Nurse Trent's Children (17 page)

“She certainly could,” said Cathy warmly, reading over the letter again. She wondered what Miss Watts’s news had been and why she was revisiting Australia. She knew the happy glow of distant friends about to be not so far distant, then her eyes fell on the second letter and the warmth went.

She fingered it nervously, distastefully, dreading to open it. How could she tell him, after she had read the contents, how differently she really felt from that brief, sweet, but unlasting unreal moment of last night? Once she had had to discourage a lovesick medical student, and it had been a small torture. How would she handle the infinitely wiser experienced man who was Jeremy Malcolm
...

Taking a deep breath, she tore open the letter. Quickly she absorbed the contents, then put the letter down.

Then she laughed. It was not
a gay laugh, nor yet a sad one. It was neither rueful nor ashamed. It was simply a laugh to cover the blow to her pride and her deep humiliation. It had been one thing for her to tell Jeremy she did not care for him, but it was another thing altogether for him to stop whistling the tune.

The letter was short and to the point. It started, “Dear Miss Trent” and it finished uncompromisingly, “Yours sincerely.”

In between was a concise apology “for my behavior last night”; a regret “for any misconception it may have brought.”

S
he put the letter back in its creases and into its envelope; she put the envelope into her pocket.

Somewhere a clock was chiming. She recalled the clock last night, its ticks coming louder and louder until they drowned all the little quiet noises of the house—drowned, too, a man’s steps as he came to her side.

“...
apologize for my behavior last night
...
”

It had not been just
his
behavior, it had been
hers
as well. She
remembered how she had turned to him
...
remembered their first kiss, quiet, without greed, a deep fulfillment.

“A regret
... for any misconception it may have brought
...
”
There had been no misconception, Dr. Malcolm, only a feeling mutual to your own now so clearly, unmistakably stated in your hateful letter. Only you might have let
me
say it first ... a woman’s privilege, remember...

She got up, angry, flushed, resentful.

She thought
,
I feel almost as though I’ve been jilted. How dare he write like that? How dare he write like that to me, who could dance at his wedding with a light heart! He must realize I, too, know it was a mistake. Why must he make it an important mistake by giving it the status of an apology?

As she closed the office door behind her she laughed without humor at a girl who had believed she had lacked the courage to tell a man how she really felt about him.

She went back to her everyday duties chiding irritably,
What is wrong with you? You knew there was an end before you read that letter. Why are you angry like this? Is it because he, not you, has supposedly freed two hearts?

Elvira called, “Cuppa,” and Cathy went in for her break.

As she sipped the hot tea she felt better. But the resentment remained—and something else. It was disenchantment. She knew, too, that for some strange reason she felt alone again—rootless.

The day dragged on. Avery discovered a bruised fingernail and had to have it bandaged. Rita’s business college rang to say that Rita had skipped a class. Denise received an early mark and came home ahead of the others.

“I got it because I was good. Could that go down on my record, so I can go sooner to live with Mrs. Latrobe?” she begged.

Cathy gave an evasive answer, but Denise appeared satisfied.
Why am I deceiving her like this,
Cathy grieved.
Why haven’t I the heart to tell her the truth?

The children were barely home, and Cathy and Elvira were handing out the bowls of hot broth that took the place of the summer issues of bread and syrup, when Elvira put down her ladle and protested, “Oh, no.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Cathy, peering through the window, too.

A large expensive car was coming up the driveway. There was only one car of that make that ever visited Redgates.

“Mrs. Dubois?” murmured Cathy.

“Who else?” snapped Elvira.

She ran into the main hall, flicking her apron here and there at some imaginary dust.

“Take out that withered flower, Aunty Cathy, love. For goodness’ sake have Avery blow her nose.”

“Elvie, what a fuss.
Mrs.
Dubois isn’t an ogre.”

“No? You’ll soon find out.”

Although Cathy instinctively had not liked Fayette Dubois, she had believed Elvira’s plainly stated hate of her to be unfair, unfounded and probably unrequited.

Now, as Elvira had warned, she found out
...

The beautiful blond woman stepped out of the car and came up the front stairs, her high heels tapping, her furs falling casually over her slender shoulders.

When Elvie opened the door she swept in without a word. Quickly she looked around, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of a house not in its show dress but in its everyday clean but comfortable guise.

She crossed to the window, took off her glove and ran a white finger along the ledge. She examined the finger, wiped it very obviously with a lace handkerchief, then turned to the woman beside her.

“
Hello, what is your name again?”

Elvira, her look saying, “You know as well as I do,” murmured, “Elvira.”

“
Of course. How are you, Elvira? Busy as usual, I see. Too busy, perhaps. Little chores, I perceive, have to be held over.” She glanced at her finger.

She crossed to the hall, removing as she did a dead fern from one of the vases. She entered the kitchen.

For a moment she stood there, her nose wrinkling. “Onions,” she shrugged: “Such a crude smell.”

“It’s the broth, madam, and it’s more than onion, it’s every kind of vegetable.”

“Really? And is that necessary,
El ... Elva
, wasn’t it?”

“Elvira.”

“Is that necessary? I mean, at this time of the afternoon? Wouldn’t you consider it an unwarranted expense?”

It was then that Cathy, listening, realized the true nature of the woman. She possessed that most undesirable trait in a rich person—the miser touch. Although it did not personally affect her, because she was a donor to the funds that went to make this home, she resented every penny spe
n
t. It did not matter to her that the money went to succor children. It did not matter that the furs around her slim shoulders would have fed them for a year. She instinctively chafed at anything that was not for herself.

Cathy had met this before. She remembered a member of the board at St. Cloud who had found her stirring a spoonful of glucose into the orange juice for a fever patient. “Nurse, isn’t this a dearer sweetening agent than sugar?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. McLeod, but it is more readily assimilated
.
”

“But
dearer,
eh?”

The rather fat red face had gone redder still in righteous indignation. “I wouldn’t think of using it myself,” he had expostulated.

“Perhaps you don’t need it, sir. Mrs. Mullens does.”

He had peered around the corner. “Public ward at that,” he had exploded. “I’ll look into this.”

So he had, and Miss Watts had instructed Cathy to put the glucose in a sugar bowl next time. “What the eye does not see,” she had said cryptically, passing on to the next ward.

But Mr. McLeod had been old and soured and out of touch with things. Mrs. Dubois was young—not so much older than Cathy;
she
should not be soured.

“How much butter are you using per week?” she was asking Mrs. Ferguson.

Mrs. Ferguson told her.

“The amount has risen,” she said sharply. “Aren’t you aware of the price of butter?”

“Yes,” murmured Mrs. Ferguson.

The miser touch, the miser touch
... It came out again and again in Fayette Dubois.

She insisted on scrutinizing the weekly account and gave a triumphant little squeak when she discovered that the milk bill had gone up.

“It’s winter. They use more on their porridge.”

“Then water it, cook. It’s a scandal. It comes to more than a bottle per inmate.”

Cathy stepped forward. “According to our child diet sheet, each girl should drink a quart, Mrs. Dubois, and these are only pint bottles.”

The blond woman turned and narrowed her eyes at Cathy. “I am well aware that this is a charitable institute, but there is a limit to people’s charity. Especially in the face of extravagance and waste.”

There was silence in the kitchen.

Fayette resumed.

“You know, of course, that I am a donor to the funds that keep Redgates a going concern. Perhaps you do not know, however, that
without
my money the house would have to shut down. I subscribe by far the biggest sums. Compared to my donations, the other patrons’ efforts are like pebbles in a pond.”

She had crossed to the table and taken up some of the patterns of materials that had come by mail. She looked at them acidly, then threw them down.

“I am not a hard woman, but I am a sensible one. I realize that to get anywhere one must be practical. That is why a periodic visit like this is invaluable, both to you and to me. To you to remind you just where and how you must tighten your belts. To me to raise the old question—shall Redgates continue to benefit from Dubois support or not.”

At that moment Avery chose to sniff.

Fayette winced and said, “Hasn’t that child a rag on which to blow her nose?”

“She has a
handkerchief
,”
said Cathy firmly.

“It has Three Little Pigs on it,” informed Avery, “only it’s dirty now. Look.”

When the beautiful Mrs. Dubois did not look Avery said, hoping to attract attention again. “I have a hitch.”

Cathy took Avery by the hand to lead her out, but at the door they ran into Rita.

The housemother gave Rita an agonized look that besought her to disappear before Mrs. Dubois saw her, and indeed, Rita would have preferred to do that, but it was too late.

“Ah, the bad-tempered miss who tried to pour the tea over me. How is it you are not at school with the other girls?”

“I go to business school, and the classes are different.” Rita’s voice was sulky.

Mrs. Dubois had crossed the room and was eyeing Rita closely.

“Haven’t you been putting on lipstick?”

“No, madam.”

“It looks suspiciously like it,” said Fayette, and Cathy, peering, thought so, too. There was a smeared, rubbed look about
Rita’s mouth, as though she had prudently removed the lip rouge at the gate. The caked remains were an outrageous orange red.

Rita said miserably, “Some of the girls at school use it. They let me have a try.”

“Do you know how ridiculous you look? See for yourself.” Mrs. Dubois opened a beautiful pigskin vanity box and held up a mirror. Some of the girls gave nervous titters.

Rita said nothing.

“Does your principal permit lipstick?”

“Yes, madam.”

“I’m going to call and ask her.”

“Oh, don’t do that, madam.” Rita was now really agitated. Cathy thought she knew why.

It was no use trying to put Fayette off. She scornfully brushed aside the housemother’s invitation to see the dormitories and went into the office.

“What is Rita’s school? It doesn’t matter
.
I’ve found it in the file.” They heard her dialing the number.

Presently she came out.

“So Rita has not been to class this afternoon. So she skipped yesterday afternoon as well and a morning last week. What have you to say, Rita?”

“I don’t like typing.”

“I see. I can sympathize with you if you are in the wrong environment, and I believe clerical work would be a little beyond your intelligence. A domestic post would be more in order. I need a girl myself. I shall put it to the board at the next meeting.”

There was silence. Rita stood as one stricken. Then without a word she turned and ran upstairs.

The tour went on. Mrs. Ferguson was reduced to crushing her immaculately starched apron to a wrinkled ball in her nervousness. Elvira’s black boot buttons obviously pricked with angry tears, the children huddled nearer each other and answered any questions in monosyllables. Cathy waited fearfully for her turn.

It almost seemed she would escape. Fayette turned to go. As housemother, Cathy conducted her to the car.

In relief at being spared, she impulsively plucked old Jeffreys prize pink rosebud and handed it to Mrs. Dubois.

“Thank you, Miss Trent—or should it be
Nurse
Trent, my dear?”

“I have not qualified yet.”

“But soon, eh?”

“I hope so.”

“Yes
...
” The tone of her voice was speculative. The sharp green eyes were looking into Cathy’s. “You are studying at Dr. Malcolm’s office, aren’t you?”

Cathy murmured “Yes.”

Fayette became playful. “I trust it is all study, my dear. I hope so for your sake—and his.”

“I don’t understand you, Mrs. Dubois.”

“Then understand this.” The playfulness had gone. The same hardness she had brought out for Rita showed in the flawless face.

“Jeremy is mine,” she said distinctly and without shame. “I am accustomed to getting what I want, and I want and I intend to have Dr. Malcolm. He is not at all averse to the idea. Why should he be? I am rich and I am also far from unattractive. More important still,
I
am in the enviable position of being able to pull strings. You might have noticed that Jerry is oddly attached to Redgates. Ridiculous, really, but we all have our little whims. The important thing is that without me Redgates cannot function. You see the trend
.”

“No,” said Cathy bravely.

“Then I fear you are almost as stupid as Rita. Those few words were just a warning, dear. You, too, appear keen on this orphanage.”

“I love Little Families.”

“Then the conclusion is obvious. Unless you want to see the home broken up through lack of funds and the children dispersed to different charities you will watch your step.”

“How
...
how do you mean?”

“Oh, come, Miss Trent, don’t act the little innocent. You’re not, you know
. I’ve
never forgotten that really delightful, if too-daring, black dress. Spice before honey, eh?” She laughed amusedly.

Cathy stiffened. “What do you want me to do? Stop having lessons?”

“Oh, no, just remember they
are
lessons.” She looked at her searchingly.
“
Have
they been only that?”

Had they been only that? The fire in the hearth that was empty ..
.
the waiting, familiar chairs
...
the clock ticking ... the quality of that first kiss
...

“
Have
they been?” said Fayette a little thickly.