The Laughing Place
By Karen Rees
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If I were to sneak back down the alley after dark tonight armed with a kitchen knife and hack every threatening rosebud off of this loathsome bush, would that stop Mr. Downs from proposing?
I stood in the track behind the two-story clapboard building that was his home and mercantile and glared at the heavily laden rosebush in the near corner of his vegetable garden.
No! Nothing would stop Mr. Downs now. Not even chopping down the whole plant. He'd only waited this long to make his intentions toward me public out of respect for my being in mourning for Father. Not that the whole town didn't already know he'd selected me for the second Mrs. Downs. Nothing could be kept private in a place the size of Bluefield, Connecticut.
The damp, cool breeze of early May was rustling the rosebush and chilling my cheek. I jerked my old brown shawl more tightly about me as I glanced up and down the alley. It remained empty. The parlor windows above the back entrance of the mercantile were equally empty. At this time of morning, Mr. Downs would be sweeping the wide wooden sidewalk or chatting with early customers. Still, I dared not tarry. If he saw me, he might jump to the wrong conclusion and come courting immediately.
His sense of propriety had given me the last three months. His roses would give me only a few weeks more. Then, as he'd promised two days after Father's funeral, he'd bring me a bouquet of his American Beauties along with a marriage proposal.
I gave the horrid bush a final frown and hurried on down the alley, my wicker market basket bouncing on my arm.
Leaving the alley, I turned left onto a street of Cape Cod houses. Each house sat in its own grassy lot marked off by a picket fence or hawthorn hedge low enough for the family who lived there to keep an eye on the neighbors. As I passed, I could smell the gossipy housewives watching me.
In normal times, I'd never have considered marrying Mr. Downs. Except the times weren't normal. President Lincoln's war had taken too many young men and never returned them. Now, in 1868, there simply weren't enough to go around for the thousands of young women like myself scattered across New England. With such a shortage, any eligible man, even a staid, forty-year-old widower, was eyed with keen interest.
But I mustn't marry Mr. Downs. To do so would be repeating the mistake I'd made at age sixteen.
I'd said 'yes' to Jimmy Spencer because I was desperate for someone to want me. I was still hurting from Grandmother's death and struggling to keep house for a taciturn father who seemed only interested in his medical practice. I hadn't yet realized he'd finally forgiven me because I'd been the one to live rather than Mother when we'd both caught yellow fever the year I'd turned four. So I became engaged. A few weeks later Jimmy left on the train with the rest of the boys, an awkward eighteen-year-old transformed into a hero by a blue uniform. I never had to undo my mistake because he'd been killed in his first battle.
That was eight years ago. Although with Father gone I was feeling as lonely as I had at sixteen, I'd grown a little wiser.
I passed the final Cape Cod, a tan one with white trim, and turned onto a narrower street. The saltboxes here were poor cousins, their yards smaller and less tidy. Holding my black skirts away from the muddy puddles left from last night's rain, I hurried on toward Mrs. Higgins's house.
Assuming I didn't marry Mr. Downs, how would I provide for myself? The only skill I had was the medical training Father had given me. Thanks to him I was already a competent midwife, but in a town too small to support me, and well on my way to becoming a doctor. That is, if I wanted to be one.
Bluefield wouldn't admit it, but while the town council sought a new doctor after Father's death, I was doing the work of one. In the last few months, as well as delivering several babies, I'd set a broken arm, stitched up a bad gash from a slipped ax and kept old Mrs. Higgins in pills for her aches and pains. No doubt she was even now at her window watching for me.
I hadn't planned to study medicine after Jimmy died. I only knew something was wrong with Father's heart. He wouldn't tell me so I decided to find out for myself.
He caught me looking through his medical books one evening and demanded to know what I was about. I explained with trepidation. To my relief he not only told me about his heart but handed me one of his books.
“If you want to learn about medicine,” he said, “start here.”
Because Father for once had taken me into his confidence, I read the book and actually found it interesting. Thus I began my medical studies.
His heart had started my studies. His heart ended them last February. At this point, if I wanted to become a doctor, I'd have to complete my education elsewhere.
A mere twenty years ago, being a woman automatically would have excluded me from medical school. All that changed when Elizabeth Blackwell quietly took that male citadel. Now Dr. Blackwell had her own medical college where I could complete my training … if I really wanted to.
As I made my way along the final short rutted street, I tried to picture myself as a doctor. Not that I hadn't already done so a hundred times. As always, two problems interfered. Father was never one to put money aside for the future if, by spending it now, he could be a better doctor. He invested in up-to-date equipment, subscribed to several medical and scientific periodicals, and even made trips to New York City to see the latest in surgical techniques. I'd only have enough money for medical school if I sold my home.
I also didn't have Father's commitment. Medicine had been his passion, his hope, the weapon he welded against the unfairness of life. He'd driven himself and driven me as well. If I became a doctor, I feared his memory would still drive me. I didn't want to live like that.
“I want even less to wake up to Mr. Downs every morning.”
A tabby cat grooming itself under a greening maple stopped briefly to look up at me. Evidently uninterested in my dilemma, it resumed licking its leg.
I was nearing Mrs. Higgins's little house. Shelving the problem, I jammed an escaping strand of hair back under my bonnet and followed the weedy path up to her sagging front step.
As I expected, Mrs. Higgins was at her window watching the goings-on in the neighborhood. She waved me into a small parlor overflowing with bric-a-brac.
"Nathalie, I almost thought you wasn't coming." The floor creaked under her weight as she relaxed back in her Boston rocker. "I heard the morning train whistle more 'n ten minutes ago."
"I've brought a new supply of pills." I took the paper packet from my shopping basket and put it on a side table beside the lard-oil lamp.
"That bottle your father made up for me 'afore he died must be about empty," Mrs. Higgins said.
"There's still enough for a while." I settled into the lumpy horsehair sofa across from my patient. Her color was good. I didn't tell her I'd mixed the pills myself. Ironically, the town would happily accept my treatment as long as I did it as my father's daughter. But were I to come to do the same thing with a medical degree, I'd meet stiff opposition.
"You've been such a good girl lookin' after me this way. Almost like a daughter. Which is why I should warn you." She leaned forward, tipping the rocker nearly to the runner points, her soft jowls quivering with determination. "I was in the mercantile yesterday to get some sugar, don't you know. And there was that Sarah Sue Jenkins, fancied up in a new dress, her hair all in curls and her freckles covered with enough cornstarch to thicken gravy." Mrs. Higgins' voice rose with indignation. "She was makin' eyes at Mr. Downs. And him your beau. Made me so mad I almost forgot my sugar." She settled back again. "Of course he didn't pay her no mind this time. But you can't be sure what a man will finally do when some young hussy throws herself at him."
"He isn't my beau."
"It's a shame you don't have a mama to tell you how to hold a man's attention,” Mrs. Higgins said. “You're certainly prettier than Sarah Sue. You got such lovely hazel eyes and a good figure. You ought to make more of yourself. Why don't you sew yourself a new dress. And get a curling iron. Men like frills and ruffles and curls … and soft, coy looks."
I swallowed a sharp retort. Mrs. Higgins meant well. It wasn't worth explaining that, no matter how I tried, my leaf brown hair refused to hold a curl for long. Also, lovely as my eyes might be, they looked at the world far too directly to ever be coy.
Mrs. Higgins's expectant look demanded a response.
"I'll remember."
Her duty done, she moved to a different topic.
"Did you know the new doctor's arrived? Little Tommy Jones brought me some eggs earlier and told me."
I squirmed afresh. My visits with Mrs. Higgins were usually comfortable chats. But not today.
"Mayor Johnson brought Dr. Williams and his wife to call on me last evening," I said.
The mayor must have hinted that I'd soon be marrying and my house would be available because, when I'd welcomed them into the parlor, Mrs. Williams had glanced around the room with the look of a woman already deciding where her furniture could go and what rooms would have to be re-papered. Dr. Williams examined Father's well-equipped surgery with an equally calculating look.
When I shut the door behind them a short while later, I was feeling grim. The town had my life all planned. Dr. Williams would get Father's equipment. Mrs. Williams would get the house. And Mr. Downs would get me.
“You've been so good to take care of me,” Mrs. Higgins said. “Just like a real doctor. So I made you some sugar cookies.”
Her words were an abrasive rubbing a wound. You don't pay a real doctor with baked goods. I went into the kitchen and shoved a dozen cookies onto a plate so Mrs. Higgins wouldn't see my expression.
I was not in the most pleasant of moods when, on my way home, I stopped at the mercantile for three pounds of flour.
Henry, the young man who'd helped in the store since Mrs. Downs's death, was behind the counter stacking jars of canned peaches. Mr. Downs was nowhere in sight. With luck, I could make my purchase and be gone before he appeared.
The hope was short lived. As Henry was sacking my flour, Mr. Downs shuffled out of the back. When he saw me, his plain face lit with pleasure. He ran a hand over his bare pink scalp, smoothing the memory of hair, and hurried over. I pulled my mouth into the semblance of a smile.
"I'll see to Miss Nathalie, Henry. There's a barrel of pickles to be fetched from the stockroom."
Mr. Downs took the place behind the counter Henry had vacated. I handed him a coin and received my change. As I dropped it into my reticule, his gaze strayed to the plate of cookies in my basket.
"Have you been baking?" he asked, his expression brightening.
I stiffened. Naturally he would notice. Mr. Downs loved good food. Every July he helped judge the baked goods competition held as part of Bluefield's Independence Day celebrations. That he'd eagerly accepted Father's occasional invitation to dine on my indifferent cooking had been undeniable confirmation he had more than friendship on his mind.
"Mrs. Higgins gave them to me."
"Oh, yes." Some of his brightness faded. "She does make the best cookies. And the most delicious pie crusts. You need a light touch to turn out a tender crust. Shouldn't be too hard to learn.”
I merely nodded, knowing any answer would be curt. My crusts would never win a prize, but I took great care when mixing prescriptions. People's lives depended on it.
"How is Mrs. Higgins?” he said, “Her rheumatism still giving her trouble?" Before I could answer, he continued, "Your father would be mighty proud of the way you've tried to look after things for him. Like I told you after his funeral, I've always admired your devotion."
I didn't need to be reminded of what he'd said when he came to pack Father's clothing for me. Afterward he'd settled at the kitchen table, finished off a wedge of custard pie brought by a neighbor, and took the opportunity to make his intentions toward me perfectly clear. His concluding words still clanged in my head.
"A dutiful daughter makes a dutiful wife."
Up to that moment I'd seriously considered marrying Mr. Downs. Despite his tedious manner, he seemed my only chance. But listening to him talk over that pie, I began to have grave misgivings. No doubt Mr. Downs visualized me stacking shelves and rolling crusts for him with the same enthusiasm I'd had in helping with Father's practice. It proved how little Mr. Downs knew me.
I found medicine interesting. But it was working alongside Father that made the difference. I at last came to know him, his strengths and weaknesses, his loves and his bitterness. And, in teaching me medicine, he'd sharpened my mind, widened my world, and given me a new confidence in myself.
The wife Mr. Downs wanted was one who would cook his meals, mend his socks and nod her head when he voiced an opinion. If he'd asked, I could have told him I was not that one. He'd never bothered to ask in my kitchen. He was not asking now over the counter. He was telling me.
"Now that we've got a new doctor, it's time we settled your future." His expression radiated confident expectation. "My roses will be blooming mighty soon." He looked as if he were going to cover my hand, resting on the flour sack, with his thick, pale one. I dropped my gaze and casually tucked the flour sack in my basket under the plate of cookies.
Fortunately, at that moment Henry staggered out of the back with the pickle barrel. I managed to escape while Mr. Downs was instructing him where to put it.
I was nearly home when I spotted an unfamiliar young man in a trim, dark suit sitting in my porch swing. I slowed with cautious curiosity. As I turned in at my front gate, he straightened out of the swing and met me on the dirt path. His dark hair and waxed mustache were as neat as his suit. He tipped his black top hat.
"Miss Rutledge?"
I nodded.
"Jeremy Alcott, of Alcott and Alcott of Boston." He pulled a business card from his waistcoat pocket and held it out. "Our law firm represents the Boston office of the Star Line Shipping and Trading Company owned by your great uncle, Reid Rutledge of Bristol, England. We've received instructions from your great aunt concerning you. I have a letter from her that should clarify everything."
"Aunt Elizabeth?"
My grip on the wicker basket handle tightened as I stared at this representative of a virtual stranger. Although I'd written in late March to inform her of Father's death, I hadn't expected to receive an answer so soon - and certainly not in this manner.
I reluctantly took the card and stood fingering it.
"Which Alcott are you?" I asked, temporizing.
"Actually neither, yet," he said with a disarming smile. “The first Alcott is my father, the second my uncle. If I could give you the letter...."
He was expecting to be invited in. I still hesitated. It was as if Father were standing at my shoulder, and he would not have welcomed him.
He'd never forgiven my English grandfather for deserting the family when Father was a child. Obviously his feelings had spilled over to Grandfather's family. Why else had he hidden Aunt Elizabeth's letter from me? I'd only learned of it, and of my great aunt, when I'd gone through Father's papers after his death.
Mr. Alcott was studying me.
"If another time would be more convenient.... I've taken a room in the boarding house."
But Father was no longer here.
"No, now will be fine. Please come in."