Coming Home for Christmas (5 page)

“You are going to be my pharmacist's mate,” he continued, swabbing the inside of the bowl with the tortilla. “You will accompany me on my rounds of the garrison and into the
pueblo,
and we will tend the sick together.”

She turned pale at that, looking at him with stricken eyes. “I cannot,” she whispered. “They would never allow it. I am…” She paused as the tears rose into her deep brown eyes. “Oh,
señor,
I should have left with my father! They hate me now!”

He took the corner of his napkin and gently wiped her eyes, even as he writhed inside over her anguish. “Don't be so sure of that, Laura.”

She stood up, unable to remain seated, humiliated by the misdemeanors, even though she had not authored them. “You don't understand,
señor!
I know these people!” She sobbed out loud. “They will hate you, too!”

Touched, he took hold of her hand before she could retreat to the bedroom, pulling her closer, but not forcing her beyond what she was willing to do. “I know them, too, Laura,” he told her. “They're going to discover that we are a matched pair.”

He knew he had not translated that well by the sudden mystification in her eyes. “Two horses pulling one cart, my dear,” he said, trying again in Spanish. “Bacon and eggs,” he said in English. “Tea and toast.”

Laura just shook her head, but she was no longer tugging against his hand. Thomas released his grip and she stood there. He knew she could bolt to the other room and refuse to leave it, or she could hear him out. He
was counting more on her curiosity than her affection, of which he had no gauge.

“Listen to what I say,
señora,
” he said, as formal as she. “Let me make you indispensable to San Diego.”

L
aura might have been uneasy, but she didn't falter when Thomas took her by the hand and led her into the wardroom. Her grip got a little tighter when she saw the wounded soldier, but she didn't hang back.

Thomas glanced at Ralph, who still slept, and whispered in Laura's ear, “When Ralph wakes up, I want you to help him eat.”

She nodded, her eyes still on the gored soldier. Gently she freed herself from Thomas's grasp and, to his relief, sat down in the canvas sling chair. She glanced at Thomas for permission; when he nodded, she smoothed the young man's hair. “There now,” she murmured.

Thomas knelt by the bed and raised the light blanket that covered Juan's wound, moving the bedclothes to protect the man's modesty. “He was gored in the thigh. I cleaned the wound and put in a drain, which needs to be irrigated every few hours. Let me show you how.”

He taught her as he had taught any number of phar
macist's mates through the years: one eye on the wound, and the other eye on the student. If she fainted, she wouldn't be the first, but she didn't. Her normally full lips came together in a tight line and she swallowed several times, but she watched with that intense gaze already familiar to him. When he finished his demonstration, he handed the tube to her and directed her hand as she inserted the drain into the ugly wound.

Juan regained consciousness as she finished her task. Thomas moved closer. “Well, soldier, you've survived the night. I have high hopes.”

The man's eyes were on Laura. “This is my wife, Laura Ortiz Wilkie,” Thomas said. “She will be helping me care for you.”

The man's eyes narrowed for a moment and Laura looked anxiously at Thomas. Hoping she would not mind, he put his hand on her shoulder. He thought she leaned towards him a little, but he could have been mistaken.

“Señora Wilkie,” Juan said, and this time he managed a slight smile. “I would like something to eat.”

Thomas felt his wife's slender shoulders raise and lower in a silent sigh of relief. “The mush?” she asked over her shoulder.

“That would be fine. Pablo brought enough for these men, too. He always brings enough. Add a little of the cream to it, then feed your patient.”

“Aye, aye,” she said, which made him laugh. It touched him a little, too. She continued in Spanish. “Actually, I am Laura Ortiz
de
Wilkie, to be proper.” She smiled, and looked more her usual self. “I intend to correct your Spanish, if needed.”

Thomas bowed. “I thought you might,” he said in
what he knew was poor Spanish. This elicited an overly dramatic eye roll from his new bride, which suggested she might be regaining her equilibrium.

He watched her hurry from the room, intent on her errand. Thomas glanced at Ralph, who was awake now. “When she finishes feeding the soldier, it will be your turn,” he told the carpenter.

Ralph put his hands behind his head. “You plan to work yourself out of a job?” he teased.

“I do, indeed,” Thomas replied. “I want everyone in the
presidio
to need Laura Wilkie as much as they need me.”

And maybe the moment will come when my wife needs me,
he thought, as she came into the room again—such a graceful walk—and sat beside the soldier. He looked at the clock, marveling that he had been married twenty-four hours and wondering just at what moment he had decided he already loved her. Maybe it had happened during the night when he sat up with his patient, thinking of ways to resurrect Laura's good name in the eyes of—oh, let us be honest—this hypocritical group of busybodies. Maybe it was when he woke up warm, because she had covered him with the blanket. Possibly it had happened months before, when he had started admiring her, back when she'd had all the class and style and he'd had none. Perhaps it was when she had given him that anxious look, as if he could make it all better. Well, he could and he would, because she was his wife.

 

He watched his patient for another hour, leaning in the doorway, his eyes drooping, until to his delight, Laura took him by the hand and led him to his own
bed. “There now,
señor,
you have showed me what to do and Juan is sleeping. You sleep now.”

He didn't argue, especially when she knelt to remove his sandals, as though she was his servant. He protested, but she merely told him to hush as she slipped them off and displayed one of those peremptory gestures that reminded him of the old Laura.

“Very well, madam,” he told her, happy enough to lie down and close his eyes.

 

He didn't open them until much later in the day, comfortable in his bed, even though the day was uncharacteristically cool for San Diego. On opening his eyes he discovered, to his delight, that someone had wrapped a warm stone and placed it under the cover at the foot of the bed.
This could be a better bargain than I reckoned,
he thought drowsily and drifted back to sleep.

He woke up later as shadows were beginning to slant across his bed, prodded awake by gentle pummeling, which grew more insistent. He took her hand. “Laura, what on earth…?” he said.

A look at his wife's anxious face had him up and scuffing for his sandals. “Is it Juan?” he asked.

“No, no, he is sleeping,” Laura said, her hand still on his arm, tugging him. “It is Señor Gooding. Please hurry!”

As his head cleared, Thomas noticed the smears of blood on her apron and fingers.

Still she clutched him. “I didn't know what to do!” she cried.

He paused long enough to touch her face, then tug gently on her auburn hair peeking out from under her matron's cap—where had she found such a thing so
fast?—because she looked so terrified. “Don't worry, Laura. I've been expecting this.”

She had hold of his hand now, and she didn't release it as they went quickly into the ward, where Juan still slumbered and Ralph bled.

Thomas went right to work, propping up the terrified carpenter, then applying styptic and gentle pressure to the open lesion on his neck. All the while, Laura knelt beside him, holding Ralph's hand, as the bleeding slowed and then stopped. Calm returned to his patient's face, even though his pallor was more pronounced than before.

And now it begins,
Thomas thought.
How much longer can he survive?
He glanced at Laura, who was on her feet now and pouring warm water in a basin to cleanse away the blood. She was pale, too, her fine eyes betraying all the worry he knew she was too shy to express.

He went to her and gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Would you rather I tended Señor Gooding alone, or do you want to learn?”

“Let me think about that,” she whispered as she returned to the bed with the warm water and a soft cloth. She helped Thomas remove their patient's nightshirt and replace it with a clean one, then delicately dabbed at his face and ruined neck. Through it all, Ralph Gooding's eyes remained closed, his feelings a mystery.

When she had finished, Ralph opened his eyes and smiled at her, which only brought more tears to her eyes.

“You're a pretty one,” the patient said to her, then looked at Thomas, the anguish in his eyes unmistakable. “Pretty or not, too bad I didn't reach this point a month
ago, eh? You could have sailed with the
Almost Splendid
and still been free to marry your sweetheart.” He closed his eyes again, then fell into exhausted clumber.

Maybe out of pride, Thomas had never said anything to the other navy men about his father's letter, which broke the news of his fiancée's marriage to his older brother.

“What did Señor Gooding say?” Laura asked.

Thomas translated automatically, not thinking until the words were out of his mouth.
Lord, I am a chowderhead,
he thought in dismay, as Laura gasped.

“Oh, no, wait,” he said, as she got to her feet, looking everywhere but at him. “I could never have left my patients. Laura, wait! My fiancée married my older brother years ago. There's no one back home for me! Oh, this is a jumble.”

He was speaking to an empty space. She was out of the door, pouring the contents of the bloody basin into the dirt of the courtyard. She stood there a moment, wavering. Heartsick, Thomas went to the door and watched her, knowing how badly she wanted to run and also aware of how frightened she was now of her own people, who had rejected her along with her father.

When he just stood there, Laura looked at him, tears on her cheeks. She swallowed. “There is no one back home for me, either. Or here.”

With a small curtsy, avoiding his eyes again, Laura went into their bedchamber and closed the door quietly behind her.

 

It was a long afternoon spent, repentant, in the ward. Juan woke up hungry and Thomas fed him, happy for any distraction. He cleaned the drain and replaced it,
then sat beside the sleeping carpenter, flogging himself for his own stupidity. The door to his bedroom—oh, God, their bedroom now—remained closed.

His misery must have showed. When Ralph woke up he raised an enquiring eyebrow and Thomas told him what had happened. “I have just proved to myself that I am the biggest fool in the Western Hemisphere, at least,” he concluded. He threw up his hands. “Ralph, I barely understand women—I mean, how often do we even
see
them?—and certainly don't understand wives.” He moved closer to the bed. “I'm embarrassed that I don't even know this about you—are you married?”

“I am, indeed,” the carpenter said. His voice was weak. “She's a bonny lass from Portsmouth and we have two sons.”

Thomas leaned forward in the canvas chair, his eyes on his patient. “Well, Lord smite me when I whine,” he said. He took Ralph's hand, distressed how light it was, how frail the man. “Make sure I have their direction in Portsmouth. I'll deliver a message when…”

“…when you eventually get home,” his patient concluded. “I'd like that.” He regarded Thomas and Thomas noticed the shrewd light returning to his tired eyes. “Want advice? Apologize for being an idiot. Then do something nice.” His voice turned wistful. “Buy her one of those pretty veils the ladies here wear.” His eyes were closing. “You're married now. Watch your mouth and you'll be a happy man.”

Thomas chuckled. “I suppose humble pie in Alta California tastes the same as humble pie in Dumfries.”

In fact, I'm certain of it,
he told himself, as the carpenter returned to sleep, worn out with conversation. “Carpenter Gooding, believe me when I say I would
never abandon you.” He smiled at the sleeping man. “What would Hippocrates think?”

Trusting both of his patients to slumber for a while, Thomas stood up, took a deep breath and girded his loins. He stood a long moment outside the door to his room, and knocked. He listened. Nothing. He listened a moment longer. She didn't throw anything at the door, so he went in.

Funny, that. They had been sharing his room for barely more than a day and a night, and it already smelled better. Of course, when they had sat close together at Juan's bed that morning, Thomas had appreciated the pleasant fragrance of her hair. Maybe it was lavender, something he had noticed growing here and there in the
presidio,
almost like a weed.

She was lying on her back staring at the ceiling, her naturally downturned lips making her look sadder. She didn't turn away and face the wall to his relief. He sat down beside her, figuring the stool was safer than actually sitting on her bed.

He cleared his throat, wondering what was sticking there. He decided it was pride and swallowed it. “Laura, when I was a wee lad and I said bad things, my mother would make me take a bite of soap and chew it.”

Startled, she looked at him. “I will never do that to our children,” she blurted out, then blushed when she realized just what she had said.

It was as though she had forgiven every thoughtless word he had ever uttered. The power of that little sentence nearly made him giddy.
All right, ninnie,
he ordered himself.
Say the right thing.

“I know you would not,” he said. “Will not,” he corrected himself. “Laura, Ralph was wrong. I could never
leave him, even though he chastises himself. He knows he is dying and wonders what difference two or three weeks would make. He's probably right; my staying here or leaving him to the local healers would probably make no difference.”

She shifted herself to face him and raised up on one elbow. “You would never do that, even though I know you would rather be with your crew.”

“I would,” he agreed, knowing that for all her youth and vulnerability, she was a plain-spoken woman; it seemed to be the Spanish way. “But only if I had not met you and decided that your need was greater than Ralph's, even. You're not dying, but you needed my help and I gave it. Forgive me?”

She nodded, and wiped the corner of her eye. A smile played around her lips. “You said that rather well,
señor.
”

“Call me Tomás,” he asked. “I don't think I got all the subjunctives right. That's a lot of speculative reasoning.”

She repeated “If I had not met you” correctly. “That is how you should say it. See how close you were?”

“I want to be closer,” he said in English.

“Qué?”

He shook his head. “Not important.” He regarded her for a long moment, which didn't seem to make her uncomfortable. “Laura, with my pharmacist's mate gone with the ship, I miss his help.”

Now that
was
a lie. He had discovered years ago and early in their ill-fated voyage that his pharmacist's mate was the laziest help ever inflicted on a hard-working surgeon. Laura didn't need to know how worthless the man was.

“It's this way—you can tell that Juan and Ralph are happy for your help. I want you to come with me when I am asked to make calls in the
pueblo.
”