four Dettwiler children came down with scarlet fever. Then last night, after the grandfather clock on the stair landing had struck midnight, the doctor had been summoned to the Virostko farm. Mrs. Virostko’s baby was coming.

Erika spent the morning washing diapers and hanging them out to dry in the hot sunlight, then scrubbed the kitchen floor, since Mrs. Benbow could no longer get down on her hands and knees. She raced through the chore, fed and changed the baby and laid her in the wicker cradle in the front parlor, where she gurgled contentedly. The infant drifted off to sleep when Erika began her practice on the harp.

An hour passed, then two. Erika kept an ear cocked for the sound of the doctor’s horse, but morning stretched into afternoon and there was no sign of his return. She joined Mrs. Benbow for a late lunch at the kitchen table, folded the dry, sunshine-scented diapers and put them away in the chest upstairs. Then, with a final check out the front window for a horse and rider, she returned to the harp.

Such a glorious instrument! She could play for days without growing tired.

Jonathan turned away from the brawny, outstretched hand of Eben Virostko. “‘Tweren’t your
fault, Doc,” the heavyset man said in a low voice. “Take the money.”

Jonathan pushed the man’s hand aside. “Hush now, Eben.”

“You saved my wife, Doc. I’m thankful for that. Guess the good Lord reckoned we had enough sons.” He laid his palm on Jonathan’s stiff shoulders.

The child had never drawn breath. Jonathan had tried everything he could think of. He’d dipped the tiny form into warm and then cold water, slapped its buttocks, massaged the chest with his forefinger, had even blown his own breath into the tiny, lifeless mouth. He’d worked an hour or more, lost track of time while Miranda lay on the cot, watching him. Finally she’d spoken to her husband.

“Stop him, Eben. Our baby’s dead.”

A band of steel tightened around Jonathan’s chest. The need to shout, even to weep, was so strong he swallowed convulsively, felt his aching throat constrict. A wave of weariness and despair closed over him.

“I’m sorry, Miranda. I’m so terribly sorry.” It was all he could do to get the words out. And now Eben Virostko, a wall of solid flesh bursting the seams of his frayed work trousers and blue ticking shirt, again pressed the worn currency into his fingers.

“I can’t take this, Eben. You know I can’t.” He stuffed the money into the pocket of the farmer’s
overalls, checked Miranda once again for any sign of fever and folded his medical bag with a snap. “I’ll be out again in the morning to check on you.”

He mounted Scout and set off for town, so bone tired he didn’t care whether he got there or not. Death was always hard. But to lose a child. He could not comprehend the stoic acceptance of these sturdy farm people. Or perhaps they grieved, as he did, in private.

He kicked the gelding into a trot. The thought of his quiet study drew him forward, a sanctuary of peace and sanity in a world of inexplicable pain and loss. He needed soul-restoring silence and some brandy. A lot of brandy.

He needed to hear the soft, sensible voice of someone who was alive and well and whole.

Jonathan groaned out loud. He needed Erika. God in heaven help him, he needed to lay his head on her breast and release the anguish he held inside, let her soothe away the agony that gnawed his insides.

He heard the music when he came out of the barn. Harp music.

He was hallucinating, of course, but for just a moment.

The note pattern changed, then changed again. No, not his imagination. Someone was playing, practicing arpeggiated chords on the harp. Tess’s harp!

Jonathan bolted up the back steps, tore through the
screened laundry porch and into the kitchen. The housekeeper jerked her attention away from the stove, and he saw her thin mouth open into a surprised O.

“Jonathan,” she called after him. But he banged through the Dutch doors and into the front hall before she could finish.

What the devil was going on in his house?

Erika looked up as Jonathan strode into the front parlor. The harp rested against her right shoulder, and she held her breath, knowing it was obvious that she had been playing the forbidden instrument.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jonathan shouted.

Out of the corner of her eye Erika caught a glimpse of a black bombazine skirt. Mrs. Benbow hovered just outside the doorway.

Erika swallowed hard. “I p-practice on harp.”

“That, my dear Miss Scharf, is quite apparent.”

The housekeeper poked her head around the corner. “That nice Professor Zabersky offered to give her lessons,” she volunteered. “I advised Erika to accept.”

“Lessons? On an instrument I specifically instructed you never to touch?” Jonathan addressed his remarks to Erika, not Mrs. Benbow.

Very slowly Erika returned the harp to its upright
position. After a moment’s hesitation, she looked up at him. “Yes.”