“Don’t be silly. I’m used to doing it, really.”
She was all but shooing him out of the room. He took the hint, but at the door he turned. “There might still be time, you know. We should do everything we can to save her.”
Jane shook her head. “No. She’s dying. But I couldn’t see her in pain any longer.”
Adam nodded. It was what he expected. Back in the kitchen, he could hear voices from the dining room. He had already told the others good-night, and, not wanting to see Nedra again quite so soon, he left through the back door.
Miss Sparks’s backyard contained a tidy garden and shed, clotheslines and a small chicken house and pen, making his own yard seem barren. The sun was just sinking below the horizon as he reached his back door. His first day here hadn’t turned out to be quite what he expected. His little house seemed too quiet and lonely as he went up the stairs to his bedroom.
He lit a lamp and lifted a book from the pile he had left against a wall. Shelves here and in the examining room were a top priority. He would look into hiring a carpenter tomorrow.
He removed his shoes, coat and tie and worked the collar buttons loose. He settled onto the bed, his back against the headboard. The book lay unopened on his lap as he listened to voices next door. The Cartland sisters were on the porch. There were men’s voices as well, bidding one another goodnight.
After a brief silence, a feminine voice carried to his room. “It’s a lovely night, isn’t it, Mr. Bickford?”
A gruff, unintelligible response followed.
“I was hoping you’d join us on the swing for a while.”
Adam heard a grumbled reply, followed by the muffled slam of a door.
“Really, Naomi, how can you stand that man?”
“He’s cultured and educated,” her sister hissed. “I can smooth out the rough edges once we’re married. That’s what women have always done.”
“Rough edges? The man’s a self-absorbed lout.”
Naomi didn’t disagree, and Adam felt a grin tug at his lips. If Mr. Bickford’s window was open the self-absorbed lout could probably hear this conversation, too.
“At least I’m not throwing myself at someone half my age.” That must have been Naomi.
“The doctor isn’t half my age. Five years younger, perhaps.”
“Try ten.”
“He’s cultured and educated, too.”
“With a beautiful fiancée.”
“Who isn’t here. And until she is, he can only compare me to the country milkmaids and slum trash like Jane.”
“And me, of course.”
“You won’t try to ruin this for me, will you?”
“Why shouldn’t I try? You can have Mr. Bickford.”
Adam realized he had nearly stopped breathing. It was one thing to listen to their conversation about Mr. Bickford and quite another to be the topic himself. It wasn’t so much learning that Nedra was interested in him that bothered him; he had figured that out at dinner. It was the calculating way they were discussing him.
And Jane. Did they look down on her because of humble beginnings? Letting them know his own roots should discourage them quickly enough. He would try to work it into the conversation at breakfast if he weren’t certain Doreena would prefer it not be known.
He realized he didn’t simply want to discourage the sisters, he wanted to defend Jane. That struck him as odd because he hardly knew her, apart from the fact that she was a great cook. She was going through a rough time, and while he disagreed with her decision about her grandmother, he felt certain it was for reasons that she, at least, found compelling. The notion that she was allowing Grams to die so the boardinghouse would be hers, or the possibility that she was simply tired of caring for the old woman, had crossed his mind and been dismissed.
Adam had to respect Jane’s wishes. In disagreeing with his authority, she had shown herself to be a strong woman. He smiled at his own thoughts. Her disagreement would be more impressive if he was an older, more respected physician. He was making excuses for her and she didn’t need that.
He laid the book aside and moved to the window. The boardinghouse was in shadows now, but he was certain no one remained on the porch.
What did Jane need?
Not his help. Not even his company.
Grams might linger for a day or two, but he doubted it. She would probably die tonight. In spite of the boarders in the rooms upstairs, Jane would be alone. And Adam couldn’t think of any way to ease her sorrow or his own guilt.
Jane sat in the straight-backed chair beside Grams’s bed and held a hot, fragile hand gently in her own. She had slept in the chair the past two nights, but tonight sleep wouldn’t come. It had taken until nearly midnight to clean up the kitchen and dining room. She had hated to leave her grandmother even for a few minutes, afraid she would die alone.
Now, as the clock ticked toward three o’clock, she thought of all the things she wanted to tell her grandmother. She prayed that Grams would wake up one more time so Jane could tell her how much she loved her. She would tell her how grateful she was for all the things Grams had taught her. She would…
The breathing stopped abruptly. Just like that. Jane stared at the beloved face. “Grams?”
The hand she held was still hot, but the pulse she’d felt a moment before had stilled. Grams was gone.
Jane had thought she was prepared for this but she found herself shaking. Unshed tears burned behind her eyes and formed a lump in her throat. She would have to face a future without Grams.
“I won’t give up,” she whispered. “I won’t lose the boardinghouse. I’ll work hard and make you proud, Grams.”
Adam arrived for breakfast at the appointed hour and found the parlor deserted. George stepped into the hall and motioned him toward the dining room. “The old lady died last night,” he said softly. “Such a shame. Jane’s gone to make the arrangements and has asked the Cartlands to fix breakfast. We’re trying to set the table.”
Tim Martin was arranging plates and coffee cups, while Lawrence Bickford lounged against the sideboard. “What do you think?” Martin asked.
“Does it matter?” Adam replied. “As long as we’ve got what we need to eat with.”
“Dr. Hart, I’m surprised at you!” One of the Cartlands, the one with orange hair, had come in from the kitchen with a plate of biscuits. O for orange; it was Naomi. She gave him what could only be described as an indulgent smile. “The forks go on the left and the knives on the right,” she instructed Martin sternly before flouncing back into the kitchen.
“You’ve been overruled,” Martin said softly. He went to work switching the flatware on his side of the table, and Adam stepped up to take care of the other.
“How is Miss Sparks holding up?” he asked.
“Haven’t seen her,” Martin answered. “Have you, George?”
“Early this morning. She was her usual efficient self. She said her grandmother just slipped away in her sleep. It was a mercy, really. Ah, here comes breakfast.”
The Cartland sisters paraded in, one with a platter of scrambled eggs and the other with sliced ham. Nedra spoke as she approached the table. “George, would you get the coffee? I swear that pot is just too heavy for either of us to be carrying around.”
George moved quickly to do her bidding.
When Naomi approached a chair near