Ghosts of Graveyards Past Read online

  In fact, she knew they didn’t. If they had, she would never have found herself alone and unloved, with her mother taken to the grave before she was even the same age Mariah was now. That poor woman’s faith had done her no good, her final days of pain a startling contrast to her agnostic husband’s peaceful slumber.

  Mariah would never unburden her worries through prayer, not if she could find any other means of sharing her heart’s deepest sentiments. But how she would do this—and who would be her confidant among a group of strangers—remained as much a mystery to her as the spiritual being her mother prayed to all those years ago.

  

  February 23rd, 1862: Suffering from inflammation of the bronchi, Mr. Arthur Widlow is a young man of gentle demeanor and pleasant looks. The long duration of his illness has recently prevented Mr. Widlow from enlisting in the regiment, and I very much fear the infection will become chronic or even turn to pneumonia. His strength has been greatly affected, though I believe his spirit is more than equal to the challenge.

  She had seen him before on the road to town, a tall figure with dark curls tumbled across his forehead. A boyish smile and eyes that looked thoughtful beneath the brim of a straw hat when he tipped it in passing.

  Young men were a rare sight following the outbreak of war, the reason Mariah supposed she had noticed him in the first place. They had never spoken, her steps always taking her another direction to some patient’s house in the town’s scattering of homesteads.

  It wasn’t until he called at the Darrow’s house one frosty morning, his hat crushed nervously between his hands, that she learned the reason Arthur Widlow had stayed home while so many others enlisted. “It never went away, you see. First the coughing, then the fever.”

  He was seated across from her in the Darrow’s parlor, where the blacksmith’s wife and daughter continued their mending by the fire. They pretended not to listen, but Mariah could sense their interest, especially on the part of the daughter.

  Nell’s gaze was upon the farmer’s son more than once during the visit, her ear inclined to his voice instead of Mariah’s, curiosity at work instead of the needle.

  “I kept to my bed for three weeks,” Arthur continued, “but even now it is difficult to perform my chores without sitting for long moments in between. The coughing makes it impossible to sleep at times, as well.”

  He seemed breathless even now, although Mariah suspected this was from nervousness as much as the illness he described. The flush in his cheeks might be for the same reason, his pulse stumbling a little beneath her stethoscope.

  If she were to be honest, her heart was racing in anxious beats. This was her first male patient, making her wary of giving offense with every simple touch required for the proper examination. Her patient seemed perfectly trusting, however, his glance open and expectant whenever it happened to meet her own.

  They spoke for mere minutes, Mariah pausing here and there to note some important symptom in the daybook she always carried. When she had instructed him on the correct dosage of medicine, she saw him to the door. Lingering on the porch, she spoke to him out of earshot from the women in the parlor.

  “These recurring bouts of fever concern me,” she told him, her breath forming clouds in the morning air. “It is unusual for a bronchial infection to linger so long. I’m afraid a more aggressive form of treatment may be necessary to keep further danger at bay.”

  This meant visiting his home and possibly sitting up with him on nights when the fever was upon him. Swathing his throat and chest in poultice cloths and even withdrawing blood from his veins as a means of purging the infection. She had done this many times for pneumonia patients, something she feared he might become if the sickness continued much longer.

  “I would only do what is necessary,” she explained, aware they had stood in silence while she thought. “The same as any physician properly trained in their work would do, which I can assure you that I am.”

  His answer was slow to come, his gaze reflecting the struggle taking place inside. Eyes the color of coal, she thought, studying the pools of dark liquid beneath the furrowed brow. A lively mind behind them but one that was also cautious in its decisions.

  “I will do whatever you advise,” he said finally, fingers pressing hers briefly in agreement. “My life is in your hands, Miss Moore.” With a smile to show he was only partly serious, he tipped the frayed straw hat and moved down the stairs. He moved out of sight.

  Her fingers absently twined a ringlet of hair as she recalled their brief conversation, until goose bumps cropped over her arms, the cold stinging through the thin fabric of her work dress.

  She saw him again two days later, his figure clad in the same worn coat and trousers from before as he sat in the family’s parlor.

  This time only Nell was present for their consultation, quietly knitting a scarf for her brother who was still undergoing his soldier training at a camp in Huntsville.

  “Tell Henry in your next letter that I’ll be joining his regiment yet,” Arthur told her, the teasing in his voice evidence of a long acquaintance between them.

  The girl blushed in response to being noticed, though Arthur seemed not to see it as he continued, “Tell him I’m on the mend already, with the doctor’s advice to keep me from a spot in the cemetery we used to fear so as boys.”

  To Mariah, hearing herself referred to as a doctor—by a man, no less—was a strange experience after weeks of being ignored or spoken of in disapproving tones behind her back. She couldn’t help the faint blush that spread across her features or, worse yet, the smile that twitched the corner of her mouth.

  A woman doctor must be careful at all times when overseeing a male patient, with no look or touch unguarded by the strictest sense of propriety. Mariah knew this even without being told, emphatically, in the days when her father’s clients had found her presence an unwelcome addition to the exam room.

  “Give no one even the whisper of an excuse to slander your name,” Dr. Moore had cautioned, with a look that told her such a thing was not only possible, but inevitable. “If they’re determined to hurt you, be certain it’s their falsehood that deals the blow and not some misstep on your part.”

  She had supposed this advice would be easy enough to follow, given the nature of her father’s usual patients. Men well past the prime of their life, with silver hair and sagging skin that bore the marks of age. Such men spoke to her only of weather conditions and common gossip when they chose to speak to her at all.

  Arthur, once his initial shyness had passed, spoke to her as a friend might. He talked with enthusiasm of the railroads and other industrial strides that were changing the face of the nation. The battlefield was often in his mind but so were topics of a more personal nature.

  Noticing a book that was left among her papers on the desk, he wondered, “You are fond of spiritual writings, Miss Moore? Unless I am mistaken, the author’s name is that of a minister whose sermons are printed in the newspaper.”

  “It is the same,” she said, glancing up from a poultice she mixed to send home with him. “Although I read it for his political views, rather than spiritual enlightenment. He writes of the slavery institute, and how it might be abolished.”

  “I have read before of the abolitionist’s cause,” he said. “And find much to agree with. My grandfather earned his way from Scotland through servitude and spoke often of the cruel treatment from his employer. It must be far worse for those with no means of earning their way to freedom.”

  “By enlisting, you fight against their cause.” Inwardly, she scolded herself for speaking so boldly to a patient.

  He didn’t seem to mind. “I wish only to defend my home, and the right to manage this land as we see fit. It is a duty I feel bound to meet, for my family’s sake as much as mine.“

  She could find no quarrel with the words despite their differences, for his initial statement was more open-minded than any she had expected to hear from a local farmer.

 
But Arthur had proved soft spoken on most issues, with the exception of one. Having discovered she laid claim to no religion and had not set foot in a church since childhood, he became adamant to know the reasons why. “Medicine relies partly on faith, does it not?” he challenged, barely flinching as a knife’s blade flicked his forearm. Blood trickled into a bowl Mariah held in her lap, the patient more concerned with matters of the soul, as he told her, “The simple belief a tonic will work is sometimes enough to help the sick recover, I’ve heard.”

  “There is science involved, too,” she said. “Some things can be proven beyond a doubt with studies conducted in laboratories. There is no such method for testing Divine influence, as I am sure you would agree.”

  “Still,” he persisted, “you must have seen miracles in your profession. Recoveries that were not possible, except for the aid of a higher power.”

  Pulling a bandage from her supplies, Mariah answered, “I have seen…nothing like what you describe. Only the senseless pain of many who did believe in He you speak of so fondly. Take that, if you will, as proof of a God who hears but does not care for their suffering.” A harsh reply, tempered only by the gentle way she bound his wounded arm.

  

  Mariah’s first taste of romance had come the summer she turned fifteen. A curly-haired youth of lively disposition named Clive, he came to her father’s clinic as an apprentice from a family in Louisiana. Clive prided himself on the knowledge of a man twice his age, debating her father for hours on theories dismissed by the larger part of the medical community.

  “The spread of disease through insects—it is something I have come back to again and again, while observing the swamps near my home. The concept as a whole makes sense, and I am sure it could account for some of the rare blood diseases you described to me this morning.“ Smoke curled from the pipe he waved for emphasis in her father’s direction.

  On the settee, Mariah listened with one hand propped beneath her chin, the sewing in her lap all but forgotten. She felt too shy to contribute her opinion to any of these discussions, but her interest did not go unnoticed by the boy who was just three years older than herself.

  One afternoon, he approached her as she sat reading on the front porch swing. After standing awkwardly for a moment, he held out a journal that was folded open to an article near the middle. “It is the theory your father and I discussed last night,” he explained. “About the water that was linked to the cholera outbreak. I saw how closely you were listening and thought you might enjoy reading it for yourself.”

  “Thank you,” she said, taking the journal with genuine gratitude. She expected him to return to the house, since Sunday afternoons were generally the time when her father required his students to inventory the medical supplies. Instead, he sank into the swing beside her, hands awkwardly clasping his knees. “The doctor who wrote that—he has a very modern way of thinking,” Clive said, with a nod to the journal. “I admire that kind of trait. It is so rare to find, especially in the medical field.” With a cough, he added, “You have some of that in your nature, I think.”

  Mariah gave him a brief smile and turned back to the essay whose writer reminded her of a police inspector in his quest to track the source of an illness. Absorbed in the article, she failed to notice how close her companion had grown until the warmth of his breath fanned the ringlets around her face.

  “You are very pretty, Mariah,” he said, voice low and earnest. “Has anyone told you that before?”

  “I…no, I don’t believe so.”

  She angled her face further towards the journal to hide the color she knew had risen with this compliment. Staring at words that she barely comprehended, her heart pumped with fear and something she couldn’t quite identify.

  “I can hardly believe that is true. A girl as pretty as you are.”

  Glancing up, she found their faces were just inches apart.

  He leaned in for a kiss that was chaste and somewhat embarrassed.

  The journal had slid from her grasp, thumping against the porch planks.

  With a muttered apology, Clive handed it back to her, disappearing inside the house with a final worried look—whether for himself or for what she might think, Mariah would rather have died than ask. It was the first and only time a man behaved so boldly to her, though Mariah had sometimes thought others wished to pay her the same kind of attention.

  Arthur Widlow was harder to read. His gaze bore the same admiration as Clive’s, but his manner was far less impulsive. Keeping his feelings beneath the surface, he said nothing until a crisis late one day forced them suddenly into the light. “You are angry with me,” he guessed, his breath coming in gasps as he looked up from the bed in his sick chamber. “I should not have worked so long, I know, but there is only my father to bring in the harvest. The rain was not expected, and I returned as quickly as I could—”

  “Shh.” She daubed his forehead, alarmed by the panic in his features. The rain had done his illness no favors, a high temperature coming on shortly after. She felt relief that they had sent for her—to her mind, a man who would let his son work in this state of health, necessity or no, seemed unlikely to send for a woman physician’s opinion on the cure.

  She was patient with him, spooning down medicine that had previously helped. “This struggle will pass shortly,” she said as he fought to get comfortable. “It is not your time.”

  “You cannot promise that.” His faint laugh turned to coughing as if to prove it. “Only the Maker knows our final hour,” he said, recovering his voice. “No earthly remedy can trump His Will, however good it may be.”

  “I believe there is only nature and human error to account for the time of one’s death,” she replied mildly, ringing out the cloth in a basin. Wiping his brow again, she let herself smile a little. “Yours, Mr. Widlow, shall not be on my conscience.”

  “If it was my time,” he challenged, forcing a deeper breath, “and I was to be dying right now—what would you say? No false assurances; only the comfort you should wish to hear in your own distress.”

  She paused. It was an intimate question for people who met just recently in their lives. Seeing it might take his mind off the pain, she decided to reply, “I think…I would not want them to say anything. I would only want them to take my hand so I could feel their warmth. A touch that was gentle instead of clinging.” As she spoke, she reached for where his lay on the quilt, holding it loosely, to see if he minded.

  “What else?” His voice cracked this time with emotion instead of illness. “You would wish something more from a loved one,” he suggested. “An admirer, even.”

  “This,” she answered, her free hand reaching to cradle his face. His eyes closed in response. Mariah swept her fingers along his jaw to brush the mouth that was partly open. A tender touch she instantly questioned, pulling her hand away as she said, “I am sorry—”

  “Don’t be,” he said, gently guiding her hand back to press against his lips.

  Skin tingling from the brief connection, Mariah wondered how a real kiss from him might compare to that of her other suitor. His hands still held hers, gently, without the clinging she had decried moments before. Leaning down before she knew what she was doing, she felt her lips steal the kiss that was shorter, but far sweeter than her first one.

  After that, it was no use pretending they were only acquaintances.

  Mariah continued to nurse him, surprised to see how quickly the vigor returned to his build, his lungs sounding clearer beneath her stethoscope with each daily check. Her triumph was lessened only by the knowledge it would speed his enlistment, a plan he continued to talk of despite the connection between them.

  One afternoon, standing in the parlor where first they spoke, he gripped his hat nervously between his hands. “There is to be a recruitment meeting in a nearby county next Saturday,” he confided. “It may be my last chance for a while.”

  “Then you must go,” she said, attempting to seem supportive and not disap
pointed as she spoke again. “You are well enough—”

  “That is not why I ask.” He pulled her closer, foreheads touching in a brief show of tenderness while no one else saw. “How can I leave without making you my wife?” he asked, his hand cradling the curls knotted behind her head.

  She buried her face in the wool coat, heart racing at the suggestion he offered. “We have known each other so little time. Six weeks or less.”

  “And I have loved you most of it,” he said. “I will be strong, though, if you can do the same. This war cannot last long, and we will marry as soon as I return. Until then, in my heart I will be yours as truly as if we were man and wife already.”

  Mariah promised the same, though tears choked her reply part way. That night, she recorded the progress of her patient in the daybook that held all her notes, pen sweeping over the page in cool, steady strokes to make the final entry for the farmer’s son as if he were an ordinary patient and nothing more.

  April 3rd, 1862: Mr. Widlow, having recovered fully from his infection, is now prepared to don the uniform of a private. If I believed in a loving God, I would beg His forgiveness for restoring a young man’s health only to send him to face the horrors of the battlefield. My patient could not be persuaded to do otherwise, his allegiance to his home strong, as no doubt it should be. May he somehow stay safe in this madness we hear of daily.

  12

  November 9th 1862: Have been to the Lesley house, where the evidence of Mischief Night was still painted on the door. What a strange prank for the children to play, though most have taken it with a laugh and a shake of the head. They talk of ghosts and goblins and supernatural gifts with the same ease as they might the weekly sermon, and some believe it almost as much.