A Mother in the Making (17 page)

“What's wrong?” he asked.

Marjorie stopped at the foot of the stairs and swallowed. “It's Charlie.”

John's whole body responded as dread washed over him. He didn't wait for her to say more. He took the stairs three at a time.

Marjorie raced to keep up. “He became ill two nights ago with a sore throat, a headache and a fever.”

“No.”

“Dr. McCall was here to see him—”

“Why didn't you send for me?”

“I didn't want to bother you—”

“Bother me?” John stopped in the middle of the upstairs hall. “He's my son. I would move heaven and earth to be by his side.” Panic raced up John's legs. This was exactly what had happened when Anna became ill. He hadn't been home to save her. It had been his fault. He should have been with Anna—should have been with Charlie—but Marjorie had made the choice for him. “You had no right to keep this information from me.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I'm sorry. I thought he'd be fine—”

He grabbed her upper arms, unable to see straight. “Am I too late?”

She shook her head violently. “No—he's still alive, but he's not doing well.”

He abruptly let her go and turned—but he didn't know where they had put his son. “Where is he?” he yelled.

She pointed. “He's in my room.”

John raced down the hall to Marjorie's bedroom and pushed open the door. His mother and brother sat in the room, white masks over their faces, their eyes filled with sadness and fear.

John's legs went weak as he saw the telltale dark spots on Charlie's cheeks, indicating his son was running out of air. “God, no.” It was the only prayer he could mutter.

He put his hand to Charlie's forehead, and the moment he felt his fever, his medical training took over. He threw off his coat, unbuttoned the wrists on his shirt and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. He found a mask on the bureau and put it over his nose and mouth. There was no time to lose. He hadn't been home for Anna, but he was home for Charlie—and he would do whatever it took to make sure his son lived.

Just as quickly as resolve set in, doubt assailed him. What would it matter what he did? No one had determined exactly how to treat this disease. People either lived or died. Hadn't he just been with a hundred other doctors and researchers, all of them at a loss for how to cure influenza? Everyone had a different opinion on what the disease was and how to treat it. Some used wet cupping as a way to cleanse the blood, some used medicines they could get at a pharmacy and others would sweat the patients, raising their temperature so high it would cleanse the body from all impurities.

John took a deep breath.

This was his son. He would try anything to keep him alive.

For over an hour, John worked on Charlie. He asked Paul for help, but kept everyone else out of the room and out of his way. Thankfully Dora had the other children across the street, away from the sickroom.

First, he gave Charlie cinnamon oil; then he wrapped his son in layers of blankets to promote extra body heat. They stoked the fireplace and brought in bricks to warm the bed. As Charlie lay sweating, John tried to get the boy to drink as much chicken broth as possible, but Charlie slipped in and out of consciousness, and it was almost impossible.

After a while, Paul put his hand on John's shoulder. “I'm not a physician, but I can see there's little left to do but pray.”

“We can keep giving him the cinnamon oil every two hours.” He raked his hand through his hair. “But I don't understand. The daily cinnamon oil regimen should have prevented this from happening.”

“I suppose there are some things we'll never understand,” Paul said quietly.

John strode into the hallway. “Miss Maren.”

Mother and Marjorie were sitting on chairs beside each other, their heads bowed in prayer.

Marjorie immediately stood. “Yes?”

“Did Charlie have his cinnamon oil today?”

She nodded. “I gave it to him right away this morning.”

“Did he get all of it down?”

Again, she nodded. “It was difficult, and it took us over an hour, but he swallowed every drop.”

“And what about the other days, while I was gone? Did he drink the whole glass of water with the ten drops inside?”

She clasped her hands in front of her waist and looked as if she might become ill herself.

John strode toward her. “Tell me he took it, Marjorie.”

She wrung her hands together and couldn't look at him.

He grasped her arms for the second time that day. “Please tell me you didn't forget.”

Tears pooled in her eyes and slipped down her cheeks. “I forgot—”

“You forgot?” He wanted to shake her. “Why did you quit giving him the oil, Marjorie?”

“Quit?” She looked at him with red eyes. “I didn't quit—I forgot.”

“It's the same thing.” He dropped his hands and strode down the hall and back, his mind turning with the implications. “I trusted you with my children's lives. How could you let this happen?”

“I'm sorry.” Her voice was so forlorn it hurt his ears. “I don't know how I let it slip my mind.”

“You knew how important the cinnamon oil was.” He stopped his pacing. “What about the other children?”

She put her hand up to her mouth. “I forgot to give it to them, too, but now they're taking it again.”

He closed his eyes and let out a breath. “How could you do this to me?” He strode back to her. “I lost my wife to this horrible disease, and all I asked is for you to make sure my children received ten drops of cinnamon oil in a glass of water every morning, and you forgot. How am I to trust you with other things, if you could not do this simple task?”

She blinked several times, her green eyes rimmed with tears. “You can't.”

Maybe she was right. “Then it's a good thing you're leaving.”

John didn't wait to see her response. He hardened his heart and forced himself not to think about Marjorie and all that he could be losing in one horrible day.

Chapter Seventeen

T
he dark afternoon turned to an even darker night, followed by a bleak morning. Gray light filtered into the upstairs hall as Marjorie paced. The weather had turned bitterly cold overnight, bringing with it a horrible snowstorm that had started to blast the house sometime in the middle of the night.

John had only come out of Charlie's room twice through the long hours, and he had not spoken to her either time. His words from the previous day had clung to her, like a leech, sucking out what little life and hope she had left in her. All of this was her fault. If she had been diligent to give Charlie his oil, none of this would have happened. She had failed to complete yet another task, and this one had life-threatening consequences.

The echo of the grandfather clock chimed seven times. It was the morning of Christmas Eve, a day of anticipation and celebration. Charlie should be just waking up after a night of Christmas dreams. He should be eagerly waiting for the special time he would enjoy with the people who loved him most—not lying on the bed, close to death.

Mrs. Orton had gone to bed just a few hours ago, making Marjorie promise to get her if something changed. She had encouraged Marjorie to get some rest, but Marjorie could not force herself to fall asleep. She had tried, sitting in the chair near the sickroom, but her body refused to obey what her mind knew she needed.

Though she was no longer caring for Charlie, she could not allow herself the simple pleasure of rest—not until Charlie was sleeping peacefully.

John had sent Mrs. Gohl and Miss Ernst away, to prevent them from getting sick. He had wanted Marjorie and Mrs. Orton to leave as well, but neither woman would budge. Mrs. Orton said they were needed to cook and clean, when necessary, and John had reluctantly agreed to let them stay.

Marjorie stopped near the window and looked out at the white-and-gray world. The sun hid behind the clouds, and would not be warming the earth today.

Despite her resolve to stay near Charlie's room, Marjorie's stomach growled, and she imagined John and Paul were also hungry. No one had eaten since lunch yesterday, and even that had been hardly touched.

Marjorie walked down the back stairs to the kitchen and flipped on the lights. The only breakfast foods she knew how to make were oatmeal and coffee, so that was what they would have for breakfast. It wouldn't be fancy, but it would be nourishing.

She had just placed the kettle of water and coffeepot on the stovetop when she heard the stairs creak. She turned and found Paul entering the room.

His face needed a shave and his hair was mussed. Dark circles marred his eyes and deep lines edged the corners of his mouth. So far, he was the only person John would allow in the sickroom with Charlie, and he hadn't slept, either.

Paul walked over to the cookie jar Mrs. Gohl had filled before she left, and took out two oatmeal cookies.

“There will be coffee ready shortly,” Marjorie said.

Paul turned to her, as if noticing her for the first time. “That sounds wonderful.”

“How is he this morning?”

Paul's jaw hardened and he took a seat at the kitchen table. “Not much different than last night.”

Marjorie joined him at the table. She could not see past the falling snow, but she knew a world existed somewhere out there. Would it always look this dreary and forsaken?

“How are you holding up?” Paul asked her.

“Me?” She lifted a shoulder.

“You haven't slept and you've barely eaten since he took ill.”

“I'll be fine.”

Paul reached across the table and put his hand over hers. “You need to take care of yourself so you don't get sick.”

Paul had always been a good friend, just as Mrs. Orton had been.

“What about you?” she asked. “You didn't look the best when you arrived, and now this.” Marjorie studied him carefully. “How are things between you and Josephine?”

Paul's countenance became heavier and he set down his cookies. “She left me.”

Marjorie's mind became fully alert. “What do you mean?”

Paul stood and paced across the room. “She's gone. That's why I came here with Mother. I couldn't stay in Chicago and face all the rumors.”

Marjorie stood and joined him near the stove. “Where did she go? Is she alone?”

Paul shook his head, his lips set in a grim line. “She went west somewhere, and no, she's not alone.”

“What does that mean for your marriage?”

He rubbed his whiskers. “She sent me a letter, right before I left, asking for a divorce.”

“Paul.” Marjorie took a step closer to him. “I'm so sorry.”

He swallowed and his eyes filled with moisture. “I still can't believe she left me.”

“What does your mother think?”

“I haven't told her.” He finally looked at Marjorie. “She'd be devastated. Please don't tell her. I'll find the courage to say something on the way back to Chicago, but with all that's going on, neither she nor John needs to know.”

“I understand.” The first Marjorie had heard of Josephine's infidelity was the night before Marjorie's wedding to Preston. Paul had come to her upset, asking Marjorie if she knew where Josephine had gone. When she said she didn't, he confessed his fears, and Marjorie had offered him an embrace—the same embrace a maid had seen and reported to the newspapers. It had started all the ugly rumors.

Paul's shoulders fell and he wiped at his eyes. “I never imagined she was capable of hurting me this way.”

Marjorie hated to see anyone cry, but a grown man was one of the hardest to watch. Just as she did the night before her wedding, she put her arms around her friend. “I'm sorry.”

He dropped his head onto her shoulder.

They stayed that way for several minutes, until he pulled away, his face now dry. “I feel like a fool, crying on your shoulder.”

She smiled up at him. “You're not a fool. You're a man in pain.”

He lightly touched her cheek. “Thank you, Marjorie. You've always been a good friend.”

“And you've been a good brother and uncle. I don't know what we would have done without you these past few days.” She hugged him this time, appreciating his steady support.

“What's going on?” John's voice met Marjorie's ears.

Marjorie jerked away from Paul, guilt flooding her cheeks with heat, though there was nothing to feel ashamed about.

“Nothing,” Paul said to his older brother.

“Nothing?” John looked between them, his face just as scruffy as Paul's, and his eyes glazed over with fear and exhaustion.

“Marjorie and I are old friends.” Paul walked away from Marjorie and approached his brother.

“That looked more than friendly.” John's face revealed his revulsion. “You're a married man—yet I find another woman in your arms.” His eyes filled with revelation and shock as he looked at Marjorie. “Was Paul the man you were caught embracing the night before your wedding to Chamberlain?”

“There wasn't anything to that, either,” Paul said quickly. “The newspapers were looking for a story, and they were ready to trounce on anything they heard.”

John crossed his arms, his face set in a scowl. “And why are you and Marjorie spending so much time in each other's arms?”

Marjorie left the stove and approached John. “It's really not what it appears.”

“Then what's going on?”

Mrs. Orton appeared at the foot of the stairs, and it didn't look as if she had gotten much rest, either. “What's wrong? I heard your voices upstairs.”

John and Paul stared at each other, and Marjorie could almost read their minds. Neither one wanted to upset their mother, especially now, while Charlie was so sick.

“It's nothing,” Marjorie said. “Tempers are a bit high, and understandably so with everything that's going on. We all need to give each other space and try to rest.” She motioned to the stove. “I'll have coffee and oatmeal ready soon. I'll bring some trays up when it's done.”

“Mother, you should go back to bed.” Paul walked toward his mother. He looked back at Marjorie, and pleaded with his eyes. He didn't want Mrs. Orton or John to know about Josephine—not yet.

She gave a slight nod.

Paul and Mrs. Orton walked back upstairs, but John stood in his spot, his arms still crossed, staring at Marjorie.

She swallowed. “I'll get Charlie's cinnamon oil ready, and I'll heat some of the broth Mrs. Gohl left for him.”

“I want to know why you were in my brother's arms—my
married
brother's arms, both today and in Chicago.”

What could she say? “He's upset. We're all upset. I was simply offering him some comfort.” It was true, even if it was misleading.

“Comfort?” John took a step closer to Marjorie. “A married man does not seek comfort in the arms of another woman.”

She turned back to the stove and took the Quaker oats from the shelf. “Grief knows no boundaries, John.”

“Don't tell me about grief.” He stood directly behind her and she could almost feel his steely gaze on the back of her head.

She trembled as she measured out the oats. “Everyone grieves differently.”

“Again,” he said slowly. “It is never appropriate for a married man to grieve in the arms of another woman.”

He was right, of course, but what could she say? She turned back to face him, and found him even closer than she had thought. With the hot stove behind her, there was nowhere for her to move. His very presence, though angered, filled her with nerves and revived memories of the kiss they shared on the dark stairwell. “You'll have to trust me,” she whispered.

She could sense that he was just as conscious of her presence, and he swallowed several times before he spoke. “I've tried to trust you in the past—and—”

He didn't need to complete his thought. She knew what he was thinking. All of this was her fault.

Tears welled up in her eyes. What he hinted at was true. “I'm sorr—”

The doorbell rang.

“Who would be here at this hour of the morning?” John stepped away and left the room.

Marjorie bent over in tears the moment he walked out of the kitchen, and she stayed that way for several moments, until she heard Mrs. Worthington's voice in the front hall.

* * *

John stared at Camilla Worthington as if seeing an apparition from a dream.

She stood on his front porch, the snow falling in a sheet of white ice behind her. “I came over as soon as I heard about your son.” She wore a long black coat over a black gown. A black hat sat at a slant over her forehead, and a black net covered her face. Snowflakes clung to her hat and shoulders. She looked as if she had come for an afternoon call, yet it was only seven in the morning. Where had she come from?

“You look surprised to see me, John.”

“Surprised?” He'd never been more stunned in his life. “The last I heard, you were still in Chicago. Are you home for Christmas?” It seemed preposterous. She had not returned to Little Falls once in all the years he and Anna had lived in town.

“Aren't you going to invite an old friend in?”

He opened the door wider, but then stopped. “I can't let you inside. This home is quarantined.”

“I already had the flu,” she said. “And I survived.”

Clearly. She had never looked lovelier, or more alive, with her dark hair and crystal-blue eyes. Twelve years had not diminished her appearance. If anything, age had enhanced her beauty, and wealth had given her an air of sophistication she had lacked when he first met her as a college student, fresh from Central Minnesota.

He slowly opened the door, still a bit in shock that she was standing on his front porch so early in the morning. “Come in.”

She stepped across the threshold, running her gaze over his home, as if running a white glove over a mantel to test for dust. He couldn't help thinking she'd find his house lacking. After all, she lived in one of the grandest mansions on Chicago's Gold Coast.

“You have a very quaint home.” She stepped into the front parlor and he followed.

He ran his hand over his hair, trying to put it into some semblance of order. He rubbed his jaw, wishing he'd shaved and cleaned up. “Thank you.”

“It's so like Anna. Gentle, modest and unassuming.” She turned and looked at him. “When I first met you, I had thought you'd strive for so much more than this.” She waved her hand about the room. “But after you met Anna, you settled in to please her.”

“Why are you here, Camilla?”

“I heard your son is sick, and I wanted to offer my help.”

He should be with Charlie right now, but his son seemed to be sleeping peacefully for the first time since John had entered the house fifteen hours ago. “There's nothing you can do. There's nothing anyone can do.”

“Not even you?” Camilla asked, feigning disbelief.

“What brings you to town?”

“Haven't you heard?” She lifted the veil off her face, revealing smooth skin and calculating eyes.

“Heard what?”

“Mr. Worthington died very suddenly a few weeks ago. I'm home at the invitation of my parents.” She examined her black gloves. “I'm deciding what to do with myself.”

“I'm sorry. I hadn't heard you lost your husband. I've been a bit preoccupied lately.”

“Yes, I imagine you have been.”

“How did he die?”

She lifted a shoulder. “They think it was his heart. He was nearing seventy years old.”

Forty years older than Camilla. When she married Mr. Worthington, John had wondered if she truly loved him, or if she had married for his money. He still wondered. “Won't you have a seat?”

She studied him closely and took a step toward him.

On instinct, he took a step back.

“You look horrible, John.”

He lifted his hand to his whiskers, and then lowered it again, not ashamed of his appearance. Instead, he straightened his spine. “I lost my wife almost three months ago and my son is lying upstairs fighting the same disease that took Anna. How should I look?”