Life Lines
Part 1:
The heavy, velvet curtains hung limply on either side of the open window, affording a clear view of the sun as it crept over the still slumbering town. If she didn't close them at night he never remembered and so as the clock on the mantle chimed seven, the bright sunbeams diligently warmed the pane of glass before filtering in and gently nudging at the blanketed and still sleeping form. For several minutes he resisted their endeavours but as the sounds of a household stirring drifted up the grand, polished staircase, he finally opened his bleary eyes and rolled over. Stretching languidly, he murmured sleepily before hoisting himself out of bed.
"Morning Lizzy."
"I'm sorry darling," he added with a cheeky grin as he tied on his robe, "Elizabeth."
Without waiting for a response, he padded towards the closet and duly vanished into an adjoining chamber. Ten minutes later he re-emerged, meticulously attired in suit and cravat with only his pepper speckled beard, dotted as it was with pearls of moisture, bearing any sign of his hasty bath.
"Have a good day dear," he said softly, before reaching out to caress her jaw, "I love you."
Yet as always, the glass was cool, her lips remained mute and her eyes, once so alive with youthful joviality, followed him blankly from the room.
The small kitchen was yet silent, the fire unlit in the grate, as he made his way quickly to the back door. It hung back wearily on its hinges, the corner wedged against the adjoining wall by a deeply notched stone. Smiling slightly, he peered out.
"Mike," he called into the seemingly deserted garden, "we have to go."
"Coming," came the muffled reply and a moment later, a spry young girl leapt neatly from the arching branches of the apple tree onto the dew dampened lawn. Though nearing thirteen, her angular, boyish physique exuded the appearance of one much younger. Her straight, auburn hair, usually cut short about her ears for mere convenience, had been neglected over the long summer months and now hung limply down to her shoulders, framing her thin face. Pulling carelessly at her dark green skirt, which had been hoisted up to her knees whilst she climbed, it once again resumed its rightful position about her ankles and with a sigh she made her way over to him.
"Do we really have to go?" she pleaded, glancing up at him with a hopeful light in her eyes.
"I'm afraid so," he replied, slipping an arm around her shoulders and guiding her back towards the house.
"But I'll make it up to you."
"How?" she queried, halting her steps and regarding him with a suspicious eye.
"Well," he began slowly, "we could pass by the hospital this afternoon. I'm almost certain Mrs Charles will be having her baby today and I did promise when you were thirteen…."
The remainder of his words were drowned out by an excited cry from his side and as the slender arms flung themselves around his neck, he instantly grabbed on tight to prevent himself from falling. Chuckling at her obvious enthusiasm, he carefully disentangled her and placed her back at his side.
"Well, shall we?" he teased, extending his arm to her.
"Yes we shall Dr Quinn," she conceded with a broad smile, the colour still fresh in her cheeks as she took the proffered arm and leaned in close against his shoulder, "thank you Father."
The carriage drew to a halt outside a fashionable home situated near the western bank of the Charles and exchanging somewhat sympathetic glances, both father and daughter alighted. The house belonged to a one Mary Norton, a formidable woman of thirty five who, retaining her fine figure and good looks, continued to enjoy the luxuries of a favourable position in society. She was wife to Dr Quinn's late brother and aside from her four older sisters, was Mike's only living relation, her mother's eldest sister having pre-deceased her. Since her husband's demise, Mary had attached herself even more securely to his remaining family and claiming a keen interest in her niece's well being, an idea heavily refuted by the said niece, demanded a meeting with them every Saturday morning. Dr Quinn was too much of a gentleman to refuse the request of the widow and since his daughter was in every other way isolated from her family, he had deemed it an advantage for her to maintain contact with her aunt and had duly acquiesced. Thus this Saturday morning found them, as always, standing on the porch step, basking in the warm autumn sunshine and waiting to be admitted.
"Show them into the drawing room immediately, Mayhew," came the imperative voice of Aunt Mary, as they crossed the threshold into the spacious hallway. Handing his hat to the long suffering Mayhew who received it with a vague contortion of his gnarled features, he placed a hand on his daughter's rigid back and pushed her gently forwards.
Her aunt, as usual, was seated in a large chair by the fireplace, her indispensable and seemingly endless needlework resting on her lap. Her two cousins, pretty young girls of thirteen and fifteen, scarcely looked up from their game of cards long enough to cast a habitual glance of disdain over her raiment before resuming their occupation. Returning the glance with a scowl, she stepped forward and politely greeted her aunt yet a muffled cackle from the corner instantly drew her attention again. Turning, she noticed her oldest cousin, a tall, weedy looking boy of seventeen speaking in low tones to a second boy, a stocky character with a mop of wavy dark hair whom she had never set eyes on before. Every so often they glanced in her direction, identical smirks curling their lips and leaving her in no doubt as to the topic of their conversation. Yet she was spared from voicing the bitter retort that lingered on the tip of her tongue by the sudden arrival of her father. Both boys instantly schooled their expressions and straightening up, stepped forward to greet the eminent physician whose reputation alone preceded his arrival in any circle. Inclining her head slightly to the group on her left, she had just enough time to hear her cousin introduce his friend as a "David Lewis" before the shrill tone of her aunt drew her back.
"Michaela Anne Quinn, are you listening to me?"
"Yes Aunt Mary," she replied in what she hoped was a sufficiently contrite tone.
"Such impertinence, "continued her aunt as though she hadn't heard, "and look at the state of you, hair everywhere! And whoever heard of a young lady wearing green! I would never dream of allowing either of my daughters to dress in such a common fashion."
In truth, Michaela's dress was a little unconventional yet it had been a necessary evil. The poor housekeeper, utterly despairing at her daily and frequently ineffectual attempts to get grass stains out of white muslin had finally decided that disguising the dirt was as good as removing it and had promptly sent out for a dozen dresses in various sombre shades. Her father always maintained that green brought out the colour of her eyes and she herself cared little for such matters, yet seeing her cousin's smug expressions confirming her aunt's criticisms, she felt her temper rise.
"Really Joseph," steamed on Aunt Mary, rising from her seat and stepping towards him, "it isn't proper for Michaela to be running about in this manner. You really ought to…"
As the onslaught continued, Joseph glanced subtly over his chastiser's shoulder and smiled at Michaela's deepening scowl. As she rolled her eyes in resignation and shook her head, a silvery sheen on her cheek caught the light. Eyes widening in recognition, he carefully brushed at his right ear and mouthed the word "cobweb" before fluidly directing Aunt Mary's attention to the new china set arranged on the side board. Michaela grinned gratefully and scrubbed at her cheek before strolling over to the book shelves. Her Uncle Theodore's library was almost as extensive as her father's and she ran her finger affectionately over the leather bound spines, seeking a volume in which to immerse herself. With her cousin and his companion occupying her father's attention and consequently her aunt's, for that lady never passed up an opportunity to exalt her son's apparent intellectual merits, she might well be able to read undisturbed until the blessed hour of deliverance arrived.