Nathan Booker mounted his horse and looked back at the house before trotting away. He spied the dark figure inside the parlor window and grinned. Now that was an astonishing woman. Not at all what he expected, but then again, if she wasn’t standing there so forlorn on the porch, her loneliness palpable in the waves of heat, he might not have even stopped to take a closer look.

His heart lurched at the memory of the moist pink flesh at her exposed neck, the translucent porcelain quality of her perfect complexion, the soft deep rose color of her lips. Her hair was not dressed as he was accustomed to seeing; it was tied back in the style of a young girl, loose tendrils of shining auburn falling around her lovely face. And then there were her startling cornflower blue eyes. Nathan knew that what he had just seen was extraordinary. And he also knew something else … something remarkable … he knew that the Widow Hopkins would be his wife. How he would woo her was questionable as he possessed none of the fancy speech or proper approaches most men seemed to know. Perhaps it was their mothers who taught them such things. Nathan’s mother was … unique; quite possibly as unique as Alicia Hopkins.

He rode to his stable and handed the mare into the groom’s care. Strolling into the shaded gardens, he found his mother sitting there, her needlepoint resting on her lap beneath calm, idle hands. He reached out and poured a glass of lemonade to the brim, sat on the uncomfortable wooden lawn chair and grinned. “Hot, isn’t it?”

Helen Booker’s brow rose ever so slightly as she watched her son slouch like a carefree youth and sip his drink. She had laid out his whiskey and water in the parlor and this was a bit of a surprise. “Nate, you don’t like lemonade.”

“Sure I do,” his grin widened and she found herself returning it, her pleasure and curiosity growing by the minute.

There were only three situations that brought this kind of comfortable smile onto her son’s face. Nathan was a surly sort, had been since his birth; a thoughtful child and intense young man. A man who demanded dignity and respect from all who met him … even though his pessimistic point of view regarding virtually everything seldom permitted a return of such deference. He was honest beyond reason; spouting truth in situations where the last thing a person wished to hear was the truth. People did not trust a man who always saw and spoke the truth … especially when it was about them. Nothing Helen had ever said could curb her son’s brutal and aggressive approach toward life and this, most unfortunately created a difficult and unhappy existence for Nathan. Rarely did he brim with the zest for life a man of his talents and skills, age and position should naturally possess. Oh yes, Helen Booker knew her son well. Only three things brought this kind of smile to his lips; the kind that actually reached and sparkled in his green eyes.

The first was obvious; a deep pleasure when he was able to diagnose, treat and cure a patient, no matter that patient’s financial or social standing. Doctor Nathan Booker had a strong second sense about medicine and the deep rooted reasons for illness. He moved with instinct and intelligence on every case, even those of the hypochondriacs, for after all, they paid the bills and freed him to take tender care of those financially less fortunate. He lived and breathed his Hippocratic Oath, his curiosity, boundless and gentle approach to his patients, admired. But Nathan had no patience for mediocrity or wasteful foolishness and he was a thorn in the side of his associates at the hospital. Nathan was an advocate of preventative medicine, a new concept that bristled at his colleagues’ patience as did his fierce demands for sepsis and cleanliness within the medical profession. He studied constantly, worked and consulted at several renowned hospitals in New York, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Chicago, San Francisco and many European cities; operating and observing techniques then perfecting them with his own skilled hands. He’d written numerous revered and well published medical papers. Among the best of his field, Nathan Booker was most respected. Not well liked … but highly respected.

Another situation that brought such a smile to Nathan’s face was heartbreaking. It came as he spent time with her daughter, poor Miranda. Those smiles were as wide, vibrant and pleasant but they were practiced and most often carefully performed. Nathan cared for his sister immensely, he loved her unconditionally and he worried for her to distraction. The accident that had caused Miranda’s malady occurred when the child was only four. Now nineteen, it appeared clear to all that even with the extreme measures he had taken to assist in the healing of her damaged brain, she would never be normal. Helen had come to accept this but Nathan was unyielding in his belief that a corrective cure could be found. His mind spun constantly as he watched or talked or played with the young woman who moved and thought as a seven-year-old child. Helen did not doubt that should a solution to this particular medical problem become available, he would perfect and implement it without delay or hesitation.

The third reason for such a brilliant smile on Nathan Booker’s face was one Helen should have scorned but she did not. Those smiles and the accompanying, temporary positive attitude often followed an afternoon of leisure; those rare times when Nate found his way to Clara L’Oreal’s little whorehouse on Brownstone Street. Helen’s son was a man with the needs of a man, struggling under the demands of his difficult and demanding work; and should the soft flesh of a whore ease his mind and body, she was thankful.

She watched him, relaxed in the chair he usually vehemently complained about. His legs were stretched out long, his high riding boots crossed at the ankles. His head was back and even his knee was not bouncing as was common until after his whiskey. No, this was a new contentment and her curiosity intensified.

“Ah … mother … you’ve invited the Widow Hopkins to dinner tomorrow evening.”

My, my, she thought and sighed. “Have I?”

“I’ll being her along at seven after my rounds at the hospital.”

As lovely as it was to see Nate so calm and contented, this turn of events still required a social reprimand. “Nathan, what have you done? You do understand that the woman is in mourning. This can be thought of as scandalous … and poor Mrs. Hopkins, new in Farmington and with no friends as yet. How will they accept her if she shows such disrespect to her dead husband’s memory?”

“Oh posh, mother. You don’t believe that foolishness anymore than I do.” His response was calm, not a rebuttal and certainly not affecting his relaxed state. “Besides,” he drained his lemonade and set the glass aside. “You’re here to fix it all … like you always do when I make a horrible social error.” He chuckled then stood, pushed his hair back and grinned down at Helen. “Alicia Hopkins is young and she’s lonely and the least we can do to help her through her mourning is take her out of that house for an evening.”

Helen blinked. She fully expected Nate to stomp off with self-righteous irritation but he stood, looking down at her, his smile waning and he waited. Was he begging?

Helen sighed, sipped from her glass. “I expect you are correct. It cannot be healthy, living such a solitary life. And I can help her make the acquaintances of several acceptable ladies of Farmington. How long has she been in mourning, dear?”

“Damned if I know. That weasel of a lawyer has been working on getting her that house and making it ready for over a year. Mr. Hopkins has probably been buried that long. I can’t imagine a woman letting a stranger choose, furnish and decorated a house for her unless there was some ridiculous reason why she couldn’t do it herself.”

Helen’s heart sank, watching the contentment and light leave her son’s eyes. “Of course, you are correct. It is foolishness and it will all fair out well enough. Your guest is most welcome to dinner tomorrow evening, Nathan.”

“But mother.” The grin returned, snapped briefly along with the sharp sparkle in his eyes. “The Widow Hopkins is your guest, not mine.” He lowered to peck her cheek then walked off to the parlor and his whiskey, leaving Helen to sigh quietly.

***

Mrs. Stedler was duly appalled but Alicia was excited about her dinner invitation. What was the big deal? It was just three houses away, she wouldn’t be alone with the handsome doctor and she felt sure there would be nothing for the local women to even imagine as scandalous. She sat at her dressing table, molded and tight in her ugly black monster of a gown and permitted Missy to dress her hair. She was not good at such things and marveled at the girl’s deft hands. Missy went daily into the city with Mrs. Stedler to do the marketing and she had several juicy tidbits to convey. The girl prattled on and on, shedding light on the seamier secrets of Farmington and passing gossip like cookies.

The mayor of Farmington did have three children, all adopted to please his sad, barren wife; but the story in town was that all three children were in fact the mayor’s spawn, each from a different Philadelphia prostitute. Then there was the mad woman of Farmington, an obviously senile widow who walked the streets spouting the stories of the Apocalypse and frightening the children to tears. Some say she was a witch and if she touched a person, they fell ill with despicable diseases and eventually succumbed.

As Missy rattled on, Alicia gazed at her own face in the mirror. There were things peculiarly different about her appearance and she suspected that it had to do with the healthy air of the time … or perhaps she arrived in this century a bit younger then she was before the strange shift. By her guess, she could pass for her early to mid-twenties.

Much had been revealed to her over the past few days and what she originally imagined to be a carefree, youthful age in America was in fact a rather restricted life, especially for women. But for a woman like Alicia, whose sexual awareness was heightened and extrapolated by the stimulation of the rings she could not remove from her flesh, it was even more difficult. She was restrained by her clothes, by the mores and what was expected of her … and she seemed always to be in a state of physical, sexual need. It was maddening. Every night she used her fingers and longed for a battery operated toy to make things quicker, reach climax more efficiently. At one point, she even wondered if she could invent a vibrating dildo from things around her own house. Preposterous. Her self manipulation would have to do … but would that be it forever? How would she ever explain the peircings to a lover or groom? These were things to ponder but not on this joyful evening when she would dine with the handsome Nathan Booker.

Missy gathered a handful of hair and expertly twisted as she babbled on and on. Finally Alicia asked a question.

“And what of Mrs. Booker? What is she like?”

“Oh, ma’am, a strange one, that. Mrs. Booker is a darling, for sure, but strange. She came from money and married money so most of the finer town ladies tolerate her odd ways of looking at life. She, like her son the Doctor, enjoys standing for the downtrodden and poor, but that is a good thing. Very Christian if you ask me. It’s very sad about Miranda though.”

“Miranda? Her daughter?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she took another crop of hair and began to work with it, carefully pinning and twisting and rolling as she talked. “Nineteen, four years older than me and you would think she was just a little girl. But I guess it’s a blessing she can talk at all. Especially since young Doctor Booker saved her from what his father wanted to do to the poor dear.”

“What was that?” Alicia’s brows rose.

“Well,” Missy leaned down and spoke quietly. “It was nearly five years ago I guess, because young Dr. Booker was already on the board of directors at the hospital with his father. One day,” she gasped dramatically, “out of the blue, old man Booker announced, pretty as you please in the middle of a board meeting, that he had decided to lock his daughter away in a mental asylum in Virginia! That she was an embarrassing burden to him and his position and he thought it was best. Young Doctor didn’t like that one bit, I tell you. They say he leapt over the table and attacked his father! Nearly beat him to death! But, it’s all rumor, you know. And I was very young so I can’t be sure what’s true and what isn’t.” Missy shrugged and continued her work. “Miranda never went to that terrible place, thank the lord. The old man died a year or so later. Then Dr. Nathan did that miracle operation on Miranda and at least now she can talk. Dr. Nathan is a good man. And a good doctor. A very good doctor. Not like his father who must have been a butcher!”

“How so?” Alicia was adoring this, it was like finally reading a good book!

“Well, I hear tell that many of his patients died.”

Alicia hid her grin, realizing that most patients probably did die in this era. Safe medical procedures were still in their infancy in the early 1900’s.

“I’ve heard it said that old Dr. Booker hated women. He used to perform illegal abortions for Clara’s girls who got in … trouble … you know. He was horrible to them. Many bled to death. Oh, he is nothing like Dr. Nathan.”

“You like Dr. Nathan, don’t you Missy.”

“Oh yes, very much. He is the reason I work for you, ma’am.”

Alicia blinked and let the girl continue.

“My father was a miner. When I was twelve, my mama just had another baby girl. We are all girls, three of us and I was the oldest. Papa cut off my hair and dressed me like a boy so that I could work in the mines with him. But …” her hands had stilled, trembled in Alicia’s hair. “Dr. Nathan was called to the camps one afternoon … I … I was hurt … by some of the men.”

Alicia placed her hand over Missy’s tender fingers, their eyes met in the mirror and sympathy tore at her heart. Poor Missy, only a child, had obviously been raped.

“So … daddy and my secret was exposed. But Dr. Nathan took good care of me and he took me out of the camp. He took papa too, helped him get work at the iron plant on the river. Every month the doctor would come by our house and check on mama and the baby and me. He always leaves money, real secretly, tucked under the sugar bowl on the table. Then, three months ago, when he left he took me with him and brought me to this beautiful house. Imagine that lawyer and the Stedlers’ surprise when he tugged me inside by the hand and told them I was the new maid … or else.”

“Or else what?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. But Mr. Meyers and the Stedlers have been real kind to me. There, all finished.”

Missy brushed off her hands and stepped back. Alicia pretended to be examining her new coif but her mind was spinning. Was it actually possible to fall in love with a man without spending more than a few moments with him? Just by the impressions received in a brief conversation? By the information learned from a sweet gossiping maid? “Lovely, Missy,” she lied. She despised the style, all the pins, the bulk of it making her stand even more erect than her overly tight corset dictated. All for the sake of fashion and balance. But the girl glowed with her smile, curtsied awkwardly then sighed.

“It is almost time. Perhaps you’d like to wait here until he comes for you?”

“No, no. I’ll wait on the porch.”

“Oh ma’am,” Missy gasped. “One must never let a man think you are so … so …”

“All I am, little dear is so … hot. I’ll wait for him on the porch. It’s foolish to make a man wait if I am already prepared to leave, now isn’t it?”

Missy shrugged, she had never heard such a thing before.

***

Repairing another’s neglectful, incompetent mistakes was most certainly not Nathan’s preference, but it seemed more and more the norm. He had gone to his offices early as was his habit, especially on extremely hot summer days. By nine, the waiting room was packed and he had already seen three patients. His young partner rushed in, his face highly colored with embarrassment and exertion and Nate chuckled. He stopped young Doctor Louis Freedman in the hall and shook his head teasingly.

“Louie, Louie, Louie. Another late morning lounging in the bed with your new bride? You keep this up; you’ll wear the poor girl out.”

Doctor Freeman’s blush intensified and Nate clapped a hand on his shoulder. “No harm done. There’s a patient in examining room three waiting for you.” The young man’s head bobbed and his eyes lowered. “Louie, you do realize it’s only my jealousy speaking. I wish you all the delightful intercourse you can find within your lovely Genevieve.”

“Nate,” Louis choked and shuffled his feet.

“All right, my young, highly appropriate friend. I’m finished jesting with you. Go.” Nathan chuckled and went to the waiting room, preparing to call the next patient.

As he stood and offered a nodding smile to old lady Morgan, suddenly the door burst opened and there stood an extremely pale and trembling Miss Eshler. Serina Eshler was a darling young woman, well educated and from a wealthy, high standing family. She was spirited and lovely with sweet dimples at her elbows and cheeks. Serina was such a delight that Nathan had often toyed with the idea of perusing her, but never found the time or energy for such activity. He had seen her just a few months earlier for a regularly scheduled examination and she was in good health. She was not now, her face drained of all color, her lips parted and eyes wide with terror.

“Help me, Doctor,” she cried softly. “Help me, please.”

In three long strides he was at her side, his hand detected a shiver as it gripped her arm and she slumped to him.

“Help me, I’m afraid I will die,” she whispered and he swept her into his arms and through the waiting room, leaving behind a flurry of twitters and gasps. Laying her tenderly onto an examining table he spoke in a calm, professional manner.

“What is it, Miss Eshler?” He was astounded that she had come alone, as few women moved about the town alone and Serina was seldom seen without at least her bulldog of a mother at her side. “Tell me, dear.” He worked at her clothing, noted her shallow breathing and the wince of pain that rippled across her pretty face.

“I have done something terrible, Doctor. So terrible,” she sobbed. Interesting as that was, he had little curiosity as to what she’d done, only the immediate emergency of her needs. “So terrible I will die and burn forever in hell.”

“Tell me what hurts, Serina,” he fought irritation that ragged the edges of his voice as his fingers struggled with the tight laces of her damn corset.

“I am soiled, Doctor. With child,” she gasped as he freed her of the garment and proceeded to tug off her pantaloons in a desperate effort to get at the problem and examine her thoroughly.

“How long, dear?”

“I have missed three … three …”

“Three months?” Was she spontaneously aborting? This seemed far too violent for a natural physical early refusal to carry full term. Her pantaloons were soaked with blood and she was tormented with constant pain.

“Pennyroyal,” she whispered and Nathan’s breath caught in his throat, his hands froze in place. Pennyroyal? The hated herb used by the most unscrupulous old crones to bring about abortion? How on earth would Serina find or know how to use pennyroyal?

“Are you sure, Serina?”

She nodded, terror glazing her eyes, droplets of sweat on her temples.

“How much?”  he grunted as he lifted her small feet into the stirrups and quickly turned to wash his hands.

“A swallow, the oil was minty but … it made me sick with terror and I became nauseated.”

“Thank God. Where did you get such a thing?” She cried out in pain and he turned to her, concern in his expression and anger beyond reason growing in his gut. “Where did you –”

“Mama is so angry with me … she gave it to me and … she told me to drink some … and wait for it to work. Oh Doctor. It all came from my stomach and it made me so sick.”

Of course it did, and thank everything holy for that, he thought. But obviously her gag reflex could not purge all of the poison. He positioned himself between her covered, opened legs. “Relax, Serina. Relax.” He lifted the sheet to her knees and reached, carefully opened the flower of her blood flooded folds. His fingers trembled with rage. “Who did this to you?” His voice was a garble of rough, dry aversion. The girl was gouged, her inner flesh torn and ragged.

“I … I did.”

His face rose and he gawked at her.

“It didn’t work … I waited and waited and … mama was so angry and I was so afraid … I used the crochet hooks.” Her voice was waning and Serina was slowly going into shock.

He did a brief pelvic examination confirming that as yet, the herb had not forced an abortion, but the patient’s blood pressure, severe contractions and overall weakness indicated that it was in fact working. No matter, the torn flesh required immediate repair … and there was no way to clearly determine how deeply she’d cut. The office was no place to sufficiently take care of the patient. He wrapped her in the sheets.

“Louis!” he called at the door. The man came quickly. “Cover here, my man. Call the hospital and have them assure an operation room for an emergency. Call the Eshler residence and tell them their daughter is in serious condition.”

“Of course, I’ll bring the carriage.”

“To hell with formality, just grab anyone driving passed. This girl will die if I don’t get her to the hospital immediately.”

At the hospital, Nathan quickly arranged for an anesthesia assistant and nurse to aid with the surgery; both were dear, long time friends and more than willing to hold the incident in confidence. And thus, without intending, he had followed the pompous bitty, Martha Eshler’s wishes, but he had only done so for the sake of young Serina. He seethed at Martha’s horrible approach to the problem. She should have brought her daughter to him to discuss the situation. There are many, many childless families in Farmington and elsewhere that would have happily taken the burden of the unwanted child. He could have arranged and manufactured a reason for Serina to be out of town during her confinement. It could have been done safer, smarter, better. But Martha Elsher cared more about her own reputation that her daughter’s life.

Nathan sat at Serina’s bedside. He had done all he could to repair the damage and soften the effects of the poisonous pennyroyal. Walter Elsher arrived soon after the surgery had begun and sat vigil for his daughter. He gravely announced that his dear wife was terribly distraught and could not leave her bed. A kind hearted man, he would hear nothing except that Serina had endured a bout of ‘female problems’ that required correction. Nathan saw no need to speak further about it to the loving father. His argument was not with Walt … it was with Martha, and he will have his day. Sooner or later the woman would show up for his services, she’ll believe that Nathan was either innocent of her part in it all, or that he respected and supported her decision regarding Serina’s delicate situation. And … she will be quite surprised.

It was nearly six when he came by his offices to check on Louis. The patients had all been seen and the young doctor was preparing to leave. “Will she survive?” he asked quietly as Nathan fingered the whisky bottle hidden in his drawer.

“No thanks to stupid parents, she will recover … hopefully able to conceive another child and most hopefully within blissful wedlock. Anything here I should know?” he closed the drawer without drinking from the bottle.

“Nothing … oh, you’re mother called to remind you of the dinner guest you are to bring to the house.”

And for the first time since Serina Eshler walked into the door … Nathan Booker smiled. “Bully,” he said and left the offices.

***