'Til Morning Light Page 5

  “I’m grateful, as well. You’re a fine doctor, and I don’t know what we would’ve done without you.”

  “Ah.” Wakefield smiled ruefully. “There you have it. I would not be a doctor and could not have traveled here to help build this hospital were it not for the allowance I receive annually. Theoretically, slavery is the price for the life of your daughter. What say you to that?”

  Grace put a hand on Mary Kate’s arm, her heart suddenly heavy. “This child means everything to me, but if you’re saying that all must sacrifice if all are to be free”—she looked up at him—“then so be it.”

  It was not the answer Wakefield had expected, and his surprise showed on his face. “How can you say that?”

  “Because I know where my treasure lies. And I’m no stranger to sacrifice.”

  “No,” the doctor agreed. “That you are not.” Fatigued now, as much from the draining conversation as from the long day, Wakefield drew his watch from his vest pocket and checked the time. “Midnight.” He showed the face of it to her. “Guess I’d better finish up here and get home to my sister. I’ll say good night, Missus Donnelly. As always, it has been stimulating.”

  “Good night, Doctor,” Grace replied. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. I meant what I said about being grateful.”

  Wakefield gave her a weary smile, then retreated, moving slowly down the narrow aisles between the cots, pausing to speak to Sister Joseph, who, like him, seemed always to be on the ward.

  Grace watched him anxiously, this good-natured man who had been so kind to her and the children. Often during the past long week, he’d stopped for a little visit, talking to Grace and letting Jack play with his pocket watch, complimenting the little boy’s inquisitiveness; there weren’t many who appreciated that about Jack, she acknowledged. Aye, he’d done a lot for them, and she chided herself for speaking so familiarly to him about his life. She’d not intended their conversation to become personal, and she regretted letting her emotions get the best of her, entering into a heated debate when perhaps she should have been more discreet. She was not good at biting her tongue anyway, and the subject of slavery always made her blood boil. His comment about sacrifice had given her pause, however, and she considered that—for all her talk—she did not really know how much sacrifice she’d truly be able to make in order to free another human being.

  Jack was heavy in her arms now, and she eased him onto the floor, where she’d fashioned a kind of nest out of the extra blankets Sister Joseph had loaned her; he stirred and opened his eyes, stared at her for a moment, then closed them again and curled onto his side. Such a handsome boy, she thought again, pulling a blanket up over his shoulders.

  Without him on her lap, she was more comfortable and decided to try to sleep herself, though her thoughts still raced. She leaned back in the chair and put her feet up on the edge of Mary Kate’s cot, willing herself to let go of worries about past, present, future; fatigue washed through her, but still her mind whirred. Although it felt as if life had always been these days in the hospital, Mary Kate would eventually be well enough to leave here, and Grace needed to have a home ready. She’d spent a part of each day going out with Jack to look for rooms but had been appalled at what was available. This was immigrant slum living all over again, unwashed bodies crowded into tiny, dark rooms; worse, San Francisco was notorious for fire—last year, the entire city center had nearly burned down twice, with four fires in the year leading up to that. Grace was terrified of the windowless rooms in the back of these wooden houses, the only ones available for the money she had. Sister Joseph had pointed her toward better districts, but the price was much higher and Grace was less likely to find work nearby, necessary as she was loath to leave Mary Kate and Jack alone for too long a time during the day. Still, she was determined to find something—there were many churches in San Francisco, and she would throw herself on their mercy, imploring a Christian family to rent her decent rooms until she was properly settled.

  Can you hear me, Father? Grace prayed silently. I’m way over on the other side of the world now, but it seems I’ve got the same problems as always and I’m hoping maybe You can—

  “Missus Donnelly?”

  Grace opened her eyes, dropped her feet to the floor, and sat up straight.

  “Doctor Wakefield.” She smiled tentatively, afraid he might be about to wash his hands of her.

  He sat down gingerly on the end of Mary Kate’s cot. “Missus Donnelly, our conversation took a rather different turn than I’d intended, and I had something else entirely that I wished to say to you.”

  “Ah, Doctor, you must forgive me.” Grace shook her head. “I’m always speaking out of turn and I—”

  “Please.” He stopped her. “Don’t apologize. The hour is very late in a week that has been very long. For both of us. What I had intended to say to you earlier, is that—contrary to what you might think—I have enjoyed our conversations very much. It won’t be half as interesting around here after you’ve left us.”

  “You’ve been ever so good to us, Doctor,” Grace said earnestly. “You must pay us a visit, once we’re settled in. The children will be happy for it, especially our Jack, who’s so fond of your pocket watch. And bring your sister, as well, if she’s able. She’ll be most welcome.”

  “Thank you.” Wakefield nodded, then shook his head. “I mean … I wanted—” He stopped, frowning. “Are you saying that you have succeeded in engaging accommodation? I guess I hadn’t realized.”

  “I haven’t,” Grace clarified. “But I will. Tomorrow, Jack and I will find a place. And, once Mary Kate is home, I’ll get work, as well.”

  “What about the children?” He looked down at Jack’s small form sprawled on the floor like a limp puppy. “What will you do with them?”

  Grace didn’t want to admit that she had no idea. “We’ll manage,” she said firmly. “If there’s piecework to be had, I can take in sewing. Then I’ll be at home with them. If not, I’ll go out to cook. I was a cook in Kansas, you know, and before that in New York, so I’ve plenty of experience. ’Tis only ’til Captain Reinders returns.”

  “I see.” Wakefield hesitated. “May I ask a personal question, Missus Donnelly?”

  Grace felt her face grow warm. “Of course.”

  “Are you and the captain … I mean—do you have an … understanding of some kind?”

  “Aye. He’s been wanting me to come out for some time now.”

  Wakefield nodded. “As you may have noticed, this is a town full of men. And, forgive me for saying so, while every man wants a woman, they don’t all necessarily want a wife.”

  “Captain Reinders is the most honorable man I know. He’s my dearest friend, and though I’d not planned on making a home in San Francisco just yet, now we’re here, I’ve no doubt he’ll be happy to see us.”

  “Missus Donnelly, I want you to listen to me for a moment.” Wakefield leaned forward. “Sister Joseph is my right-hand man around here, and she has come up with a solution, as she so frequently does, that may very well benefit us all.”

  “I’m not sure I understand you, Doctor.”

  “You need secure, affordable lodging, and work that allows you to be near your children. And I”—he paused—“I am in dire need of a good cook. Not just any good cook—I’ve had dozens of those, mostly men, I’ll grant you—but a cook of exceptional … resilience.”

  “Are you so very hard to please, then?”

  “Not I,” Wakefield corrected. “If the food is warm and even remotely palatable, I am most certainly grateful. No.” He hesitated. “To be honest, it is my housekeeper, Missus Hopkins, who seems to be the reason I cannot keep a cook. She is a rather demanding woman, and she wields a very sharp tongue.”

  “Forgive me for asking, Doctor, but why not just replace her instead of going to all this trouble?”

  Wakefield nodded. “You’re quite right, of course, but Abigail is attached to Hopkins and won’t hear of dismissal, and, I must admit, Hop
kins is very protective of my sister. Abigail’s ailment is a nervous condition, you see. Hopkins administers her medication and is better able to manage her than ever I could, though she’s a grim woman; there’s no denying that. I did try to let her go once, but Abby …” He shook his head. “The deterioration was so dramatic, I vowed never to make that mistake again.”

  “So you need someone who’ll get along with your housekeeper,” Grace concluded. “What makes you think I’ll fare any better than the others?”

  “Sister Joseph has vouched for you most highly. She says you are a person not easily intimidated, especially by someone like Hopkins. And, truly, if you cook half as well as you argue a point, Missus Donnelly, then I’ve no doubt Abigail’s constitution can be built up again despite the difficulties.” Wakefield leaned forward, his eyes hopeful as he pressed his case. “The cook’s living quarters are behind the kitchen, connected by a narrow hall. There is a private entrance and a fireplace—plenty of room for you and the children—and there’s a very big yard and a stable, and then a garden, of course. We’re at the top of the hill, with a pond, a small wood, and grounds that run down the back. The children could have the run of all that. Miss Mary Kate will need plenty of fresh air and exercise in order to recuperate fully. And, of course”—he paused in order to lend full weight to this final and, he hoped, most persuasive piece—“I’ll be on hand should either of your children ever need a doctor again.”

  Grace looked down at Mary Kate and then at Jack; this last was worth all the others put together, and yet, was it fair to take the position knowing her future was undecided?

  “Once Captain Reinders returns,” Wakefield continued, guessing her concern, “you are certainly under no obligation to remain in my employ. However, establishing some measure of independence may relieve the pressure of arriving at too hasty a resolve, if I may say so without giving offense.”

  “No,” Grace said slowly. “No, you’re right.”

  She did not want Peter to think she’d come to marry out of desperation, nor did she wish him to feel responsible even if his feelings toward her had changed. And he would; she knew he would—being the kind of man he was, honorable and true, he would insist on marrying her right away, before either one had a decent chance at sorting out the truth of the situation. Grace could not bear the thought of tying him to something he might secretly and stoically regret for the rest of his life.

  “If I come, Doctor, will you be expecting my children to work, as well?”

  “Absolutely not,” he insisted. “Hopkins oversees the inside work, which her daughter, Enid, does. We have an outdoor man for the grounds and stable. Your duties are only those of the kitchen, and how much help your children give is up to you. I intend to pay a very generous wage, Missus Donnelly. Kindly consider my offer as an alternative to damp waterfront lodgings and the drudgery of sewing by candlelight.”

  Grace wanted to take offense to that but knew he was probably right.

  “Your sister,” she said, stalling for time. “Her condition is not so bad as to frighten the children?”

  “You won’t have much contact with Abigail; she used to go out on occasion but is now a total invalid. Rather, it will be Hopkins who might give the children a fright. Enid is better—though she, too, sports a grim countenance.”

  “You’re offering me work in a house full of grim and hysterical women?” Grace asked, shaking her head. “What’s the outdoor man like?”

  “Grim.” Wakefield laughed. “Did I mention the generous wage, Missus Donnelly? With a bonus at Christmastime? Believe me, I know the going rate in this town for a woman who can cook, and I’m well prepared to double that amount.”

  Grace rapidly weighed her options, which were sadly under scale; looking again at her daughter’s pale face and then her son’s sleeping form, she made up her mind.

  “All right, then, Doctor, you’ve struck a bargain. You house us and pay me that generous wage, and you’ll think it’s your very own mother out in the kitchen.”

  “My mother didn’t know a pot from a pan, Missus Donnelly. She had all the sla—” He stopped. “Servants she could ever want. But my grandmother—now, there was a woman always slipping away to the kitchen. She used to make a hot dish of potatoes and cabbage and onions that I can almost taste to this day.”

  “Colcannon,” Grace said at once, pleased. “Not so grand, but we Irish love it. I’ll make it up for you the day I start.”

  “Wonderful.” Wakefield stood and rubbed his hands together briskly. “How about Monday morning? I’ll have your quarters readied, and you and the boy can bring your things up by wagon—I’ll send my man. Mary Kate can follow when she’s ready.”

  “Monday ’tis, then.” Grace put out her hand. “Thank you, Doctor. Thank you very much.”

  “Don’t change your mind on me now we’ve sealed the bargain.” Wakefield clasped her hand firmly, then let go. “I’ll be dreaming of poached eggs and crisped bacon, pies that don’t sink like a stone, savory stews, fluffy biscuits, gravy …” His eyes widened in alarm. “You do know how to make gravy, don’t you, Missus Donnelly?”

  “Oh, aye, Doctor, set your mind at ease.” Grace laughed. “Go on home to your dreams, now, and we’ll see you in two days. And, Doctor—do you have a milk cow at your place?”

  “Well, no, actually, we don’t. But I can certainly acquire one,” he offered instantly. “You want it for the children, I suppose. For fresh milk?”

  “Aye. We had our own in Kansas,” Grace told him. “I’ve seen the price of things in the city, and we’d make up the cost of the cow in cheese and butter and cream alone.”

  “Music to my ears, Missus Donnelly. A milk cow it is.”

  The doctor nodded happily, then strode across the ward and through the double doors, whistling softly. As soon as he’d gone, Sister Joseph looked up from the work she’d been pretending to do, then bustled down the aisle toward Grace, her nursing habit floating out behind.

  “Well, my dear?” the nun asked breathlessly upon arrival. “What’s?”

  “I’m offered a place as cook,” Grace reported dutifully. “With rooms off the kitchen for myself and the children. I know you put in the good word, Sister, and I can’t thank you enough. The pay alone is more than I’d ever dreamed of.”

  Sister Joseph nodded. “Oh, aye, women’s skills still fetch a dear price in this town when men pay five dollars for a pan of fresh biscuits. Not to mention, he’s paying you to put up with old Hopkins.”

  Grace bit her lip. “What’s that all about, then—the hysterical sister and grim servants?”

  The nun laughed. “He told you himself, did he? Well, well, well, good for him. He’s not been above painting a prettier picture in order to get himself a decent meal.”

  “That bad, is it?”

  “I don’t really know,” Sister Joseph admitted. “I’ve only ever met Hopkins and her daughter the odd time out. They’re some sort of fanaticals, you know,” she confided in a low voice. “The girl showed a bit of spark, but she’s well under her mother’s thumb, I’m guessing. I know a bit more about Mister Litton, as he was one of the doctor’s first patients. Patched up in a field hospital during the war, but ’twas badly done. Doctor Wakefield set him to rights, though it took a while. Mister Litton was very grateful at the time.”

  “Then why so grim?”

  The ward around them was quiet and dim, warm from the coal stove at the end of the room. Sister Joseph sat down and took a deep breath.

  “Well, now,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “He was a criminal of sorts in the city of New York until the guards caught up with him and gave him a choice: go to prison or go to war. Lot of them come out that way, you know, though mostly toward the end of the fight. Some never saw a hint of battle, though it don’t stop them regaling you with their heroics for the price of a drink.” Her smile faded. “You can tell the ones that really fought,” she said soberly. “George Litton was one of those. After the war, he wandered out this w
ay but wasn’t well. He’d been shot, you know, and the pieces still in him. The doctor took them out and he had less pain. Only instead of finding work, he joined his old B’hoys from the gangs in New York. They ran riot through this town the better part of a year, and no one could do a thing about it. Called themselves the San Francisco Society of Regulators, devoted to protecting us all from foreigners, don’t you know, though most of them not more than a generation off the boat themselves. Their slogan was ‘Papists, Greasers, Niggers, and John Chinaman—Out,’ which was so very poetic, don’t you think?” She shook her head in disgust. “Burned Little Chile practically to the ground one night, ran those poor people out of their homes. ’Twas Sam Brannan took a public stand against them. He and his vigilantes finally put the whole lot down. Hung them or drove them out of town.”

  “But not Mister Litton?”

  “I’m coming to that,” Sister Joseph scolded good-naturedly. “You know how I warm to a good story. Anyway, Doctor Wakefield himself got caught up in the riot that night—he was trying to stop it, you see—knocked unconscious, he was. Would’ve been the end of him, what with the fires and all, had not Mister Litton carried him out of there. Later, when the Regulators were being hunted down, the doctor took him in and give him work. Gave Brannan his word that Mister Litton would stay out of trouble and, by all accounts, he has. Bit of a drinker, I hear.” She shrugged. “But who isn’t, in this town? Especially the soldiers.”

  Grace recalled the faces of young men she’d known who’d died fighting—mostly Irish, they were, but also men like Henry Adams, an Englishman. And her friend. War and slavery—what a night of conversation she was having.

  “What about Miss Wakefield?” Grace asked. “Was she always unwell?”

  “I’m often here late at night, you know,” Sister Joseph said quietly. “People confess things in the midnight hour, even doctors … Especially to nuns,” she added wryly. “So I know this much to be true—she was thrown over in her engagement to an older man, a judge no less, and the shock of it sent her into decline.” She paused and looked around. “What I don’t know to be true, but what others say—and you know I’ve no mind for gossip, but sometimes you hear things you’d rather not—is that she and a young lover were publicly denounced by the judge, or even that she’d married the judge but was then cast out in a most humiliating manner. Perhaps she had a bastard child, stillborn perhaps, or given away to maiden aunts in the country.” Her eyes opened wide at the thought of such scandal. “But I can only vouch for what the doctor himself says, which is that her own family wanted her out of good society and would have nothing more to do with her. ’Tis terrible wicked hearsay.” She shook her head. “And not worth the repeating. I only tell you now you’re going up the hill to live.”