CHAPTER TWO

I SPENT THE GREATER part of the next few days sleeping – an insurmountable exhaustion seemed to have taken hold of me. No matter how much I rested, I was always tired. Dr. MacNeill assured me it was perfectly normal, and that my body needed all that sleep in order to regenerate and recover from the illness that had so depleted its strength.

In between naps, Miss Alice and Ruby Mae Beck – who, having overcome her bout of pneumonic typhoid more quickly than anyone had expected, had returned to help at the mission during the day – continually urged me to take water and soup, even when I insisted I wasn't thirsty or the least bit hungry.

"Keep her full of liquids," Dr. MacNeill had announced, the morning after my first awakening, "and only liquids." He shot a look over at Miss Ida. "You know the drill, Ida. Thick soups, broth, things that are rich and nourishing, but nothing solid for ten days." He turned his stern gaze unto me. "Understood?"

The memory of Lundy Taylor writhing and crying on the ground, clutching his ulcerated stomach, was enough to convince me, had I harbored any reservations at all about adhering to the Doctor's orders. Not that Miss Ida would have let me break the rules even if I was inclined to – she was as stern a taskmistress as ever. The irony amused me, but the truth of it was that I found a strange comfort in her familiar tart-tongued brusqueness. Perhaps it reminded me that though my life had changed in many ways, some things would always remain the same.

When I was not sleeping or forcing down another round of water and broth, I was kept busy with visitors. Perhaps Miss Alice sensed that I would become too pensive if I was left alone for long; perhaps she knew, in that uncanny way of hers, that the events of the previous month weighed heavily on my mind. Whatever her reasons, she ensured that in my waking moments, I always had someone to talk to or just sit with.

Dr. MacNeill refused to let in anyone besides the mission workers. My immune system was too overtaxed to be exposed to the often unwashed and unkempt children – I would have to be content with seeing only David, Miss Alice, the Doctor, Ruby Mae, and Miss Ida; the others would have to wait.

And so time passed with some degree of normalcy. David came in twice a day to help prop me up on the pillows, as I was too weak to sit up by myself. After seeing me settled, he would take up residence on the chair by my bed and read to me or talk about my students' latest mischief – usually courtesy of Creed Allen.

"They miss you terribly, Christy," he said one afternoon, looking out my window over at the schoolhouse, where the children were playing in the yard during their 'dinner spell.' "Not an hour goes by when someone doesn't ask me how you're feeling, or how long it'll be before you come back to school. They're worried about you."

I knew that well. Ruby Mae had spoken for everyone when, upon first seeing me, she had burst into noisy tears, exclaiming between sobs that, "Lordy, we thought ye was gonna be worm-feed, Miz Christy! Thankee yer up an' kickin' again!"

The concern was certainly merited. I had learned from my weeks of nursing during the epidemic just how dangerous the first days of recovery were for a typhoid patient. I knew Dr. MacNeill was aware of it, for his daily examinations were painstaking – after checking my pulse and breathing, he also would take careful note of every slight change in my complexion and temperature. The constant prodding and poking might have bothered me, had I not been too weary to object, and had he not taken time out to speak to me as well.

These conversations were not terribly personal, as more often than not, he brought me news of other families in the Cove, but I anticipated them with girlish enthusiasm. Even when I had not liked him, he had managed to impress me with his vast store of knowledge on a myriad of subjects, as well as his ability to listen to other opinions – or more distinctly, to me.

David could never talk seriously. He might say a few solemn words, maybe listen for a few minutes, and then he would crack a smile or a joke and change the subject. I loved his cheerfulness, for it had raised my low spirits many times, but in that joviality there was an immaturity, an unwillingness to grapple with the more difficult questions in life.

Dr. MacNeill perhaps was too skeptical, on the entirely opposite end of the spectrum, yet I felt that he respected my – as Mary Allen might say – "thinkin' ways." He didn't humor me as David was all too apt to do; he didn't pat me on the head and smile, like I was a child who had said something ignorant but amusing. He listened, and he considered. My opinions may not have been completely fixed, and I blundered over them as often as any other person, but even though he might shake his head over my naivety, he knew I was capable.

Some of the friendly ease with which we had kept company before was, by reason of the circumstances, done away with. His sentiments toward me, as well as his possible conversion, consumed a large part of my thoughts when we were together. I longed to ask him but did not dare. In addition to this, my mother had determinedly ingrained in me her staunch sense of Victorian propriety, and being seen by a man – even a doctor – while dressed only in a nightgown was somewhat unnerving...and the fact that Dr. MacNeill had voiced his feelings for me didn't make it any less awkward.

In any case, I carefully avoided topics that might raise questions about our relationship; it seemed wisest to let us both recover from the stress of the past weeks before wading into that particular quagmire.

But then, as with many things, it was easier said than done. When David, reading to me one evening, playfully dropped a kiss on my lips, I realized that I had never given him an answer to his proposal. He apparently considered us engaged, and I was doing nothing to correct his misconception. Cowardly it might have been, and a part of me knew that it would hurt everyone involved all the more for my procrastination, but I could not bring myself to say anything to him. And so I allowed the hand-holding and endearments, all the while cursing myself for my weakness.

By the week's end, I was ready to have a complete wash, and Miss Ida was equally eager for an opportunity to launder the dirty linens. After some hemming and hawing, Dr. MacNeill gave his consent to the plan. Since I couldn't walk on my own, I would have to be put in the bath before the water was added in – Miss Alice wasn't strong enough to lift me into a full bathtub and I certainly wasn't going to let any of the men see me bathe.

Dr. MacNeill carried me to the tub and then left Miss Ida and Miss Alice to undress me and pour in the heated pitchers of water. It felt glorious, and for the first time in days I relaxed. The scent of chamomile and rose-water soothed me, and Miss Alice chatted easily about her recent journey to Raven Gap.

"Nothing lifts my spirits more than being among children," she was saying, soaping up a washcloth for my face, "and you shall be pleased to return to them, Miss Huddleston. They are eagerly awaiting your company and your teaching." She smiled at me. "And I shall be glad to see you restored to your proper place at the schoolhouse."

"I'll be glad when you're up and able to help out in the kitchen," Miss Ida added, in her usual clipped tones. "I declare that Ruby Mae is a disaster waiting to happen. David has been served enough burnt possum to last him for an eternity. I won't be surprised if Will Beck ends up starving by the end of the season."

I laughed. Poor David...or rather, poor Will! Ruby Mae tried – she truly did – but I had never met anyone more helpless around the house. I was sure that in time she would grow into her role as wife and housekeeper, but for now, our stomachs would all have to suffer her admittedly original culinary creations.

After drying me off, Miss Alice helped me into a fresh nightgown while Miss Ida went downstairs to fetch Dr. MacNeill. He settled me into bed with care – I suddenly remembered the feel of his hands on me while I was delirious with fever; the impression of those fingers, so powerful but so gentle, had never left me.

"Try to sleep a little more," he informed me gruffly, breaking into my reverie. "I know you may not feel tired, but the more you rest, the sooner you can be up and about."

I laid back and sighed with pleasure; the new linens were cool, crisp with starch. The Doctor was shrugging into his coat and scarf, preparing to head home. "How about you?" I asked impetuously.

He turned to look at me. "What about me?"

"Have you been getting enough sleep?" I had noticed the dark hollows had reappeared under his eyes, just as they had during the epidemic, when he couldn't have been sleeping more than two or three hours per night.

A smile danced about his mouth. "Perhaps nursing suits you better than you think, Miss Huddleston. You've come a long way since your first encounter with mountain medicine."

I doggedly pursued the question. "Well, how long has it been since you've had a full night's rest?"

Those broad shoulders shrugged faintly as he bent to sling his saddlebags over his arm.

"You need to sleep too," I said firmly. "A doctor can't compromise his own health. What would we do if you were sick?"

"I hear you, Miss Huddleston," he replied, with an edge of amusement in his voice. "I'll take some time for myself tonight, I promise; Ida has been kind enough to pack a good dinner for me to take back to the cabin. Don't worry yourself."

I suddenly felt uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, Doctor. That was presumptuous."

"No, no," he said, smiling openly now. "It's only that...well, no one has worried about those kind of things for a long time – about how well I was eating, or whether I'd gotten enough sleep; it's a pleasant change. Thank you."

I didn't know what to say. He nodded to me, crammed his hat over that wild mop of reddish hair, and left the room. I heard his boots thumping down the stairway, the front door opening and closing, and a moment later, the sound of Charlie's hoofbeats outside the window. I leaned back into the pillows, feeling suddenly, inexplicably lonely.

TIME PASSED BY QUICKLY, but my progress was slow. I remained sluggish and weak even as my appetite improved; so small a task as sitting up seemed, at times, impossible. Dr. MacNeill informed me that it was natural, as all that time in bed had made my muscles begin to atrophy. He and Miss Alice were stern taskmasters, insisting on daily exercises to build up my strength; no matter how I begged or complained, they never gave in or even lost patience with me – a remarkable feat in particular for the Doctor, with his quick Scottish temper.

I see now that they took care not to push me past my endurance, though at the time it seemed as though the exertion I made was endless. My weariness made me waspish, and more often than not David and the Doctor were the ones who were stung. Miss Alice was too intuitive to not know when to let things be, but poor David let himself get trampled over, and Dr. MacNeill was too stubborn to let my arguments get in the way of his work.

My occasional peevishness aside, things were not so wholly bad – six days after I first regained consciousness, Miss Alice and the Doctor determined that I would be able to receive a few visitors. They were restricted to only two or three a day, and those only for a few minutes, but I was delighted to have company.

Opal McHone was the first to visit; she sat with me and spoke of her children and the latest Cove gossip, and then she shyly asked if I would like to be read to for a spell. To my amazement and delight, Opal slowly read from her ragged Bible, and she finished nearly an entire chapter with but a few slight mistakes and mispronunciations. I was full to bursting with pride in her accomplishment – Opal didn't have Fairlight's clever quickness, but there was something equally perceptive in her sweet, worry-worn face – and she seemed pleased at having raised my spirits: her objective all along, I imagined. She promised to return soon and assured me she looked forward to continuing our reading lessons when I was well again.

Another visit lifted my heart even more; one afternoon, Miss Ida knocked on my door and announced that I had callers – even as she spoke, little Lulu Spencer's face poked around the woman's skirts, scanning my room. Her puckish face lit up upon seeing me, and she immediately toddled inside. I could see her brothers, sisters, and even her father lingering behind in the hall, smiling tentatively. I cried out an enthusiastic hello, and as if it were some sort of signal, the children poured inside.

The heavy odor of alcohol followed them in, and I knew that Dr. MacNeill must have insisted the children wash their hands in it before allowing them to enter the sickroom. I kissed Least'un's fat cheeks, and pulled Lulu up to sit next to me on the bed – never before had I been so glad to see them. Zady and Clara cried, and John played me an impromptu tune on his harmonica. They all talked at once, and I felt a dozen small hands tugging at my nightdress and reaching around to hug me.

Jeb stood nearby, watching his children quietly. I could see the ravages of grief and exhaustion around his mouth and brow, the same affection-starved expression that lingered in all the eyes of the Spencer children visible in him too. When Miss Alice beckoned the children over to the plate of cookies Miss Ida had sent up, I reached out for him. "Jeb?"

He sat uncomfortably on the edge of the mattress and took the hand I held out. I smiled at him – this man who had so loved my friend – and I knew I had to tell him. It had given me serenity; I only hoped it would do the same for him. "I saw Fairlight, Jeb."

The mountain man stared at me, looking politely confused.

"When I was sick, I saw her," I clarified, guessing that he must think me still in the throes of some feverish lunacy. "I saw her down by the river, singing...she looked so...so happy..." I felt tears come unbidden at the memory as that warmth, that glorious peace that I had felt at that moment again washed over me. "I know it was Fairlight. I saw her – and the babies. Jeter and Ceclie."

I saw his dark eyes widen.

"She was sitting with them, singing to them...and the river..." I broke off, unable to describe the overawing majesty I had seen, that place so filled with joy. "Wherever it was, Jeb, she was there with her children, and she was happy."

His expression did not alter, but there was rich meaning in the way he gripped my hand and the tone of his voice as he said, "I'm obleeged to ya, Miz Christy, fer lettin' me know."

All too soon, Miss Alice firmly ushered the Spencers back downstairs, much to the children's dismay, as well as my own. "Five more minutes, Miss Alice," I pleaded, sounding more like the girls and boys gathered around my bed than the twenty-year-old schoolmarm I was. "Surely five minutes can't hurt me."

Miss Alice's grey eyes softened, but with gentle insistence, she shooed away my visitors. "You need your rest, Miss Huddleston. Have no fear, Mr. Spencer and the children will return soon."

I reluctantly bid goodbye to my students, assuring them once again that I would be delighted to see them whenever they chose to come. Zady, her thin face painted with anxiety, lingered behind, and as the others filed out of the room, she went over to Miss Alice and whispered something in her ear, glancing over at me. I saw the Quaker woman's expression fill with compassionate understanding, and she replied softly before sending the girl – whose countenance appeared much more at ease – out the door after her siblings.

I merely looked at Miss Alice, who went to close the door behind the retreating figures; after opening the window to let in some fresh air, she perched on my bed and smiled. "I fear Zady is still alarmed about your health, Miss Huddleston. She wished to receive my solemn promise that you were recovering."

I thought immediately of Fairlight's shockingly abrupt death – Zady's concern was a real one. Poor motherless girl...Clara would bear the brunt of the change as the eldest, required to take her mother's place, but the others would sorely feel Fairlight's absence. My dear friend had left behind her a void which no one else could come close to filling.

"They will heal," Miss Alice said calmly, her eyes closed as she welcomed the warm breeze that filtered in through the curtains. "In time they will all heal, and Mrs. Spencer's memory will no longer bring pain, but only joy."

If I doubted that there would be no pain at all in the end, I was wise enough not to say so.

A/N: Wow -- Thanks for all your lovely comments! They were very encouraging. ;) I'll try to post twice a week for the first few chapters, since I've already written them, but I might not be able to post as regularly after that. The story itself will move fairly slowly at first, but once Christy's feeling better, hopefully things will become a little more exciting. :D