“No surgery? With all your experience and expertise?”
“I’ve put my bone saw, scalpels and other surgical instruments away in my saddle bag along with my pistols. Patients who require surgical treatment will be referred to Dr. Roger Jervey.”
“Why only mental disorders?”
Before he could answer, Sarah’s mother joined them. “Buck, I recently received a letter from Molly Cohen. She had the highest praise for Asa, said the young man has been absolutely selfless in attending her husband, the rabbi.”
“Asa insists the rabbi’s helped him much more.”
“Molly didn’t furnish any details, but she did mention that they enjoyed many long conversations.”
Buck smiled. “The rabbi’s willingness to listen drew Asa out of his shell. I’ll try to do the same with my patients. There’s a great need and considerable ignorance about mental illness, particularly involving casualties of war. Not all scars are visible. I expect caring, compassion and listening will be far more effective than the usual pills or potions.”
Miriam came up beside her husband. “We mothers have always known that.”
“Touché,” said Buck. He hesitated for a minute, then asked to be excused. “I want to see Emma.”
“Oh, dear me,” Miriam said. “I should have had you taken to her immediately. She’s anxious to see you.”
“Is she all right?”
“I’ll let you decide.” She motioned to Gibbeon. “Please take Dr. Thomson to see Emma.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The young man led Buck to a small room over the stalls of the carriage house. Emma lay on a cot in the far corner under a lace-curtained window. Buck tried not to show it but he was shocked by her appearance. She had withered even more than the last time he’d seen her. Her dark rheumy eyes lit up, however, when she saw him in the doorway. She reached out a scrawny hand.
“Oh, my baby’s home. At last. Now I can find my rest.” Her voice was faint and husky yet there was a strange joy in it.
He came closer. “Don’t talk like that, Emma. You’ll be up and dancing in no time.”
“Lordy, chile, the only-est dancin’ I be doin’ be in a happier place. I’s plumb wore out, Mr. Buck, but it ain’t no matter. I’s done what the Lord done sent me to do. Now I’s ready for His call.”
He went to his knees at the side of the bed and clasped her hands in his. “Don’t leave me, Emma. I need you.” She brought her hands up to his cheeks and murmured softly. “Thank you, Jesus, you let me see my sweet baby one more time.”
“Oh, Emma.”
A faint smile creased her wrinkled features and a light returned to her eyes.
“Do you ‘member how you loved to read when you was a boy? I would come out on my porch and see you settin’ in your Daddy’s rocker on the piazza with a book in your lap for hours. Mister Clay, he was always tearin’ round the place on his pony or a horse with that yellow hair flopping up and down. But you was always quiet, ‘specially after your Momma passed. Sometimes you’d be up in that ole chinaberry tree readin’ your book. One day I axt you to come and read to me and it started. I learned about King Arthur and his round table and his knights. Then you read to me from those Cooper books about Indians that talked funny and had strange names. But best of all when you commenced reading to me from the Bible I axt where God was and you moved my finger under the letters G-O-D. You ’member all that?”
Buck was unaware of the tears coursing down his face as he answered.
“I remember Emma, and I remember how you rewarded me. You would pick up a hot sweet potato with those iron tongs from your fireplace and put it in a wooden bowl so I wouldn’t burn my hands. You’d peel off the top and put a blob of churned butter on it and I would eat it all. I can taste it now.”
“Lord a mercy, you would look up and have that butter and tater all over your face. We would laugh and laugh.”
It seemed to Buck that this brief conversation had exhausted her.
She let her hands drop and closed her eyes, then whispered, “Take care of Job.”
Buck remained by her side for a while and watched. Her breathing was shallow and slow. She was resting peacefully. He quietly climbed to his feet and with one backward glance, left the room.
To his surprise Gibbeon was waiting downstairs for him. As if by instinct the young man said nothing. He simply turned toward the house with him.
“Please extend my thanks to the Graysons and the ladies. I’m going to my hotel. I can be reached there.”
“Yes, sir,” the servant replied and disappeared into the house by the back door.
#
Buck slept fitfully that night. He woke several times with images of Emma crowding his thoughts. He considered riding over to the Grayson estate and checking on the old slave woman, but he’d left word for them to send for him if he was needed, and he knew from experience that deathly ill patients could survive far longer than expected. He had no doubt that Emma was dying, but she might not pass for days. He turned over and finally fell back to sleep.
He rose with the sun, dressed and was about to go down to the dining room when there was a knock on the door. He swung it open and was startled to see Gibbeon standing there.
“Dr. Thomson, sir, Mr. Grayson send his compliments and asked me to inform you that Emma passed in her sleep during the night. I’m sorry, sir.” His eyes were misty. “Mr. Grayson is making arrangements with Jeffcoat’s to take her to Jasmine tomorrow for the funeral.”
“I thought of going to her last night and didn’t,” Buck murmured. “I should have.”
“Sir, Sophie sat with her all night. She says after you left Emma never opened her eyes again. She passed in her sleep, peaceful.” His voice was choked.
The two men said nothing for almost a minute, then Gibbeon added, “Mr. Grayson, he sent me with the buggy if you care to return to the house with me. I can wait, if you need me to.”
“I’ll come now.” Buck retrieved his coat from the arm of a chair, put it on and followed the tall, lanky black youth down the stairs.
Chapter TWENTY-TWO
Franklin Drexel was enjoying his second cup of Irish breakfast tea from his secret hoard when he heard a woman scream. “What now?” he murmured to himself. Probably that new chamber maid frightened by another mouse. He shrugged and resumed reading the Charleston Courier report of cotton prices. A few moments later he heard male footsteps approach from the foyer. The butler, no doubt, to explain the disruption of the morning routine.
Without looking up, he asked, “What’s going on, Clarence?”
When the butler didn’t answer immediately, he looked up.
“Hello, father.”
The bone china cup in Franklin’s hand fell to the marble tile floor and shattered into a thousand pieces.
“Randolph?”
“In the flesh.”
“But—”
His son guffawed. “You should see the expression on your face, dear father.”
“But . . . we were told you were dead, killed in a Yankee prison camp.”
Randolph laughed. “Surely you don’t believe Yankee lies.”
Franklin slumped against the back of the Louis Quatorze armchair. “This is quite a surprise. Why didn’t you get word to me—”
“Dead men don’t write.”
The older man sucked in a deep breath and motioned to the chair opposite him. “Sit down.” He picked up the crystal bell beside his plate of grits, eggs and biscuits and rang it. When the butler appeared, he ordered a full breakfast for his son and a pot of coffee. “And have someone clean up this mess.”