Gabrielle Meyer - A Mother In The Making

“Would people really snub me because of Mrs. Kingston’s opinion?”

John leaned forward, wanting to make himself clear. “Yes. Don’t you have women like her in Chicago?”

Miss Maren’s heavy expression filled with more pain. “Of course we do.” She sat for a moment, as if contemplating her options.

“There’s nothing to think about,” John said. “Either you apologize to Mrs. Kingston, or your plans for the party will be ruined—and Lilly will be devastated. I cannot allow that to happen.”

“I would never want to hurt Lilly.”

“Then you’ll go?”

She nodded, her face sincere. “Right after I drop Lilly and Charlie off at school.”

“Good—now for the other items we need to discuss.”

She sighed. “What other transgressions have I committed that I’m unaware of?”

“Mrs. Kingston—”

She unclasped her hands. “Mrs. Kingston, again—?”

“Mrs. Kingston,” he said slowly, “told me you had come out of the mercantile.”

“And?”

“What were you doing in the mercantile? Or downtown for that matter?”

She closed her mouth and didn’t answer, studying him as if to gauge his response to an unspoken confession.

“Miss Maren?”

“Where’s the harm in going downtown?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“But it’s a legitimate question. Isn’t it my job to exercise the children and expose them to things outside this home?”

John stood suddenly. “That’s the problem.” He walked over to the mantel and looked at the portrait he had set there the previous night. Anna’s picture reminded him of the dangers just outside their door. “I don’t want them exposed to anything. We still have a disease running rampant through the state. I had considered bringing a tutor into the home to teach the children, and keep them out of school, but they’ve already been through so much that I didn’t want to upend their entire lives.” He turned and looked at her. “I don’t want them unnecessarily exposed to the general public.”

“But they’re taking their cinnamon oil—and aren’t they exposed at church and—”

“Those places are necessary. The mercantile is not.” He walked closer to her and sat on the edge of his desk, his hands on either side of him. “Now tell me why you were there.”

She hesitated.

“Miss Maren, I am losing patience.”

“I was inviting ladies to the tea party.”

He frowned. What was her fascination with this tea party? Was she really that desperate for friends, even though she would be leaving soon? “For now, I do not want my children taken out in public, unless absolutely necessary.”

She nodded and folded her hands in her lap once again. “And the third grievance?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

She shrugged in her nonchalant sort of way. “Apparently not.”

“My children are not allowed to ride their roller skates inside the house.” She opened her mouth—but he put up his hand. “Never.”

She let out a long sigh. “Very well. Is that all?”

“For now.”

He had a sneaky suspicion this would not be the end of his grievances toward her.

* * *

A soft floor lamp glowed in the corner of Marjorie’s bedroom as she sat at the secretary and looked over the list of ladies she had invited to the tea party on Sunday. She yawned as she absentmindedly ran a brush through her blond curls and reviewed each name, studying the notes she had written beside them.

So far, Miss Baker and Miss Addams, the owner of the millinery, were the forerunners in Marjorie’s mind—but she’d had so little time to get to know either one that it was hard to tell. If everyone came to tea, there would be fifteen ladies to choose from. She intended to use the party as a place to weed out the undesirable prospects.

But, for now, her bed beckoned. She stopped brushing her hair and offered up a simple prayer. “Please, Lord. Let Laura sleep through the night.”

A gentle knock sounded at her door.

She tossed her curls over her shoulder and set the brush down on the desk. Her wrapper was draped over the footboard, so she picked it up and slipped it on. No doubt one of the children needed something, though all four of them had been in bed for an hour. Hopefully Petey hadn’t had another nightmare.

Marjorie opened her door and then abruptly closed it again.

“Miss Maren?” Dr. Orton stood in the hallway, probably bewildered by her abrupt greeting—or lack of one.

She touched her hair and closed her robe. Why had he come to her room? Since she had arrived, he had not even walked past her room. Marjorie opened the door once again—just a crack. “Yes?”

He stood in the dark hall, holding a children’s book in his hands, his tired face outlined in the shadows. He studied her for a moment and then looked down at the book, swallowing a few times before he spoke. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I just got called into the hospital and I will be leaving for the night.”

She opened the door a little wider, concern softening her voice. “But you’ve only been home for three hours. When will you get some rest?”

He ran his hand through his hair and sighed. He lifted his brown eyes and shrugged. “Hopefully in the morning, though I might catch a few minutes of sleep on a cot in my office tonight, if I get a chance.”

“But aren’t you at a higher risk of getting sick if your body is exhausted?”

The weary lines of his face disappeared and he offered her a tender smile.

The gesture took Marjorie by surprise and made her close the door just a hair more.

“That’s usually what I tell my patients, but I’m not known for taking my own advice.” He lifted the book and extended it toward her. It was a copy of Peter Pan and Wendy. “I was just reading this to Petey. He came into my office crying after another bad dream. I read to him until he fell asleep and then I put him in my bed.” He lifted the book higher and nodded to her to take it. “In case he wakes up again.”

Marjorie took the book from Dr. Orton and hugged it to her chest. “Will you be home in the morning before the children go to school?”

He slipped his hands in his pockets and shook his head. His eyes followed the outline of her face and he cleared his throat. “I don’t think so. Dr. McCall lost two patients this evening and needs to go home and rest, so I’ll be there until he can relieve me. I told him to take all the time he needs.” He took a step back. “Good night, Miss Maren.” He paused and offered her another smile. “Thank you—and be sure to give the children their cinnamon oil in the morning.”

Marjorie closed her bedroom door and leaned against it for a moment, the book still warm from his touch. It was a few heartbeats before she heard him walk away from her door.

The man was a study in extremes. He could be hard and demanding—yet gentle and kind. He disciplined his children with a rigid set of ideals, yet they ran to him for comfort and acceptance.

For the first time, she genuinely liked him.

Another yawn overtook her, and her eyes watered from its force. She dragged her feet across the room and switched off the floor lamp. She would think about the good doctor in the morning when she had control over her thoughts and emotions.

She slipped Peter Pan onto her nightstand and took off her wrapper. She kicked her slippers off and pulled back the covers. With a sigh, she climbed between the sheets and allowed every muscle in her body to relax as she sank deep into the mattress.

Her eyelids fluttered closed as a soft smile tilted her lips. Bed had never felt better in her life.

Laura’s whimper drifted into Marjorie’s bedroom.

Marjorie’s eyes opened. “Please, no,” she whispered into the dark room.