A Lady in Attendance Page 9

  He gave her a look of artificial hurt, which only made her laugh. She moved her chair so close, her leg touched his. “I don’t have to be far from you to feel safe. You are the man I feel the safest around. I wish I could say the same for all men.”

  He cleared his throat. “Have . . . have there been men who have made you feel threatened?”

  “Some men have made me feel uncomfortable. Your sex can be rather presumptuous, bold, and even forceful at times.”

  “It’s my hope to never be lumped in with those sorts of men.”

  “I shouldn’t be so hard on all men. My father is a good man. And my brothers are honorable. Most men aren’t so bad, I suppose.” Hazel fidgeted with her cream-colored cuff. “Not all women are pious and innocent. We have plenty who shame the group, at least at times.”

  “The men who are bad, they kept you from ever marrying?” He stood and walked across the room, unable to sit still. “I shouldn’t have asked that. I’m as bad as Alberta.”

  “I’m sure we both have our reasons for having lived our lives the way we have,” she said before rising and stepping beside him. They stood in silence, reflective and thoughtful. “This is a lovely painting. They all are. I adore the one behind your desk.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, the rolling hills with their autumn colors. The little house at the edge of it all. I feel like I’ve left the hustle and bustle of town when I look at it. Besides, autumn is my favorite time of year.” She brushed a stray hair from her face. In this lighting, her hair looked like the color of autumn. Like a leaf about to change from red to brown. “What’s your favorite?” she asked.

  “Painting?”

  “No, season.”

  “I’ve never thought about having a favorite season. I guess spring. It’s not as dramatic as autumn, but I love walking home past all the drifts of snow and seeing the grass breaking through. My father loved spring.” Gilbert was grateful to be digging up a happy memory of his father rather than thoughts of him on his deathbed. “Now that he’s gone, it reminds me of him.”

  Hazel’s shoulder brushed against his as she walked back across the room. “I remember the freedom I sensed when winter ended. We could finally run about outside without having to wear layers of clothes. It was liberating. I’d like to experience that free feeling again.”

  “Do you feel trapped now?” Gilbert scratched at the back of his neck while he watched her. He’d never been an employer before. Perhaps he was doing something wrong, and he was the reason she felt restrained.

  “In a way, I do believe I’m limited. I don’t think I can make you understand, but I’m both trapped and free right now.” Hazel shrugged like she always did when she couldn’t put into words what she felt. “I’ve made life much too complicated, and I can’t find a way to untangle it.” She looked down at her hands. “I meant to ask you. Do you think I could leave early one day this week?”

  “Yes, if you must.” His voice had become a hoarse whisper. He looked about his little dental office, noting how small and old it was. “Do you not like working here?”

  Hazel put a hand on his arm and left it there. “I love working here. It’s not that at all. I have something I must do.”

  “Go whenever you need to. Friday is going to be a slow day.”

  The door jingled open, and the two of them stepped apart. He became the doctor again, and she became his lady in attendance.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  Tuesday became Wednesday, then Thursday, and soon it was Friday, the day of the dinner party. Hazel and Gilbert grew closer each day, their friendship proving to be more than a passing fancy. Their constant conversations filled the office and pulled them closer still. His deep laugh and her much lighter one were a perfect harmony of happiness.

  “I have to finish a bridge,” Gilbert said, walking toward the art room.

  “Will you show me?” she asked. “All I ever see is the masterpiece at the end.”

  The art room was where he’d sat beside his father as a boy and started his early dental training. It was now his personal refuge—a sanctuary when he needed to lose himself in his work.

  “You can come.” Welcoming her confirmed that, despite it being her idea, he wanted her to share his oasis. “My father used this room,” he said after opening the door. “Many of his old tools are still here. Relics now, but I can’t part with them.”

  “You loved him. I can tell.” She stated the truth while peering at the walls. Wax, molds, and tools were stacked neatly on shelves. Projects half-finished rested in clamps, waiting for his attention. His eyes followed hers, seeing it anew. “It’s so clean.”

  “My father always said a clean workspace was a happy workspace. I’ve never been able to leave it askew.” He watched her run her finger over an old dental pelican, a set of dental keys, and a finished denture.

  “I see why you call it an art room. You’re gifted.”

  “Thank you.” He picked up a file and flipped it back and forth in his hand. “Do you want to try making something? I’ll let you make a mold.”

  “Could I?”

  “Sit here.” The counter was high enough that a project could be worked standing or sitting atop a tall stool. He pulled a stool out for her and, once she was seated, handed her a block of wax and several small carvers. “Etch whatever you’d like, then I’ll help you pour it.”

  She picked up the tools, studied them, then shaved a bit of wax from the block. Several long moments passed as she carved more and more away.

  “Help me,” she said without turning away from her project. “When I try to take a little piece off, I take too much.”

  He stepped nearer and observed. When the carver slid out of control, he put his hand on hers. She turned when he touched her and stared up into his eyes, waiting. His mouth went dry. “Cut straight down where you want to stop. The back cut will help you control the amount you remove.” He guided her hand, and together they made a cut and carved slivers of wax away from the mold. “You’ll get better.”

  “If you keep helping.” She looked over her shoulder, their faces inches apart. “You’re a fine teacher.”

  Her breath was a gentle breeze against his skin and sent his heart beating faster. He released her hand and staggered back a step. “You’ve nearly mastered it already.”

  “Hardly.” She smiled. “Where are you going? I thought you had a bridge to work on?”

  He cleared his throat. “I do . . . you’re right.”

  “I’ll wash the instruments from the last patient. I don’t want to be in the way.” She stood, leaving the wax on the table. “Thank you for the lesson.”

  “Stay. I’ll get another stool and you can keep me company. I’ll boil the last batch of instruments later.”

  “You want me to stay?”

  “I do.”

  Hazel glanced at the clock. “I want to, but—”

  He opened the art room door. “You have somewhere to go. I forgot.”

  “I’ll hurry and help clean up first.” Hazel appeared flustered.

  “Just go. I’ve cleaned this office many times on my own.” She seemed reluctant, but she washed her hands, grabbed her lunch tin, and left. Gilbert closed the door and turned back toward his office. Somehow it seemed darker without Hazel—and far too quiet. A different job, marriage—someday something could pull her away for good. He was acutely aware that if that day came, he would have trouble ever going back to the way things were before. She had changed the office, and she had changed him.

  Hazel headed first to the post office in hopes one of the queries she’d sent requesting help with her case had been answered, but as usual there was no reply. Discouraged but still determined, she went to the small police station at the edge of town.

  Mustering as much courage as she could, she knocked loudly on the station door. It was the first time she had dared to go right to the police. She’d always quietly gone to a judge or a lawyer, hoping they would take on her case.<
br />
  “What do you want?” an older man with thin lips and bushy eyebrows asked. “You need something, miss?”

  “I need to speak with someone about a crime.”

  “Come in, and I’ll get Tom.” The man motioned for her to follow him into the dim building and down a narrow hall to a small, sparsely furnished room.

  “Wait here. Sorry it’s not more comfortable. We don’t get many ladies in.”

  Hazel tapped her fingers on the table and fretted over the reception she’d get. Was this the right choice? Or could it somehow put those she loved in danger? What if someone evil was behind what happened before? Could he still be out there? If he heard she was stirring up trouble, could he come after her or her family? Maybe Mr. Beck had been right, and she should accept the past and move on.

  She thought about her sisters, Bernice and Mathilda, and wondered what they thought of society. Had they been warmly welcomed? And her brothers, what had they been doing? She wanted answers, resolution, and justice—all things she could not have without the help of those in authority. If there was a way to set things right, shouldn’t she take it? But fear was a beast that arrived uninvited, unannounced, and with force. It came now, sweeping over her and stealing her breath.

  She looked down the hall in time to see a man with a severe face approaching. Without waiting to see if his disposition matched his expression, she fled. Too much a coward to face rejection at this man’s hands.

  “Miss, did you need something?” she heard a voice call to her back.

  “No, thank you,” she said, quickening her pace and keeping her face straight ahead.

  Like a fool, she ran outside. If only she could so easily run from it all. Months of bottled-up tears chose that moment to spill from her, racing down her face. She trudged back toward the boardinghouse, making no attempt to contain the grief and turmoil that raged within. One moment she was shedding tears, knowing she’d played a part in her own misery and that of others, and the next she was sobbing over the cruelty of her seemingly lifelong sentence for what she’d never done.

  “Hazel?”

  Through her tears, she saw Gilbert walking toward her. Running away and pretending she hadn’t heard him was not an option. He’d seen her—tears and all.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, lengthening his stride.

  “Don’t worry on my account.” She tried to smile through her tears.

  Gilbert shook his head. He opened his mouth but didn’t speak and instead put an arm around her as though he wished to shield her from the weight of her worries. At the touch of his arm, she turned toward him and buried her head in his chest. He wrapped his other arm around her too, and his arms were strong and comforting, and for a moment she allowed herself to be weak in his embrace.

  He gripped her tighter and let her cry. Whispering into her ear, he said, “Come with me.”

  Blinded by tears and sorrow, she let him lead her away, past the school and the church, up a little hill at the edge of the village.

  He laid his jacket across a fallen log. “Sit down.” Always a gentleman. She did as he asked, and he sat beside her. “I’m not the best with words, especially with you beside me and with your tears. I can talk about teeth and the weather—those things don’t scare me.”

  She pressed a finger to his rambling lips. “Shhh, you’re just fine with words. Don’t belittle yourself.”

  “I could use more practice.”

  “Practice on me.” She sniffled.

  With a tender thumb, he wiped away a fresh tear. “What’s wrong? Your eyes aren’t sparkling like they should be.”

  “You are perfect with words.” She leaned her head against his shoulder and let more tears roll down her cheeks as she mourned the past, knowing it would forever keep her from what she now wanted so badly.

  “Did something happen while you were away?” His voice cracked. “Is it something I can help you with? If it is, I will.”

  “I don’t know how you could. It’s all a big tangled knot, and I don’t know how to unravel it. I worry that if I try, I will only make it worse. But if I don’t, my life can’t go anywhere.”

  Gilbert stopped her rambling by pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She froze beneath his touch, closed her eyes, and savored his compassion.

  His voice was gentle. “I wish I knew how to ease all your worries. I know that ever since you walked through the door of my office, I’ve been grateful for the noise and fire you brought in with you. I want to help you.”

  She pulled her head off his shoulder and looked up at him. His benevolent deep-brown eyes held hers. “I have never had anyone tell me they liked my noise.”

  “Forgive my choice of words,” he whispered.

  “Don’t apologize. They’re not the polished words of the snakes Alberta warned me about.” She laughed a little through her tears. “You’re always so good, it scares me. I feel inferior beside you. Where I am weak, you are endlessly strong.”

  He shifted, and she worried she’d scared him off. Men like Gilbert did not always take praise well, preferring instead to quietly offer charity and kindness, needing no fanfare. To her great relief, he did not leave.

  “Look over there.” He pointed toward autumn’s greens, reds, and yellows in the leaves. “See that cluster of trees?”

  She straightened, recognizing the setting as one of the paintings at the office that had so often swept her away. “You are the painter?”

  “When I was a little boy, I had a terrible time speaking. I’d try to talk, but my words wouldn’t come out how I wanted them to. I avoided people whenever I could so I wouldn’t have to talk. One day my father bought me a paint set. I think he knew I needed something I could be good at.” Gilbert wiped another one of her tears. “Only my father knew I painted. Well, and Eddie.”

  Hazel put a hand on his forearm. “Your art should be somewhere public.”

  “I used to dream of being a world-famous painter. But then I started painting my heart into my pictures. The places I loved, and that brought me peace.” He hesitated. “I didn’t want my heart to be on display.” He picked up a red leaf from the ground. “It matches your hair.”

  “My hair is what this leaf will look like in a few days when it turns brown.” She ran a hand through her unruly tresses.

  “I thought your hair was brown when I first saw you. But when the sun hits it, it is decidedly red.” With a cautious hand, he took a strand of her soft hair and ran it between his fingers. “It’s a beautiful color.”

  If the past were not looming all around her, she would have crept deeper into his touch and relished the feel of his hand in her hair. With new tears threatening to spill over, she stood and walked a few steps away.

  He followed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll be more careful what I say and do.”

  “I’ve wanted a shoulder to lean on.” Running her hands along the pleats of her dress, she attempted to brush aside all the emotion that swirled within her. With renewed composure, she said, “We should forget all these tears and talk about our dinner with Ina and Duncan.”

  “If that’s what you want. Duncan stopped by the other night to tell me he bought a new suit for the occasion.” Gilbert looked out at the horizon. “The two of them together is a good thing. I hope they find happiness.”

  “What do you think he sees in Ina?”

  Gilbert’s brow furrowed as he thought. “I can’t speak for his heart, and he may not even know yet. But when I saw him, he said he felt at ease in her presence. And perhaps that comfortable feeling can blossom into something more.”

  “You and I will just have to help them realize they are meant to be with each other.”

  “I think if anyone can nudge them together, it is us.” He stooped and picked up a leaf only to send it into the gentle breeze. They watched it sail and then land. “Tomorrow I plan to paint.”

  “You do? What are you going to paint?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I onl
y know I feel the desire to create.”

  “Paint this tree. Put it up in the office, and when I see it, I will think of the time you let me cry on your shoulder.”

  He offered his arm to her. “My shoulder is yours to cry on whenever you need it. Let me walk you home so you and Ina can get ready for our dinner. And tomorrow I’ll paint this tree. It’ll be for you.”

  “Can I come?” she asked, reaching for his arm. “Can I watch you paint?”

  “I never let anyone watch me paint.”

  “I don’t have to,” she said, realizing she’d been presumptuous. “I didn’t mean to assume—”

  “But since it’s your painting, you may come.” He squeezed the hand that was wrapped around his arm. “No more tears?”

  “No more tears,” she said, grateful to have even a moment of contentment.

  There were two meals Gilbert could make. The first was eggs, and the second was vegetable soup. Neither seemed appropriate for such an important evening. Ever since the date for their pie making had been set, he’d agonized over the meal. In the end, he’d asked sweet old Clara for help.

  “I’ve been praying you’d find yourself a nice girl,” she’d said when he’d asked for her help. “Maybe after you get married, this house will be filled with laughter and children. Just think of it. Children in this home again.”

  He hadn’t had the heart to tell her that he and Hazel were not courting, and so all week he’d let Clara think what she liked. Her excitement had overpowered her practical side. The result was a feast—roast, potatoes with gravy, and fresh rolls.

  “She’ll be here soon,” Gilbert said to the matronly woman. “She wants to use the kitchen to make a pie.”

  “You’ve told me twice. I’m hurrying. I’ll clean up and then scurry away. I brought a whole stack of mending to do. I’ll go in the back room and stitch away while you have your party.” Clara grabbed a rag and wiped the table where she had cut vegetables.

  “I told you, you don’t have to stay. We’ve spent plenty of time together.”