Page 94 of Tremaine's True Love
“You cannot take precautions in a cottage that lacks washing water and strong soap,” he said, yanking his shirt over his head. “You cannot take precautions against the foul miasmas you breathe in. You cannot ever take precautions that will render you as safe as you’d be if you resigned your post as ministering angel to all in need.”
“I cannot and will not let children die when I can help, Tremaine. I cannot allow women to suffer a complaint of the privy parts because they’re too ashamed to seek Horton’s dubious counsel. Where is your Christian charity?”
Tremaine jerked on his breeches. “Where is your sense? I don’t begrudge any woman the assistance of a midwife, and I don’t object to your brewing tisanes or mixing powders to ease suffering, but is wee Evan’s runny nose more important than the lives of your own children? I warned you I would not willingly allow my wife to risk her safety, and every sickroom you visit is a battleground, Nita Haddonfield.”
Why hadn’t he seen this issue for the tragedy it was? Nita Haddonfield would likely go on for years saving the lives of neighbors who neither paid her nor respected her for her skill, until one of them afflicted her with an illness even her formidable constitution couldn’t survive.
“I have no children of my own,” she said, “and it appears that will always be the case.”
“That is largely your decision.” Tremaine wanted to snatch up his boots and stomp out of the room, but Nita’s stubbornness was only a small part on her own behalf. “I don’t fault your kindness, my lady, but I cannot abide the notion that you repeatedly put yourself and your loved ones at risk merely for the asking.You risk your life, Nita, for anybody who asks it of you. I offer you happiness and a husband’s rightful protection, and you disdain my suit.”
This was the real tragedy. That Nita Haddonfield would die unnecessarily soon of consumption, lung fever, or putrid sore throat. The world—and Tremaine and any children she might have—needed her alive.
“I never foresaw that I might marry,” Nita wailed softly. “Matrimony wasn’t in my plans.”
Tremaine took a seat beside her on the bed, heart breaking, pride in tatters. “Nor in mine. Who will tend you when you fall ill? Dr. Horton?”
Nita apparently hadn’t foreseen this eventuality either, and Tremaine nearly howled with frustration. A heart this pure and determined was a danger to itself, and yet Nita would not allow him to protect her.
“My sisters will look after me.” A desperate hope, based on her uncertain tone.
“They’ll have husbands and children of their own,” Tremaine said, looping an arm around Nita’s shoulders. “I cannot change your mind, can I?”
Because to change Nita’s mind would mean he’d changed her heart, and behind all the poise and practicality, Nita Haddonfield was cursed with a tender, generous heart.
Which Tremaine treasured. A man who seized opportunities when more cautious souls hesitated was also a fellow who occasionally blundered badly.
“Can you provide my neighbors with good health?” Nita asked, her head on his shoulder. “Can you make Horton wash his instruments when he doesn’t even bother to wash his hands? We do not know exactly what causes disease, but Horton cheerfully attributes illness to moral lapses, and suffering to moral atonement. He’s a medical barbarian, and all they have.”
Truly, Nita faced a formidable enemy, as did Tremaine. “Are you rejecting my offer of marriage, Nita Haddonfield?”
“Are you rejecting my calling as a healer, Tremaine St. Michael?”
Was he? Tremaine stroked a hand down the frayed golden rope of her braid and tried to find an answer that was at least honest.
“I am in want of courage, Nita Haddonfield. As a small boy, I watched the lady who meant everything to me sail away, never to return. Every time you visit a patient suffering from contagious illness, you take that same risk. I lack the fortitude to send you on such voyages at any hour of the day or night, particularly when I know your journeys might bring death home to your own children.”
Or to her husband, though Tremaine wasn’t worried about that fool.
Nita leaned against him more heavily. “You ask an impossible choice of me.”
“The situation we face is not impossible,” Tremaine said, “but simply sad.” Very sad, and while a part of him wanted to argue and rail and do violence to the breakables, another part of him noticed what the small boy had not wanted to admit:
The lady was in tears as she made her choice— bitter, heartrending tears.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
Nick regarded his guest, soon to be his brother-in-law. “You’re up early considering half the unmarried women in the shire were chasing you about the dance floor last night.”
“May we take our meal to the library?” St. Michael asked, though his breakfast consisted of two pieces of buttered toast.
Nick picked up a plate of eggs, toast, and ham. “By all means. My sisters will soon wander in, and no battle has ever been dissected as thoroughly as they can dissect a country assembly over their morning tea.”
St. Michael was a handsome rascal, but he was a tired handsome rascal. Some of the starch had been danced out of him, or perhaps the rotten punch had served him ill. They trundled along quiet corridors into the warmth of the library, putting Nick in mind of their first meeting, only days ago.
St. Michael took a seat opposite Nick’s desk while Nick occupied the same chair his late father had used behind the desk.
“Do we have a reason for hiding from the women, other than sheer male cowardice?” Nick asked around a mouthful of eggs.
