CHAPTER THREE

I BECAME QUITE a popular person over the next few days. Visits from the Holcombes, the Allens, the O'Teales, the Coburns, Granny Barclay and the Holts, the McHones, Ben Pentland, and of course, the Spencers, came in rapid succession. The children were always brought along as the excuse for the visit, but I suspected that their parents were motivated to come by a desire to see for themselves that I really was alive and well. According to David, the mountain people regarded my recovery as nothing short of a miracle.

I delighted in seeing so many familiar faces, and the children's eager affection urged me to focus my energies on returning to life as usual. Once again my students gave me the determination to do what was right for me and for them, and I became a model patient, following Dr. MacNeill's instructions to the letter, resting constantly and accepting all manner of vile concoctions he forced on me in the hopes of receiving a clean bill of health sooner.

He could see right through my pretense of being agreeable, but he also recognized the will behind it and did his best to accommodate me. And so, with no opposition, everything seemed well on the way to returning to a state of tenuous normalcy – at least until I tried to comb my hair.

For nearly a week, I hadn't been able to wash it or brush the tangles out; Miss Alice had bound up the lot into one of her nightcaps, insisting I keep it on. I had supposed she wanted it out of the way, but I was determined to have it straightened and clean before the knots became entirely unmanageable.

I could now rise and walk a short distance without assistance, and eagerly I picked up my fine-tooth comb and untied the bonnet, setting it aside on the dresser. I moved over to sit in front of the mirror...and promptly dropped the brush in shock.

My hair! I could only stare at my reflection in horror – my hair was falling out! The thick, shining brown waves, of which I had always been so proud, were now lacklustre strings that that hung limply over my scalp in checkered patches. Even as I reached up to touch them, a clump came off in my hand.

Miss Alice found me a few minutes later, and with silent compassion, she came over and held me while I cried. She soothed me like my mother would have, assuring me with loving firmness that I was not vain for bemoaning the loss of my hair, and entreating me to remember that it would grow back again. After all, the same thing had happened to Zady and Bessie, and they were none the worse for it.

No sooner had I begun to calm down than she brought out a pair of scissors. She must have seen my expression, for she announced without pause, "It shall be easier if we just level it out; then it shall grow even. Bear up thy loss, child, and move on."

I knew she was right, but the knowledge didn't stop me from cringing with each snip of the shears against my curls. At long last she was done. I gazed over into the mirror – and instantly wished I hadn't. My face was appallingly thin. The protruding bones of my cheeks and chin and the hollows under my eyes were even more pronounced against the sorry wisps of shorn hair that barely reached my chin – a far cry from the luxuriant ringlets that had once tumbled down past my waist.

Miss Alice removed the looking-glass from the wall, setting it down behind the vanity. "Do not turn your thoughts onto the past; fix them on the future instead. You are alive, Christy." She ran her hand through what was left of my hair. "When you are well, we can curl your hair. It will only be shorter, and you shall be no less a beauty for the change."

Looking back, I can see that it was not so much the loss of my hair that pained me as it was what that loss represented. Miss Alice's assurances did help, but my appearance would remain a tender issue for me in the weeks to come, and David, with typical male insensitivity, managed to trample all over it.

"A new haircut, huh?" came the sickeningly happy remark, as he came to look in on me that next day while Dr. MacNeill finished his examination. "First it was the ice-pick shoes and then the hats – at this rate you'll be on the front page of the Cutter Gap fashion papers."

To my mortification, I was unable to laugh off his teasing. Dr. MacNeill, with his ever-observant physician's eyes, saw my expression. Taking his stethoscope out of his ears, he glared at David. "Perhaps you ought to leave, Grantland. Miss Huddleston will want privacy for the next part of the exam."

Dr. MacNeill hadn't needed to intrude under the bedclothes for several days, but David, blissfully unaware, stepped obligingly out of the room. It was silent for a few moments, and I turned my gaze uneasily onto my hands, suddenly aware of the contrast between my own appearance and that of the man next to me.

I had never been a particularly beautiful girl but neither had I ever considered myself unattractive – now I was painfully aware of the waxy cast to my complexion, the sharp thrust of my cheekbones, my cropped hair, and the shadow-ringed eyes that looked far too big for my face. Next to the Doctor's own healthy vitality, I seemed even more a waif, wasted away and sickly.

"Miss Huddleston?"

"I'm fine," I mumbled. Wanting to change the subject, I added lightly, "So, what's your diagnosis, Doctor? Am I sentenced to more time in bed, or may I finally join the rest of the world?"

I heard him sigh. "As interesting as your hands are, Miss Huddleston, I sincerely doubt that they are going to answer you. My face is up here."

Reluctantly I lifted my head and met his eyes. His lips were tilted, betraying his amusement, but the look in his eyes was grave. "You seem to be recovering well, despite my reservations, and I should think that by tomorrow you'll be fit enough to take an excursion downstairs for a good meal."

His words astonished me, for I hadn't actually expected him to allow me leeway. Downstairs at last – and solid food! I beamed at him, my beauty or lack of it forgotten. "Really? I may?"

"You may," he said, chuckling at my eagerness. "Not too much, mind you; you will get sick if you try to make a glutton of yourself."

I was so pleased by the notion of actual food again that I wasn't even embarrassed by his not-too-subtle comment on my appetite. "I can't wait to get out of this room! Do you think I might go out on the porch for awhile?"

"One thing at a time," he cautioned me. "Let's see how you handle this trip before even considering going outside. If there aren't any ill effects from the excursion, then yes, I believe sitting out on the porch for a spell won't hurt you any, provided you're supervised by Alice or Grantland or me."

I had a sudden impulse to hug him, but I had neither the courage nor the strength for it. He accepted my thanks reluctantly, seeming uneasy with my effusiveness, and it occurred to me for the first time that perhaps something else besides his tentative acknowledgment of higher healing troubled him.

I have never considered myself equipped with any extraordinary powers of perception, but a flash of insight – possibly from Providence, possibly from my own improved understanding of the man before me – granted me a picture of what had happened: Dr. MacNeill harbored feelings of guilt for my illness, for having pushed me into work and consequently increasing my exposure to the disease.

It was a ridiculous thing to be ashamed of, for we at the mission had volunteered our services in the first place, as was our duty as a house of God, but somehow, as I watched him put away his instruments, I knew that it was true.

Tentatively, I reached out and touched one large hand which rested atop the covers as he started to rise from his chair. I felt him startle at my touch – I opened my mouth, not knowing yet what I would say, but trusting that I would have the words...and a loud knock on the door made us both jump.

I hastily let go of his hand as Miss Ida stepped inside, carrying my lunch tray. I had been weaned slowly off my liquid diet, and the deliciously seasoned beef stew atop the platter looked wonderfully appetizing. Dr. MacNeill retreated to the window as Miss Ida came in and set the tray down on my small desk in the corner. My eyes, however, were not on the food.

The Doctor stood against a backdrop of noon sunshine, light and shadow cutting sharply across his figure. I studied his face, truly looked at him for the first time. It was a hard, rugged countenance, but I had noticed that from the first – square-jawed, with a stubborn chin; a rather nondescript nose lifted by a slight Roman bump at the end; a high, broad forehead which contrasted sharply with his sensitive mouth; those hazel eyes, which I had always coveted for their fascinating blend of green, blue and brown.

And, of course – I smiled to myself at this last observation – there were his untamable sandy-red curls, which were forever bouncing off in all directions and resisted every assault of comb or brush. More than once, my fingers had itched to take up a pair of scissors and crop those locks to a more manageable length.

His was not a handsome face; it was too weathered and angular to be graced with that appellation – it was the face of a mountain man, someone who lived a simple, often harsh life but was all the stronger in mind, spirit, and body for the hardship.

Dr. MacNeill stepped over toward the door, pausing to let Miss Ida bring in a pot of tea, and I gave in to the sudden impulse to call him back. With his eyes on me, I suddenly found myself at a loss for words. After an ungainly pause, up came the dreaded eyebrow, arching high above its fellow, and my cheeks, in turn, filled with color.

"Yes, Miss Huddleston?"

"Spit it out," Miss Ida said helpfully. "You have a tongue. Use it."

I scowled at her; the gesture swept right over her head, for she calmly continued steeping the tea leaves in the pot. Dr. MacNeill's muffled chuckle was enough to spur me into action.

"If you aren't too busy, you can stay and share my lunch with me. Miss Ida brought up more than enough." Surprise registered on his face, and I blushed another three shades of red. "Well, I...I thought it might be nice."

He regarded me narrowly, as if attempting to read my eyes, which I quickly cast down toward the floor. "If you can bear up my company, I would be honored."

His acceptance startled me. I knew what little taste he had for company, particularly here at the mission, and I had fully expected him to refuse even as I tendered the offer.

If Miss Ida was also taken aback, she didn't show it. With perfect aplomb, she whisked out another bowl and spoon and dipped a ladle into the stew tureen. "Help yourselves," she said succinctly. "If you need more, there's a pot of it put to boil on the stove."

The Doctor and I thanked her, and I started to pull back the covers when a quandary presented itself. I clutched the quilts to my chest, blushing fiercely once more. "Miss Ida?"

She turned, and seeing my predicament, rolled her eyes in disgust. Dr. MacNeill politely turned his back, pretending to study the view outside while Ida helped me slip into a modest housecoat to cover my nightgown.

"There," Miss Ida said crisply, tying the robe's ribboned sash tightly around my waist. "That ought to preserve your sensibilities, if not your virtue."

The Doctor made a curious sound, half-cough, half-snort, and I turned to glare at his back. "Thank you, Miss Ida," I said meekly, shoving my feet into a pair of Miss Alice's carpet slippers. David's sister merely nodded and then marched briskly out the door to return to the kitchen.

As soon as Ida's footsteps receded down the stairs, Dr. MacNeill moved to the other side of the bed and offered me his arm with all the gallantry of an Asheville swell. He helped me sit down at the makeshift table before fetching the chair from my bedside and bringing it over to seat himself across from me.

Lifting the lid of the tureen, he peered inside, inhaled, and smiled. "If it tastes as good as it smells, we may have to take up Ida's offer for more." Without further delay, he dished us generous portions and divvied up the silverware. I folded my hands for the blessing and then noticed that the Doctor had already taken up his spoon. There was an awkward pause, and he set the utensil down, leaning back. "Pardon me, Miss Huddleston. Go on."

I looked at him suspiciously, wondering if he meant to mock me, but he appeared perfectly sincere, if a bit uncertain. I offered up a brief prayer, surprised yet again as he bowed his head respectfully while I spoke.

"Tea?" I asked, as we tucked into our meal with vigor.

"I don't suppose you have anything stronger?"

I responded to the teasing note in his voice. "Fresh out of moonshine, I'm afraid."

"Tea will have to do then."

I reached over to pour him a cup and had to struggle to suppress a laugh. Miss Ida had brought up the spare tea set, a ridiculously delicate collection of dainty willow-patterned china that had been sent in one of the donation crates delivered earlier in the year. It was too fragile for use at the table, so Miss Ida had disdainfully tucked it back into the cabinet for use when the other, more practical set was unavailable. She had been serving me with this set for the past week in the interest of sanitation and perhaps partly in the hope that I would break a few of the cups and give her an excuse to get rid of the entire lot.

I handed the tiny cup to him and he grasped it awkwardly, barely able to fit even one of his fingers through the filigreed handle. I bit back a giggle, and his own smile warmed in response to mine. "Cutter Gap doesn't hold to the notion of high tea, Miss Huddleston," he said.

"I suppose not." I took a sip, peering through my lashes at him from over the rim. He was watching me attentively, cup suspended, forgotten, halfway to his lips. I felt a wave of giddy joy...but more importantly, a burgeoning feeling of hope.

For today, at least, I could ignore the fact that I must look positively ridiculous – a pale-faced, rail-thin, nearly bald-headed girl flirting over tea like any good Carolina belle; I could overlook the complications with David and Miss Alice, the weakness that still afflicted me, the uncertainties in my future. At the moment, I was simply enjoying an hour's uninterrupted tête-à-tête with Doctor MacNeill – and that was enough.

A/N: Ah, a little romance for our favorite physician -- lucky Christy! We need more Neil MacNeills in the world, don't you think? ; ) Thanks for the feedback, and constructive criticism is always welcome!