“You don’t need to stay,” the captain said, his eyes still closed, his brow rutted from discomfort. Whether it was physical or emotional, Emma had no idea, and she wished there was something she could do for him.
“I could read to you if you’d like,” she suggested.
“No, thank you.”
“Or I could return tomorrow,” she said, undeterred, “after the storm passes. Fresh air might do you good. I could take you to see the wild horses.”
At that, he opened his eyes, lifted his head, and stared at her rigidly. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “If you’re trying to cheer me up, you might be wasting your time.”
Abigail walked into the room just then, carrying a food tray. “I have your broth.” Again, she did not make eye contact with Emma.
Captain Harris sat up straighter against the pillows, and Abigail placed the tray on his lap.
Emma slowly rose from her chair. “I should be going. But perhaps I’ll stop by again tomorrow.”
“Captain Harris needs to rest,” Abigail frostily replied.
The captain’s eyes lifted, and he watched Abigail’s face as she bent over him, arranging the cutlery on his tray.
Feeling defeated, Emma backed away from the bed and headed for the door, but the sound of the captain’s voice arrested her on the spot.
“Thank you for the books, Emma. It was very kind of you.”
She swung around. “You’re welcome.”
Abigail tucked a large napkin into the captain’s shirt collar and handed him a spoon, so Emma turned and left. She crossed the kitchen, donned her coat and boots. But before she walked out into the storm, she turned to look back at the sickroom. The captain was sitting up in bed, contemplating the broth.
Suddenly and unexpectedly, Abigail filled the open doorway, glowered at Emma, and promptly slammed the door shut between them.
For the next five hours, the nor’easter continued to blow, unrelenting. After dinner, in the superintendent’s great room, Emma’s father poured himself a second glass of brandy.
“You were helpful today,” he said to Emma, who sat across from him on the sofa, reading. “Abigail couldn’t have managed without you.”
Emma lowered her book. “I was happy to help. I only wish I could have done more, especially for the captain. His wounds aren’t just physical, you know.”
Her father slowly swirled his drink around in the snifter. “I know where you’re going with this, Emma, and I wish you wouldn’t, because it’s been a long and difficult day.”
It had indeed been grueling and exhausting, but also illuminating for Emma. She felt more inspired and motivated than ever and couldn’t resist the compulsion to assert herself. “I only want you to understandwhat I want to do with my life. Psychology is an important form of medical therapy. The captain experienced severe trauma, and it’s not going to be easy for him to forget about that or forgive himself for what happened. He might recover quickly from the effects of the concussion and the cracked rib, but other internal wounds, like guilt or terror, could cause permanent damage to his psyche and affect his future career and livelihood.”
Her father scoffed. “Please. Don’t use what happened today as ammunition.”
“Ammunition?” Emma replied. “Papa, I don’t want tofightyou. I only want you to try and see that psychotherapy is a noble profession, and I want you to understand how passionate I am about it.”
Her father frowned, and she felt like she was talking to the wall.
“What happened when you went over to visit the captain today?” he asked. “I hope you didn’t try and practice any sort of psychoanalysis on him. You’re not a doctor, and you shouldn’t play at that.”
“Of course I didn’t,” she replied, feeling offended by the suggestion that this was a game to her. “I only offered to read to him.”
Her father sipped his brandy. “Good. Because he’s not your guinea pig.”
Emma returned her attention to her book, though she was seething inside. How much longer would she have to endure being treated like a child?
After a moment, however, she began to wonder if there might be some truth to her father’s words.
Chapter 4
Oliver woke to the hush of solitude and shadows. The house was no longer groaning in the brutal gale, and the windowpanes were clean and dry of rain. Miraculously, outside of Abigail McKenna’s sickroom, the whole world seemed to be at peace—or perhaps just sleeping.
