Joy for Mourning. Dorothy Clark

and Mr. Buffy. Would you care to join her?”

      “Would it be all right?” Laina shot an anxious glance at the connecting door to the playroom. “I don’t want to intrude if she would prefer to be alone.”

      The plump nanny smiled. “I’m sure Miss Sarah would welcome your company—if you’re willing to drink pretend tea.”

      Laina laughed. “I shall consume gallons of it!” She walked to the door, then lifted her hands as if holding a plate in front of her and stepped into the playroom.

      “Good day, Sarah. I’ve brought some cinnamon biscuits for your party. May I join you until your mama and papa come home and I have to go down to dinner?”

      “Oh, goody!” Sarah gave her a happy smile. “I like cinnamon biscuits.”

      “Wonderful. They’re my favorite.” Laina grinned as the big black dog sitting beside the table gave a soft “woof” and thumped his tail against the floor. “So you like them, too, Mr. Buffy. You shall have two.” She walked to the small table and mimed placing a plate of cookies in the center. Bafflement took the place of amusement as she swept her gaze over the ragged-edged plates and lopsided cups that graced Sarah’s table.

      “Mama and me made the dishes.”

      “You did?” Laina cringed inwardly. Sarah had noticed her reaction to the dishes. She smiled, seated herself on one of the small chairs and hastened to repair her faux pas. “You did a very nice job.”

      Sarah beamed. “Mama showed me how. Then she tickled me. And then the mean lady came and scared me. But she wasn’t really mean—she was Aunty Twiggs.”

      Laina choked back a laugh at Sarah’s description of Abigail Twiggs and accepted the cup of pretend tea her stepniece handed her. “And did you and Aunty Twiggs become friends?”

      Sarah nodded, offered Laina a pretend biscuit, then placed one on the floor for Mr. Buffy before taking one onto her plate. The dog sniffed, snorted, then crossed one paw over the other and lowered his head to rest on them. Sarah looked up at her. “Aunty Twiggs came to my tea parties in the garden. Now she’s with Jesus in heaven. She got deaded.”

      “I see.” Laina didn’t want to talk about that subject, even with a four-year-old. “May I have some more tea, please? It’s very good.”

      Sarah giggled, leaned forward and tipped a tiny yellow teapot decorated with red flowers over Laina’s lopsided clay cup. “Oh-oh.” She tipped her small head toward the open door, then jumped up and grabbed her plate and cup. “I have to put these away now. Mary waked up, and she breaks things.”

      Sarah went on tiptoe, slid the dishes on the top shelf in an alcove formed by a brick fireplace, then glanced back at Laina. “She doesn’t mean to break them. She’s little.”

      “I understand.” Laina gathered the remaining dishes and placed them on the shelf as Anna Hammerfield entered the room, carrying a sleepy-eyed Mary in her plump arms.

      “I hope you’re not ruining your dinner by eating too many biscuits, Miss Sarah.”

      The little girl giggled. “They’re pretend biscuits, Nanny.”

      “All the same.” Anna Hammerfield lifted her hand higher to support Mary as the toddler twisted toward Laina and held out her arms.

      “Tory.”

      Laina glanced at the nanny. “May I?” At the woman’s answering nod, she took Mary into her arms. The toddler put her thumb in her mouth and snuggled close against her. Laina swallowed hard and laid her cheek against the baby’s soft brown hair. How could you feel joy and pain at the same time?

      “Miss Mary likes to look at pictures.” The nanny glanced at Sarah and held out her hand. “Time for you to get washed up for dinner, missy.”

      “All right, Nanny.” Sarah pulled a book off the shelf beside her and carried it to Laina. “Mary likes this one. It’s about aminals.”

      “Thank you, Sarah.” Laina smiled down at the child.

      “I’ll come back for Miss Mary when I’ve got Miss Sarah cleaned and settled, Mrs. Brighton. This one never tires of stories, but it’s her dinnertime, too.” The nanny tweaked Mary under the chin, then took hold of Sarah’s hand and headed for the door. Mr. Buffy rose and lumbered after them.

      Mary pulled her thumb from her mouth and pointed a pudgy finger. “Doggy.”

      “Doggy, yes.” Laina smiled at the toddler and headed for the rocking chair on the hearth. “His name is Mr. Buffy. Can you say Mr. Buffy?”

      Mary shook her head. “Doggy. Tory.”

      Laina grinned. It seemed Mary had a limited vocabulary and a one-track mind. “All right, precious. You shall have your story.” She sat in the rocker, settled Mary on her lap and opened the book.

      Mary pointed. “Kitty.”

      “Yes. A pretty, fluffy kitty. And he’s chasing a butterfly.” Laina glanced at Mary. “Can you say butterfly?”

      The toddler’s lower lip came out in a stubborn pout. She poked the picture. “Kitty.”

      Laina choked back a laugh. Obviously Mary was not going to tolerate instruction. “All right, Mary, we’ll read the book your way.” She began to rock. The toddler stuck her thumb back in her mouth and rested against her. Laina caught her breath against the sudden sharp pain in her heart and turned the page.

      He’d lost her. Thad stared down at the pale, still face of the young woman on the bed. She shouldn’t have died. She wouldn’t have died if it weren’t for the bloodletting. He was sure of it. Barbara Grant had been improving before her mother sent for that other doctor!

      Thad shoved aside the bowl of beef broth Barbara Grant had been too weak to swallow and walked over to close the window he’d opened on entering the stifling room. No amount of fresh air would help Barbara now. Thad’s mouth tightened. In truth, he wasn’t sure it would have helped her, anyway. It was only one of his theories. He didn’t know.

      The door creaked open. Thad turned and looked at Barbara’s mother.

      “Hubert says your buggy is ready.”

      The woman’s face was stiff with anger. Why wouldn’t it be? She blamed him for her daughter’s death. She thought Barbara should have been bled when she first became ill, and he couldn’t prove her wrong. But Barbara had been gaining a little strength daily, until that doctor bled her yesterday morning and again last night. If Hubert had come home earlier, maybe—

      Thad broke off the useless speculation and picked up his bag. “Goodbye, Mrs. Stone. I’m sorry about Barbara. She—”

      “She’d be alive had you bled her and kept the windows closed so the bad humors couldn’t get in!” The woman spat the words at him, then turned her back.

      Thad absorbed the criticism. What else could he do without proof to the contrary? He started for the door, then stopped. Hubert Grant stood in the doorway, his lips so compressed it looked as if the taut skin around them would split. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save her, Hubert.”

      The man opened his mouth, then promptly closed it again and stepped aside. Thad walked out into the parlor and crossed to the front door. The cold air made him shiver after the excessive warmth of the sickroom. He hunched his shoulders and walked to his buggy.

      “Doc.”

      So Hubert had followed him outside. Thad turned to face the angry, grief-stricken husband.

      The big man cleared his throat. “I wanted to say I know you did all you could, Doc. An’ Barbara was gettin’ better doin’ like you said. She told me she felt stronger—that she thought she’d be gettin’ up in a few days. That’s why I went on my sellin’ trip. But I shoulda known her mother…”

      Hubert’s face tightened.