They Called Her Mrs. Doc. Page 2

  “The oldest one is Dr. Corouthers. He has already graduated and is just beginning his internship.”

  “Is he really old?” asked Abigail with a grimace, then added quickly, “You may have him.”

  Cassie flipped back a straying lock of hair and gave her friend a disdainful look. Abigail did not even cringe.

  “Then there is Mr. Birdwell—”

  “Birdwell! What an awful name. I would never—never allow myself to become Abigail Birdwell. That’s awful. Horrible!”

  Cassie reached up to draw the pins from her hair and let it spill about her shoulders. She shook her head in impatience and turned those flashing green eyes on her friend. “You do not have to stay for dinner,” she reminded the girl coolly. “And you certainly do not have to become Mrs. Abigail Birdwell.”

  She sat down in front of the vanity mirror and noticed the angry flush in her face.

  “Well, after all,” Abigail responded, seeing no need to apologize, “it is all in good fun. What is the name of the third one?”

  “Mr. Smith,” said Cassie.

  “Mr. Smith? You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Really? It’s really just—just Mr. Smith?”

  Cassie let her fingers gently trace another freckle. “I assume he has a given name,” she said tartly.

  “Well, I do hope Walton or Jefferson or—or—”

  “Oh, do stop carrying on so,” Cassie responded, annoyance edging her voice, “or I’ll wish I had never invited you.”

  A pout began to pucker Abigail’s mouth. “Sometimes you can be most old-maidish,” she said. To which Cassie replied with a clipped, “And sometimes you can be most childish.”

  Heavy silence invaded the room. Cassie continued to study her face in the mirror and Abigail moved restlessly on the organdie coverlet.

  “Would you rather I didn’t come?” she asked peevishly at length, her words daring Cassie to refuse her admittance.

  “Oh, let’s not fight,” Cassie replied, turning to her almost reluctantly. “I told Mama that I don’t wish to be the only girl at a whole table full of men and boys. She’s already asked your mother, and you’ve been given permission. So why don’t you run on home and get ready. Be back here by seven—sharp. Mama hates for anyone to be late.”

  “You’re a dear!” exclaimed Abigail and bounced up to give Cassie a quick hug. “I will be here by seven—in my prettiest silk and my emerald choker.”

  Yes, thought Cassie, turning back to her mirror, I’m sure you will—even though you think yourself way above any of the three young men. She knew Abigail, the “unattainable attorney’s daughter,” would still try her hardest to impress them.

  Her shoulder sagged slightly as she heard her bedroom door open and close and Abigail’s light footsteps hurrying down the carpeted hall.

  Cassie was certain now that she should never have invited Abigail to join the dinner party. Abigail’s dark brown eyes and almost raven black hair made a striking contrast with her creamy skin, and she had no freckles whatever. It was true that her nose was a tad long, her chin had a stubborn tilt, and her manners sometimes left things to be desired, but Cassie still felt a twinge of fear that it might be Abigail who would steal the show.

  “Oh, bother!” she said disgustedly. “Why didn’t I just let well enough alone?”

  Then she shrugged again. “They most likely will all be old—and boring—and—and ugly,” she consoled her image in the mirror. “Abigail is right—doctors aren’t really very good catches. Just look at Papa. He’s always busy—never home—and terribly old-fashioned.”

  She heaved a sigh and rose from the vanity stool. She still hadn’t decided what she would wear—but for some reason it no longer seemed so terribly important.

  The ten people at the dinner table included Dr. and Mrs. Henry P. Winston, the three gentlemen dinner guests, Cassie and Abigail and Cassie’s three younger brothers.

  Cassie tried to be ladylike in manner and decorum, but it was difficult at times with Abigail surreptitiously kicking her under the table and giving her sly glances and knowing nods. Cassie was about to lose patience again when Abigail seemed to stop her twittering and settle down, content to catch shy peeks from behind long, dark lashes at the three distinguished dinner guests.

  Cassie’s own head was still spinning. The “older” Dr. Corouthers had turned out to not be so old after all. In fact, he didn’t look a bit over twenty-six or seven. Still quite acceptable in Cassie’s thinking. And the younger Mr. Birdwell did not at all resemble his name. He was quite striking with a mass of wavy blond hair and the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

  Mr. Smith was the quietest of the lot, seeming to speak only when spoken to. He was as plain as his name, in Cassie’s estimation—but he did have a gentle, pleasant smile and first-class manners. Cassie watched her mother chatting quite easily with him at one end of the table, while Dr. Henry P. discussed medical topics with the other two dinner guests and kept his three young sons in order with frequent stern looks.

  For the most part, Cassie and Abigail seemed to go unnoticed. Cassie could not help but wonder if Abigail chafed that her beautiful creamy silk and the expensive emerald choker were ignored. As the thought crossed Cassie’s mind, she was tempted to savor her friend’s discomfiture, but quickly brought herself in check when she remembered that she, too, had been as casually overlooked. She felt her cheeks flush slightly and for one awful moment had the urge to do something outlandish just to get some attention.

  Her breeding stood her in good stead. Quietly and with the best of manners she continued the meal, only occasionally stealing an upward glance at the three opposite dinner guests.

  The meal was almost over and the three were making elaborate compliments to Mrs. Winston when Cassie felt eyes upon her and cast a quick glance in the direction of Mr. Birdwell, hoping to find him solemnly studying her great beauty. But Mr. Birdwell had his eyes fastened on the rosy face of Abigail. Cassie looked away quickly.

  “You have only the one daughter, Mrs. Winston?” she heard a deep but soft voice inquire, and her head almost jerked up.

  “One girl,” responded Mrs. Winston. “One girl and three boys.”

  Cassie carefully turned her head.

  “It’s rather a shame,” the same voice continued. “I’m sure the neighborhood young men wish that you had provided at least a dozen.”

  Cassie could not have controlled it. She found herself looking into a pair of teasing but kind eyes. Her face reddened as she quickly dropped her gaze from Mr. Smith’s and listened to her mother reply calmly, “Our Cassie is quickly becoming an attractive young woman. I am sure that Dr. Winston will soon need to guard the front door.” Her mother’s soft laughter followed the statement. Cassie had never heard her speak in such a fashion before and it confused and troubled her. She wished she could escape the table—and the eyes of Mr. Smith—to the safety of her own room.

  Then she lifted her chin slightly and her red head gave a bit of a nod. If they were having fun at her expense, she would spoil it for them by not responding. She looked directly across the table at Mr. Corouthers and tipped her head slightly. “And are you from our area, Dr. Corouthers?” Her smile was confident.

  Cassie felt more than heard the quick intake of Abigail’s breath.

  But Dr. Corouthers seemed pleased to be questioned. “I’m from Halifax,” he answered evenly. “Have you been there?”

  Cassie was “committed” now, and she wished with all her trembling heart that she had not been so bold. But she paused only a moment and continued. “Only once. Papa had a conference there and we all went with him when I was—was—” She had been about to say “when I was twelve.” Instead, she finished lamely, “When I was younger.”

  “And did you like it?” asked Mr. Corouthers with interest.

  Cassie nodded, a smile lighting her face in spite of herself. “I especially liked the tall ships,” she admitted, but didn’t bother to
add that at the time she had been quite put out with the fact that she was born a girl rather than a boy. She had thought she would love to be a sailor.

  “Cassie thinks she’d like to sail,” put in younger brother Paul, and Cassie wished she could have withered him with a look.

  “I’ve always wanted to sail, too,” replied Dr. Corouthers, nodding companionably. “I have not given up the dream.”

  “Have you manned a boat?” questioned Mr. Birdwell, entering the conversation.

  “We always had a skiff—but it wasn’t what one would put out to sea in. I’ve always dreamed of having a real craft—one that would challenge the open waters.”

  “We had a little boat once,” offered Mr. Birdwell. “Just a rickety little piece of flimsy boards—hardly more than a crate—but we spent hours on the local pond. She sank on me once and I found myself in up to my chin. I hadn’t learned to swim at the time, but my father soon saw to it that I’d at least be able to make my way ashore if it happened again. …”

  Cassie bowed out of the discussion as others around the table joined in the conversation.

  Well, at least they know I’m here, she thought with some satisfaction. Actually, I’m the one who introduced a more spirited topic than Papa’s continuing classroom lecture.

  And for that one brief moment of glory, Cassie was gratified. She had entered the conversation, been accepted, and had not been challenged in the least by her parents for having done so.

  Chapter Three

  Girl Talk

  “Isn’t he wonderful?” Abigail enthused, throwing herself on the chintz window seat. The dinner had ended, the men retiring to the library to discuss medical discoveries, and the girls to Cassie’s bedroom.

  Cassie joined her on the window seat but did not answer. She wasn’t quite sure what she was supposed to say or whom Abigail was so excited about.

  “Did you see the way he looked at me?” Abigail continued to marvel.

  Cassie was still thinking of her brief but captivating exchange with Dr. Corouthers. Perhaps in the future she would even dare to speak with Mr. Birdwell. He was so nice looking—had such attractive blue eyes.

  “I am sure he likes me,” Abigail rambled on. “I could see it in his eyes. Did you notice? Did you see—?”

  “No,” said Cassie, looking rather forthrightly at her twittering friend. “No. I didn’t see it.”

  “Birdwell,” Abigail rushed on without a pause. She tipped her head slightly to one side. “It isn’t a pleasing name at all—but the gentleman wears it well.”

  “You think that Mr. Birdwell has fallen for you?” Cassie asked Abigail directly.

  “Didn’t you see him? He looked right at me. I—I just could have died!” She laughed self-consciously and added, “I was sure I’d spill my tea or drop my fried chicken in my lap or something. I was so—so—nervous.” When Cassie said nothing, Abigail too fell silent.

  Cassie was willing to admit that Mr. Birdwell was a fine-looking young man. Her thoughts went even further. She fervently hoped that he did not find Abigail too attractive. There would be more dinner parties, many evening meetings, perhaps even a Saturday outing with the young gentlemen. There always were when her father took young doctors under his personal tutorage. Cassie was bound to see the young man again. All three of the young men. She would have ample time to decide if she preferred Dr. Corouthers or Mr. Birdwell. But she wanted to be able to make the choice. She did not wish her options limited by the interference of Abigail.

  “Did your mother say that they are coming to dinner again next week?” Abigail broke the silence.

  Cassie lifted her head and nodded slowly. She could not deny it. But she did wonder how she would gently ease her lifetime friend out of the picture.

  “I thought you didn’t like doctors,” she reminded the girl. “

  Well,” observed Abigail nonchalantly, “maybe he will change his mind about being one—maybe he won’t even be a doctor if he finds that I prefer attorneys.”

  “I suppose you’ll have him change his name as well.” Cassie winced inwardly at her own flippant remark, but Abigail didn’t even notice.

  “Oh, do you really think he would? I’m sure Papa would do all the legal work free of charge. We could pick something our very own. Something romantic—something—”

  “Oh, Abigail,” said Cassie, standing abruptly to her feet and tossing a pillow carelessly at the other young woman.

  Abigail looked up in surprise. “What’s wrong with you?” she demanded.

  “You,” Cassie shot back. “If he isn’t good enough the way he is, then why don’t you just forget about him? ‘Change his name.’ ‘Change his occupation.’ Why don’t you have him change the color of his eyes?”

  “Oh no,” Abigail responded innocently. “I love his eyes.”

  Cassie threw another pillow. But Abigail caught it and drew it close. She sighed a long, contented sigh and murmured dreamily, “I can hardly wait to see him again.”

  “And when do you expect that to be?” questioned Cassie, shutting her window with a loud bang.

  “Next week,” replied Abigail.

  “You think Mama is going to invite you for dinner every time we have guests?”

  “Oh, Cassie, please. Please! You just have to get me another invitation. You are still the only girl. Remember. ‘The only girl in a room full of men and boys.’ ”

  Cassie cocked her head in pretended thought. “That might not be so bad,” she observed.

  “Oh, you’re not serious! You wouldn’t possibly leave me out. I mean, we have been friends—best friends—for years. You couldn’t possibly turn on me now. Could you?”

  “Do you invite me to your house when your parents have young attorneys in for dinner?” asked Cassie frankly.

  “We never have young attorneys—you know that. Papa said that he had to make it on his own. He sees no sense in coddling the competition. Give them a couple years and they will be fighting him in court.”

  “It’s not that way with doctors,” said Cassie thoughtfully. “Doctors help one another all they can. They are not ‘competition.’ They are—are partners. The world needs all the doctors we can produce, Papa says. Good doctors. He feels very strongly about it.”

  “Well, your papa and my papa see things differently,” admitted Abigail.

  “Yes. Yes,” mused Cassie. “They certainly do.” And for some reason she couldn’t explain, Cassie suddenly felt a surge of pride for her papa.

  “Dr. Henry P. Winston,” she said aloud. “You know, there are many people who have a good deal of respect for that name.”

  Abigail looked at her as though Cassie was losing her mind. Then she shrugged her shoulders and moved toward the door.

  “I have to get home. Papa said for me to call Wilbur to come and walk me. May I use the phone in the front hall?”

  “Of ourse,” nodded Cassie and followed her out to walk her friend down to the entrance hall. Wilbur was Abigail’s older brother. Cassie had never been fond of the boy. He was much too arrogant and pompous to make a good friend for anyone.

  “You will get me another invitation, won’t you?” Abigail pleaded as they descended the stairs together.

  “I’ll see” was all that Cassie would promise.

  They stopped in the hall while Abigail made her call. From the study came the sound of voices. The four men seemed to be deep in discussion.

  “ … I still think research should be able to isolate the germ,” said a voice that Cassie thought to be Mr. Smith’s.

  “I agree,” her father joined in. “If only we had funds and equipment and someone with the desire to see the project—”

  Abigail completed her call and the two girls moved down the hall and out of earshot.

  “I’ll wait outside with you until Wilbur comes,” offered Cassie.

  The evening was pleasant and the minutes passed quickly. Soon Wilbur’s heavy steps announced his approach. Cassie drew back into the shadows. She was in no mo
od to take Wilbur’s teasing about her carrot-top, her green cat eyes, or her freckles.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she whispered to Abigail and disappeared up the walk before Wilbur could even call after her.

  Over the winter months the young men did come again. Abigail was not always invited to be Cassie’s guest, but she did come often enough to feel that she was making significant headway with the attractive Mr. Birdwell. She had even discovered that his first name was Mitchell.

  “Mitchell is a nice name,” she had whispered one evening to Cassie as they had left the table and retired to her room to share newly garnered information. “Do you suppose he might be talked into using it as a last? Abigail Mitchell. That would sound just fine.”

  Cassie gave her friend a withering look and wondered about Dr. Corouthers’ first name. She didn’t dare ask and her papa never referred to the young men by their given names.

  “Did you hear what Mitchell called Mr. Smith?” went on Abigail.

  Cassie shook her head.

  “Sam! Sam? Can you imagine anything more—more drab. Sam Smith. Chopped off and—and ugly. As ugly as the man himself.”

  “That’s not fair,” Cassie heard herself responding. “He’s not ugly.”

  “Well, he certainly isn’t handsome.”

  “There’s a lot of room between handsome and ugly,” retorted Cassie, surprising herself by sticking up for the young man. She really had paid very little attention to him at all. But he did have a winsome smile, and her mama thought him terribly mannerly, and her papa, for reasons of his own, seemed to think that the young Mr. Smith was going to make a wonderful doctor someday. In fact, Cassie heard him talking about Smith even more than about Birdwell or Corouthers.

  “Papa says he will be a good doctor,” went on Cassie. “He has very high regard for him.”

  “ But he’s “igail mournfully. “And—and he looks so boyish with that bit of hair falling over his forehead as it does. You’d think that a doctor would try to get it under proper control. Wet it down or slick it back or—”