They Called Her Mrs. Doc. Page 4

  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 her
self 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.

  “Dr. Sawyer seems like a nice young man,” Mrs. Winston noted, changing the direction of the conversation.

  Cassie flushed slightly, thinking of the blond head and the twitching mustache and nodded her head without comment.

  “Too bad he is already engaged,” her mother commented.

  Cassie’s hands went still in her lap.

  “She is waiting for him back in Toronto. They are to be married as soon as he has finished his internship.”

  So that’s that, thought Cassie, immediately shifting her thoughts back to Dr. Corouthers. I’m as fickle as Abigail, she chided herself and managed to prick her finger. “Ouch!” she exclaimed, her finger quickly moving to her lips.

  “Remember your thimble,” spoke her mother. “That is what it is for—to guard your fingers.”

  It was not much of a prick, but a little drop of blood was dotting the end of her finger.

  “I suppose you will have to lay aside your work for tonight,” her mother said, and added, “but you don’t need to run up to your room. I like to have your company. Why don’t you read by the fire—or just sit and chat.”

  Cassie had never been invited to sit and chat with her mother in the drawing room before. Oh, they had enjoyed little visits in her bedroom or on the porch swing when she had been younger. But then the years had seemed to send them both separate ways. Cassie had done her chatting with Abigail, and her mother had shared afternoon teas with lady friends. Now for some reason it seemed right that they share time together. Cassie laid aside her sewing but did not pick up a book.

  “Have you decided what you would like to do for your birthday?” asked Mrs. Winston.

  Cassie had spent many hours weaving elaborate plans of how she would celebrate her eighteenth birthday. She was about to begin spilling it all out to her mother when she realized just how childish her intentions had been—like something she might have wished to do when she turned twelve.

  “Not really,” she responded, stirring restlessly in her chair.

  “Well, we have a couple weeks yet. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  “I—I think I’d just like a—quiet dinner,” Cassie surprised herself by saying.

  “A quiet dinner?” Mrs. Winston sounded surprised. “With your father’s friends?”

  “No. No,” said Cassie quickly. “Just us.”

  Mrs. Winston nodded. “I’m sure that can easily be arranged,” she agreed, though her brow puckered slightly. “With Abigail?”

  “I—I don’t think so. Not for dinner. Perhaps—perhaps in the afternoon we could have some of my school friends in for tea.”

  Mrs. Winston smiled. “That’s a wonderful idea,” she enthused. “I will begin making the arrangements right away.”

  Cassie knew from years of experience that the “tea” would be done with an elegant flair. Her mother enjoyed afternoon teas and Cassie’s friends were bound to be impressed.

  The tea was perfect. All her friends told her so. Attractive gifts helped to make her little party a day to be cherished in memories.

  The family dinner party was just as successful. Her mother and father both seemed pleased that she had chosen to have a family celebration. Even her brothers were quite awed and entered wholeheartedly in the spirit of the event.

  I am now eighteen, thought Cassie later that evening as she unpinned her long tresses and let them spill over her shoulders. Then she lifted up the new emerald-green silk from her parents and studied her image in the mirror.

  Mama is right. It does suit my coloring. She had noticed that her mother had not said “red hair and freckles” but “coloring.” It sounded so much better.

  But the hair was still just as red, she noticed, though the gown did enhance her green eyes.

  “Mama says the freckles are fading,” she told her reflection, “but they are still there. I can see them. One here, another here, and one there—and there.”

  Cassie turned from her mirror, not wanting to count any more freckles.

  “Abigail says she’s heard of women who cover them up with face powder,” she continued her soliloquy. “I must see if I can find some the next time I am shopping.”

  And feeling a little better about her appearance, Cassie carefully hung her new dress in the wardrobe and prepared for bed.

  Dr. Corouthers must know that I am now eighteen, Cassie thought in frustration. Her father’s guests had been to dinner and were now ensconced in her father’s study discussing medical things again. Cassie felt a bit of annoyance that no sign of an approach had been made to her father.

  She had purchased the face powder and had come to an understanding with her mother as to how much a proper young lady might be free to use—but still the gentleman had not asked if he could call.

  It’s my red hair, she fumed silently. He does not find it at –tractive.

  “I noticed that Dr. Corouthers pays you fine compliments,” her mother spoke, interrupting her dark reverie.

  Compliments, yes, Cassie wanted to respond, but no inquir–ing if he might call. I am beginning to think he is just a flirt.

  Instead, she answered demurely, “He is a pleasant conversationalist,” then turned their conversation to other things.

  Cassie was about to lay aside her sewing and retire for the night when her father entered the room. His brow was slightly puckered as though he had been caught off guard on some matter. Mrs. Winston looked up with concern in her eyes. He flashed a plea for help in her direction and then turned to Cassie.

  “There is a young man in the library waiting to speak with you,” he said, puzzlement on his face spilling over into his tone.

  Cassie rose to her feet, sharing her father’s confusion.

  “He asked me if he could—but I said you are now of age and should speak for yourself,” Dr. Winston went on.

  Cassie stood bewildered, unsure whether to sit back down or move toward the door.

  “Well, don’t keep the young gentleman waiting, dear,” Mrs. Winston urged, and Cassie looked at her mother to see a soft smile playing about her lips.

  Cassie paled, then flushed. He
r fingers trembled and her knees shook. It has come. Dr. Corouthers is finally asking if he might call. She’d had no idea that it would catch her so by surprise when it finally did happen. She had considered herself prepared. But now as she moved forward on wooden legs, her mouth dry and her cheeks flaming, she wondered why she had ever wanted him to ask in the first place. She wasn’t ready. Not really.

  But the die had been cast. Her father had not even answered on her behalf, which would have saved her much anguish. Oh, if only he had said a yes or a no, Cassie was sure she would cheerfully have consented to either.

  She stopped in the hall, halfway between the drawing room and the library, and willed her pulse to stop racing and her breathing to return to normal. She practiced a few little smiles, hoping that they were demure, yet encouraging. She drew a big breath and proceeded to the library. Hoping that her cheeks were not flaming or her hands moist with perspiration, she pushed the door gently open, her warm smile firmly in place, and saw a man quickly rise to his feet.

  She was facing Mr. Smith.

  Chapter Six

  Courting

  Cassie’s smile quickly faded. She paled, then blushed. “I’m—I’m dreadfully sorry. I thought—” She could not finish her statement. She obviously had misunderstood the entire situation.

  Mr. Smith realized that something had gone amiss.

  “Your father didn’t tell you?” he asked softly, moving forward in case she needed a supporting hand.

  “No. No, he—well, yes, he—he did say that someone was—was waiting,” fumbled Cassie.

  “Ah-h,” said the perceptive Mr. Smith, his head lifting back. “But you didn’t expect it to be me. Is that it?”

  Cassie could feel her cheeks coloring again. She scarcely knew how to answer, but she had been taught to be honest. “Yes. Yes,” she stammered, “I really wasn’t expecting it to be you.”