They Called Her Mrs. Doc. (5 page)

For one brief, silent moment the two strong wills clashed, and then Mrs. Winston moved forward to lead the way to the dining room.

“It is your choice,” she said in a half whisper, for the three boys, faces scrubbed and hair slicked back, were coming within earshot. “Your choice whether you wish to be a child or an adult. No one can manage both.”

Then Mrs. Winston turned to her sons, smiled as though nothing out of the ordinary was going on and patted Stephen on the shoulder. She asked them how they had been spending their day, and each one clamored to be first in the telling. Her indulgent smile seemed to say, “When I was a child, I spoke as a child. …”

But Cassie hardly noticed. She could not shift her thoughts so easily or quickly. Her sour mood continued. Life did not seem at all fair. It had been good to her thus far. She had been raised in a home where there were more than ample material blessings—they were plentiful. She had been gently nurtured, trained in all of the finer graces. She had been pampered and petted and her fancies had been humored. She played or loafed or dreamed at her own whims. And now, suddenly, just because her mother deemed that she was soon to be courted, she was asked to leave behind her enjoyable times and devote her hours to tedious kitchen chores and plying a needle endlessly in and out of boring material. Who made the rules for adulthood, anyway? And why did they insist that nothing be fun anymore?

Cassie’s thoughts went further. In her own thinking she was certainly prepared for courting. It would be most exciting to have a young man pay homage—bringing flowers and chocolates and spending his time thinking of nice little pleasantries to say to make her cheeks glow with a blush, or spend his hours dreaming and counting the minutes until he would see her face again. But Cassie’s thoughts had gone no further than the courting. The fun and excitement. She had not thought of marriage—or the duties of marriage. Now she wasn’t sure that marriage was altogether desirable. Wasn’t it rather—rather permanent—and boring? Oh, she knew that Abigail spoke of marriage—at least to the changing of her name. But she wasn’t sure that Abigail was really ready for all of the duties of marriage either. The privileges maybe—but not the responsibilities. Cassie could not envision Abigail in the kitchen, an ample apron wrapped around her small frame, flour on her nose as she kneaded bread dough. Nor could she picture Abigail seated on a porch swing, dutifully plying her needle in and out of a swatch of linen. That wasn’t what she and Abigail had had in mind when they had set their minds on being courted.

Cassie stirred restlessly in her chair. She wasn’t sure her mother understood what it was like to be a young lady.

That evening Cassie was glad to see Abigail drop in for a visit. She wanted to have someone with whom to discuss the terrifying changes that were taking place in her world.

“And Mother has suddenly decided that I must know all the duties of a grown-up. Even cooking and—”

“You are learning to
cook
?” squealed Abigail.

“Bread! Today I had a lesson in baking bread. Can you imagine? When will I ever need to know how to bake bread?” Cassie groaned.

“I’d love to cook!” cried Abigail in ecstasy. “I’ve coaxed and coaxed Mother—but she insists that I would drive Cook mad if I were allowed in the kitchen.”

Cassie could only stare at her friend as though she had taken leave of her senses.

“Whatever for?” she asked incredulously.

“I think it would be fun. I’ve always wanted to make things. Not for—for a duty, of course. But just for the fun.”

“But it’s not fun,” insisted Cassie. “It’s dreadfully boring. Do you have any idea how long it takes bread to decide to rise? Hours and hours. And you just have to wait on it. Of course, Cook usually mixes it up first thing in the morning—even before breakfast, and then she has it over and done with early in the day. I was until five o’clock getting the last loaf from the oven.” She groaned again.

“Did it taste good?” asked Abigail.

Cassie threw her a disdainful look. “How would I know? I never tasted it.”

Abigail seemed to know better than to question why.

“And I burned my finger,” went on Cassie, studying the blister on her first finger. “In one day—a burn and a prick. In just one day.”

Abigail giggled.

“It’s not funny,” Cassie shot back in irritation. “You—you just wait until your mother takes a notion—”

“My mother won’t. She doesn’t even know how to do any of those things herself.” Abigail sighed a long sigh that sounded almost mournful to Cassie.

They sat in silence for a few moments, mulling over the fact that their thinking was suddenly going in opposite directions. It was a surprise to each of them.

“Do you think—,” Abigail ventured at last, “that your mother might let me—you know—sort of be with you in the kitchen?”

Cassie could not have been more shocked.

“You want to learn how to cook?”

“Just for fun. Not that I’ll ever need to do it or anything. But just for fun.”

Cassie pondered the question. “I think that Cook feels I am more than enough to deal with. She seemed awfully pleased to get rid of me today,” admitted Cassie.

“Maybe I could help,” said Abigail brightly.

Cassie shook her head. Things had gone from bad to worse. “I don’t know,” she said hesitantly. “I doubt that Mother will agree—but I guess I could ask.”

Abigail rewarded her with another squeal and a quick hug.

Chapter Five

Rites of Passage

Over the weeks that followed, Cassie grudgingly began to fall into her mother’s routine. There were kitchen lessons, sewing assignments, and even household chores, considered to be her “training” for days ahead. She still fussed about the duties and on occasion spoke her mind, but her agitation gradually lessened. Her mother smiled approvingly at each small sign of progress.

The dinners with her father’s students now included one more young man.

“I’m afraid Abigail can no longer be a dinner guest,” Mrs. Winston informed Cassie. “It just doesn’t work for the table seating.”

“The table can easily hold an even dozen,” Cassie reminded her, but Mrs. Winston turned a deaf ear.

“Besides,” she continued, “when the two of you are together, neither of you act your age.”

Cassie turned flashing eyes on her mother, but Mrs. Winston had already moved toward the kitchen to give further orders to Cook.

Cassie wheeled from the room, her skirts swishing angrily. It was unfair for her mother to make such a charge. Even after her own moments of pique about sharing the attention, she would miss Abigail. Who would there be to share little nudges or upraised eyebrows? The grown-ups could be so stuffy and her brothers so childish. No one else at table ever seemed to be of like mind with her.

Then Cassie’s cheeks began to flame. That was exactly what her mother had been talking about. She and Abigail did indeed keep sending silent messages to each other. Perhaps they were a bit silly. Cassie’s chin came up and she determined to be a part of the adult conversation around the table—not just one of the children.

The change in the dinner arrangements was not received lightly by Abigail.

“Why?” she moaned and stewed. “Why am I just—put out?”

“You aren’t put out,” Cassie argued.

“But what about Mr. Birdwell? I am sure he was about to ask if he could call.”

“He can still call. He knows very well that you are just a few houses down the street.”

“But Papa would never entertain a mere doctor,” went on Abigail.

“A mere doctor has been feeding you as often as your own father has,” Cassandra reminded Abigail. Her cheeks burned and she swung on her heel and began fluffing the pillows on her bed.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way,” Abigail had the grace to apologize. “It’s just that Papa—well he is rather—rather restrictive in his views. He—he still sees me as a child. And I’ll be eighteen next month. I’m sure I’m destined to be an old maid.”

In spite of herself, Cassie felt sorry for Abigail. Her temper began to cool and she stopped thumping pillows and turned back to her friend.

“With your looks?” she exclaimed. “Impossible!”

The remark seemed to comfort Abigail. She reached up to tuck a wayward curl back into a side comb. “Do you think that Mr. Birdwell might ask to call?”

Cassie secretly felt that Abigail had been flirting shamelessly with the young man for many weeks and was tempted to speak her mind, but instead she answered demurely, “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Abigail, pleased, said, “Remind him that I am absent by no choice of my own.” She paused and went on. “And you might also point out my house again.”

Cassie nodded—but she was no longer in the mood to placate Abigail. She turned to her vanity and began to undo her hair so she might pin it properly for the evening’s dinner. Suddenly she felt a jerk on her arm.

“Did you say that your father is bringing another young gentleman?” Abigail demanded.

Cassie pulled her arm away from Abigail’s grip. “You heard me,” she said with a bit of annoyance. “That is why there isn’t room for you at the table.”

“Another one! I wonder what he will be like. Do you know his name? Is he good-looking?”

Cassie turned back to her hair. She had not realized how fickle and childish her lifelong friend was. “What happened to Mr. Birdwell? Remember him?”

Abigail reached down and picked up one of Cassie’s silver side combs. “Well—it’s not as though he has come calling yet or anything,” she reasoned.

“No. No, he hasn’t been calling,” agreed Cassie. In fact, neither of the girls had enjoyed a formal caller, and Cassie herself remembered that she too had an eighteenth birthday on the way. Most young ladies already had gentlemen callers by their age. She turned back to the mirror and made a face at her red hair and freckled face. There was
her
reason. She didn’t know what had been the problem for Abigail. Perhaps her childishness.

“I need to hurry,” she said. “Mother expects me down in twenty minutes.”

Abigail turned away reluctantly. A frown creased her forehead and she said with a pout, “You will tell me what happens. Promise?”

“Promise,” agreed Cassie and turned back to her hair.

She did feel sorry for Abigail, but at the same time she reminded herself that she was sure there would be no invitation for her should Abigail’s father, Mr. Jordan, ever decide to entertain young attorneys.

The new dinner guest was tall, blond, and had a most bewitching mustache. Cassie was quite taken with him and wished for one moment that Abigail had been there to see him for herself. Then she dismissed the thought. She had to stop thinking about Abigail and learn to be a part of the adult world.

On a few occasions she managed to enter the table conversation and it seemed that she committed no terrible blunders. She felt a bit heady with her accomplishment and even wished that the dinner hour might continue a bit longer. But as though on cue, as soon as the dessert was served, her father pushed back from the table, informed Dickerson that the men would have their coffee in the library, and excused himself and his guests from the table.

“Why don’t we work in the drawing room for a while?” her mother asked as soon as she had excused the three boys.

Cassie nodded her agreement. She did not even feel annoyed at the suggestion.

“I thought dinner went very well, didn’t you?” said Mrs. Winston when they were seated and had picked up their needlework.

Cassie looked up in surprise, noting her mother’s calm, pleased look.

“You handled yourself very nicely in the conversation,” her mother continued, and Cassie colored slightly at the compliment.

“You really are much more mature than Abigail. But when you are constantly together, I fear she has a way of holding you back.”

Mrs. Winston went right on stitching. Cassie was not sure how to interpret the comment, whether to be annoyed or pleased.

She punched the needle through the linen with a bit more force than usual and stole a glance at her mother. But Mrs. Winston seemed to be neither upset nor reprimanding. Cassie lowered her eyes again and carefully pressed the needle through the material.