Love's Faithful Promise Read online

  A flush spread over the woman’s plain features. “Of course.”

  “Very well, then. Good day, Miss Shearing.”

  She pressed her lips together and inclined her head.

  Why did the woman’s disapproval rankle so? She’d been with Matthew ever since Priscilla’s death over two years ago and had proven invaluable to him. Yet lately, there had been a subtle shift in her attitude that Matthew couldn’t begin to define.

  Implied expectation? Thinly disguised disapproval?

  Whatever it was, it made Matthew uncomfortable, and he found himself spending as little time as possible around the woman.

  Thank goodness for his work. Without it, he had no idea what he’d do. Assisting his patients was the only thing that calmed the inner demons clamoring to take over his mind whenever he found himself idle.

  Matthew made his way down to the front entrance of the grand home he’d shared with Priscilla. A wedding gift from his father-in-law, Dr. Terrence Pentergast. Matthew looked around at the enormous entry and held back a grimace of distaste. He’d never liked this house and had tried to move out after Priscilla’s death, but her parents insisted he stay for Phoebe’s sake. She needed the familiarity of her childhood home, they said. It would help her cope with the loss of her mother. And so he’d given in, even though the residence was far too grandiose for his taste. If only the house were the sole source of conflict between him and the Pentergasts.

  Matthew shook off his morose thoughts and retrieved his hat from the hall stand. He checked his reflection in the mirror and prepared to head out to catch the streetcar. Would the irksome Miss O’Leary be on hand to annoy him again today? With the stubbornness she’d displayed so far, he imagined she would.

  Footsteps sounded on the staircase. Miss Shearing appeared in the hallway.

  “Might I have a word with you, Doctor?”

  Matthew held back a sigh. “What is it, Miss Shearing?”

  She took a hesitant step closer. “Couldn’t you call me Catherine?”

  Matthew startled at the emotion evident in her brown eyes—a combination of sympathy and . . . affection? Goodness, had the nanny developed feelings for him? That might explain her odd behavior of late, but he prayed it was not the case, since he in no way reciprocated. After his wife’s death, Matthew had vowed he would never again be responsible for a woman’s unhappiness.

  “That would be highly inappropriate. Now what is it you wish to discuss?” Perhaps if he made himself as surly as possible, it would dissuade any wrong notions.

  Color rose in her cheeks. “I’m concerned with the lack of progress in Phoebe’s recovery.”

  “If you’re talking about her lungs, I am well aware of their weakened condition.”

  “I’m referring to her emotional state.” She frowned. “Phoebe’s taken to hiding in her closet again. In addition, she’s stopped speaking. I thought I was making headway with her, but something has rendered her mute again.”

  Matthew’s muscles seized, her words confirming the relapse he’d begun to notice in Phoebe as well. He’d rather face an injured soldier with an amputated leg than speak of crippling emotions. He kept his own scars buried so deep that he need never speak of them. Only in his nightmares did they surface. How could he help his daughter with her demons when he was powerless to overcome his own?

  Miss Shearing gripped her hands together in front of her plain brown skirt. “Do you know of anything that might have triggered a setback?”

  He searched his memory for anything out of the ordinary in the past few weeks and could think of nothing. “I’m afraid I have no idea.”

  She moistened her lips as though nervous. “Seeing that I’m not qualified in matters of the mind, I’d like permission to call in a psychiatrist to treat Phoebe.”

  Matthew’s stomach muscles clenched. “Absolutely not. I will not subject my daughter to . . . that. Am I clear?”

  Miss Shearing’s mouth puckered as if she’d tasted something unpleasant. “Very. I’m sorry for wasting your time.” She turned, her skirts flaring behind her, and walked away.

  On that sour note, Matthew left the house, anxious to be out in the cool morning air, away from his home fraught with problems. He would never subject Phoebe to a psychiatrist. Not after the one he’d endured when he had returned from overseas. Electric shock treatments. The endless barrage of questions that dredged up horrid memories from the war.

  No. Much better to forget the past and move forward.

  He’d managed to do so, and his daughter would do the same.

  Deirdre paused in the dimly lit corridor outside Dr. Clayborne’s physical therapy room to shore up her courage. No matter how surly the man was, she would ignore his attitude and concentrate on acquiring the skills to help Mama.

  Clearly the doctor was not inclined to change his mind about coming to Long Island, and Deirdre was beginning to think that was a good thing. Mama did not need such a disagreeable man around her. She deserved someone cheerful and optimistic, and if no such person existed, then Deirdre would become that for her.

  She opened the door and entered the empty room, surprised to discover she’d arrived before Dr. Clayborne. Finding the switch for the overhead lights, she illuminated the space, then stood to marvel once again at the equipment he employed to treat his patients. A series of ropes and pulleys to test the endurance of withered muscles, parallel metal bars at hip height, as well as a variety of iron weights, straps, metal braces, and crutches. They seemed like instruments of torture, but if the doctor was seeing results, they must be doing the job. How would she duplicate such equipment at Irish Meadows? She made a note to discuss that with Dr. Clayborne.

  “You must be an early riser, Miss O’Leary.”

  Deirdre’s spine stiffened at the deep voice behind her. Pasting on a smile, she turned to face Dr. Clayborne.

  He removed his hat and set it on a hook before casting his cool blue gaze on her. Determined not to be intimidated, she crossed the room. “I am up early most days,” she said. “How is your daughter faring today?”

  A flicker of surprise lit before the mask settled into place. “She is stable for the moment. Thankfully, no fever developed overnight.”

  Deirdre noticed then the lines of fatigue around his eyes and mouth. He must have spent a nearly sleepless night watching over his daughter. Despite her dislike of the man, she couldn’t help but soften a little at the idea of him as a worried father. “Who is with her now?”

  “Her nanny, as usual.” He removed his jacket and took a white coat from the tree stand.

  Sensing the conversation had come to an end, Deirdre removed her own overcoat and smoothed the white apron of her nursing uniform. At least today she felt more professional, not dressed in her street clothes. If the doctor noticed the change, he didn’t mention it.

  “Who is the first patient?” she asked brightly, exchanging her cloche hat for her nursing cap.

  Dr. Clayborne picked up a file. “Samuel Pickett. Age twenty-two, left leg amputated at the knee. He’s recently been fitted with a wooden leg and is having trouble adjusting to it.”

  Deirdre held back a sigh. Normally such a case would interest her, but she didn’t see how working with an amputee would help her mother’s paralysis.

  “My next patient may be of more interest to you.” The doctor speared her with a knowing glance.

  Had her dismay shown? She usually hid her emotions well, as she’d been trained in nursing school. But with Mama, she seemed to have lost her objectivity.

  “Mr. Rockford has a spinal injury from a bullet and is paralyzed. The techniques I use with him may be of benefit to your mother.” He said the words begrudgingly, as though he didn’t want her there.

  Which clearly he didn’t.

  “Thank you. I’m most eager to see it.”

  Dr. Clayborne placed the file on the counter and exhaled wearily. “My refusal to treat your mother is in no way personal, Miss O’Leary. I am simply unwilling to leave my patients and cause a setback in their progress. As well, I have my daughter to consider. Her delicate condition dictates many of my actions.”

  For the first time, Deirdre understood his deep reluctance. He didn’t want to abandon his patients or his daughter. She could respect that. “I understand. I had little expectation I would be able to change your mind.” She smiled. “As long as I can bring back some tools to help my mother, I will be grateful.”

  His shoulders relaxed slightly from their stiff posture. “I’ll do my best to help with that.”

  His features softened ever so slightly, allowing Deirdre to imagine what he might look like if he ever smiled. The effect might be . . . breathtaking.

  The arrival of Dr. Clayborne’s patient erased such silly musings.

  For the most part, Deirdre did nothing but observe Dr. Clayborne with Mr. Pickett, a bright young man with a shock of blond hair and deep brown eyes. Though his stump obviously pained him, he remained cheerful throughout the rigorous exercises.

  “If I’d known you’d have such a pretty nurse helping you today, I would have worn my best suit and combed my hair.” The man’s charming grin made it impossible to take offense, and Deirdre merely laughed.

  “Nothing like some incentive to inspire you.” She gave him a bold wink, earning a blush in the process. “You’re doing very well, Mr. Pickett.”

  “Please call me Sam.” He dropped onto a stool to rest.

  Deirdre brought him a towel and a glass of water, ignoring Dr. Clayborne’s frown. “Do you have a family, Sam?”

  He drained the glass, handed it back to her, and wiped his chin with his sleeve. “No, ma’am. I had a girl before the war, but when I came home like this”—he gestured to his leg—“she couldn’t handle it. Found herself a new beau.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Deirdre kept her features impartial, though inwardly she railed at such fickleness. If the man she loved had returned from the war minus a leg, Deirdre would have been happy just to have him alive.

  “That’s enough for today, Sam,” Dr. Clayborne said. “I’ll see you on Friday.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” Sam rose from the stool and limped to the door, where he grabbed his cap. “Nice to meet you, Nurse O’Leary.”

  “Likewise, Sam.” She smiled as he exited the room, the sound of his wooden leg thumping down the hall.

  “Do you always flirt with your patients, Miss O’Leary?”

  Deirdre turned to find the disagreeable scowl back on Dr. Clayborne’s face.

  She lifted her chin. “I use whatever means I can to lighten my patient’s mood. Be it a joke, a smile, or a wink.”

  Heated sparks seemed to light his blue eyes. “We are here to help our patients, not entertain them.”

  “I disagree, Doctor. In my opinion, healing is much more effective when a person is in good spirits. A patient’s physical well-being is directly tied to their emotions.”

  “Hogwash. If your hypothesis was correct, then a morose or depressed person would never get better. I have seen numerous instances to the contrary. In fact, I am living proof of it.” He flushed and turned away.

  Deirdre bit back the retort on her lips. Obviously he’d let something slip he normally wouldn’t discuss.

  She joined him at the counter. “I simply meant that healing occurs far quicker in a person with a cheerful disposition. Have you not noticed this in any of your patients?” She kept her tone gentle, non-inflammatory.

  His hand stilled on the papers he’d been sorting. “There are one or two who might fit that description.”

  “Then why not try to lift their spirits while healing their physical ailments? It makes the work so much more enjoyable.”

  He looked at her with such incredulity she almost flinched. Uncle Victor had told her a little of Dr. Clayborne’s participation in the war. Clearly, the poor man did not realize how emotionally wounded he was. Perhaps there’d been no one to lift his spirits when he’d been injured.

  A knock on the door drew their attention across the room, and Uncle Victor entered. From the grim set to his jaw, Deirdre steeled herself for bad news.

  Oh, Lord, no. Please don’t let it be Mama.

  “Matthew, I’m afraid your nanny called. She’s taken Phoebe to the Hospital for Sick Children.”

  4

  THE NEXT DAY, Matthew exited the private hospital room where Phoebe now rested and walked down a long corridor to a bank of windows overlooking College Street. He stared at the people passing on the sidewalk below, the autumn wind blowing their overcoats out behind them. How he wished he could join them and let the fresh air clear the cobwebs from his mind.

  Phoebe had spent an uncomfortable night, yet thankfully her condition hadn’t worsened. But after enduring the endless snipes and disapproving looks from Miss Shearing, Matthew had finally sent the irritating woman home. She acted as if he were to blame for Phoebe’s illness. How could he have known she would develop a high fever as soon as he left for work yesterday morning?

  Still, guilt and fear held him in a chokehold as memories of Priscilla and Phoebe, stricken with tuberculosis, rose up to haunt him. Matthew had resisted sending them to a sanatorium, believing his skills were enough to cure them. His arrogance had cost Priscilla her life—and nearly Phoebe as well.

  Now, exhausted after another sleepless night, his mind swirled with doubt. Had he once again waited too long to seek proper treatment for his daughter? He rested his forehead against the cool windowpane in an effort to soothe the ache in his brow.

  The sound of footsteps on the tiled floor didn’t register until they stopped beside him. He lifted his head and startled at the sight of Miss O’Leary’s clear green gaze.

  What was she doing here?

  She gave him a tentative smile. “Uncle Victor wanted to check on Phoebe. He’s gone to find her specialist.” She laid a hand on his arm. “How is she doing?”

  The sincere sympathy on her expressive face was almost his undoing. He stiffened, desperate to gain control of his emotions that were far too near the surface. “Her fever remains high, which in her condition is less than desirable.”

  “I daresay.” In an almost unconscious gesture, she rubbed her hand over his forearm.

  Warmth radiated up to his elbow. He pulled away as though scalded and strode down the hall. Did the woman know no boundaries?

  Clearly not, for she followed him like a stray puppy.

  “Matthew, wait.”

  He halted out of sheer shock, hearing her use his Christian name as if . . .

  She came around in front of him. “You’re exhausted. You won’t do Phoebe any good if you get sick as well.” Her eyes widened in earnestness. “Uncle Victor and I will stay with her. Go and get a few hours of sleep.”

  He stared down into her face, noting the tiny beauty mark beside one eyebrow. Warmth suddenly surrounded his hands as she took hold of them and massaged his stiff fingers.

  “Your hands are freezing. Have you eaten anything lately?”

  Had he? He couldn’t remember.

  She peered down the hall. “Ah, here he is. Uncle Victor, can your driver take Matthew home? He needs to rest.”

  “Of course. My car is parked near the front entrance.”

  Matthew seemed to have lost the ability to speak. Exhaustion weighted his limbs like the iron dumbbells in his therapy room.

  Victor motioned for him to follow. “I’ll walk you down. Deirdre, will you sit with Phoebe?”

  “Certainly.”

  A cold breeze seemed to envelop Matthew the moment she took her hands from his and headed toward Phoebe’s room.

  Matthew blinked. Perhaps he did need sleep. A lot of sleep.

  He walked with Victor to the end of the corridor, where Phoebe’s specialist stood waiting.

  Victor shook hands with the other doctor. “I hope you don’t mind, Matthew. I asked Dr. McElroy to join us.”

  Matthew tried to focus his thoughts. “Do you have any news on my daughter?”

  Dr. McElroy fingered the stethoscope around his neck. “I can’t deny I’m concerned. This is Phoebe’s third serious episode in the past six months.” He shook his head. “I hate to say it, but her lungs have deteriorated further, and if things continue in this manner . . .”

  An ache spread through Matthew’s chest. He’d suspected as much, but hearing it spelled out so bluntly made it all the worse. “I’ve done my best to keep her isolated, away from potential germs. I don’t know what else I can do.”

  Victor laid a hand on his shoulder. “Dr. McElroy has suggested a possible move to the country, where the air is cleaner and the population less congested.”

  Dr. McElroy nodded. “I believe this is the best way to improve her condition. Take some time and think about it. But not too long. The sooner you act, the better. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have rounds to make.”

  Matthew attempted to process the man’s advice. How would he ever be able to move to the country when his work kept him in the city?

  Victor clapped Matthew on the shoulder. “Come on. My car is outside.”

  They made their way down two flights of stairs and exited out the main door.

  Victor halted on the walkway below, his brows drawn together. “I hope you’ll give Dr. McElroy’s suggestion serious consideration. The timing of this can’t be coincidental.”

  “What do you mean?” The breeze whipped Matthew’s hair across his forehead, and he realized he’d forgotten his hat in Phoebe’s room.

  “The O’Learys’ estate on Long Island would be the perfect place for Phoebe. Irish Meadows is surrounded by acres of meadows and woods. It would do her a world of good to get away for a while. I’ve already mentioned to James that you have a daughter, and he was more than willing for her to accompany you.”

  Matthew’s shoulders slumped. “What about my patients here?”

  They’d reached Victor’s automobile, and the driver hurried over to await his instructions.

  Victor gave Matthew a frank stare. “Most of your patients are long-term ones who know the exercises by heart. Would you be willing to apprise Dr. Marlboro of some simple procedures he can use while you’re gone? They may not make huge strides, but at least their progress won’t be set back.”