The Very Reverend Matthew Le Marinel sat by Thelma’s bedside, reading a Psalm. Across the room, knitting, sat Ethel de Puy, the mother-in-law of Fern’s former friend Kitty.
The rector stood and motioned Ivy to his chair with a gentle smile. As a matter of principle, he refused to use the black market, and he’d lost several stone in body weight.
Thelma lay in bed, her mouth slack, her face pallid, her long silver hair bound in a braid.
Ivy sank into the chair, opened her bag, and removed her stethoscope. Thelma’s pulse and respirations were faint and sparse. Death was near.
Ivy’s throat throbbed. She draped her stethoscope around her neck and gathered Thelma’s chilly fingers in her hand. How could she bear to part with her?
A loud sniff from across the room. “If poor Thelma knew a Picot was in her house.”
Ivy’s face heated. On a small island, rumors needed little assistance, and yet so many people seemed eager to assist. Like Kitty and Ethel de Puy. In front of the rector, nonetheless.
“Oh?” The rector stood at the foot of the bed. “I can’t imagine that to be true, Mrs. de Puy. The Picot and Galais families have been friends for generations.”
Mrs. de Puy’s knitting needles clacked harder than ever. “There are things you should know, Reverend. Perhaps later, in private.”
“Are you referring to the gossip about town?” he asked with an innocent air. “I am quite aware of it. I do hope you haven’t played a role in spreading that gossip.”
“Oh.” Stammering from Mrs. de Puy. A soft thud, and a ball of yarn rolled to Ivy’s feet.
Rolling the yarn back to Mrs. de Puy, Ivy lifted her heated face just enough to see the rector.
His demeanor shifted to something more pointed. “Please note the gossip does not concern Dr. Ivy Picot. Indeed, Dr. Picot is regarded by her fellow physicians and by all who know her as a woman of the highest character. Those rumors I trust.”
“I—I didn’t mean to besmirch—”
“Ah, but that is the way of gossip, is it not?” The pointedness receded into pastoral care. “It poisons all it touches, including—perhaps most of all—those who speak it.”
Ivy didn’t dare glance at Mrs. de Puy, but the heat of embarrassment flowed from her chair.
“I’ll check on Thelma’s tea.” Mrs. de Puy scrambled from the room.
The rector sent Ivy a tiny smile. “I shall give her a few minutes to feel suitably chastened, then I shall pray with her.”
“Thank you. These are difficult days.” Not only the gossip and the exodus of even more patients, but losing Thelma. She squeezed her friend’s hand as if she could squeeze life back in.
“I shall continue to pray for your sister, and for you and dear Charlie.” The rector headed for the bedroom door. “I’ll give you some privacy.”
“Thank you, Reverend, for—for everything.” Her voice came out ragged.
Thelma’s fingers twitched in her grasp, and her eyelids fluttered. A rheumy gaze drifted until meeting Ivy’s, then cleared. Her lips opened, shut, opened—dry and cracked.
“Would you like some water?” Ivy grabbed a glass from the bedside table and lifted Thelma’s head enough to drink.
After two feeble sips, Thelma wrinkled her nose and turned aside.
Ivy eased her head down to the pillow. “You’ll feel better if you drink.”
“I’m not thirsty.” Dry lips bent in a slight smile. “Please don’t worry. Soon I’ll be with my most precious Savior.”
“But I—I’ll miss you.” Ivy gripped Thelma’s hand as if she could hold her back. “You’re the last bit of God’s goodness I can see.”
Something unfamiliar flashed in Thelma’s hazel eyes—the same sharpness she’d seen in the reverend’s rebuke. “‘Why seek ye the living among the dead? He is not here, but is risen.’”
Ivy pulled back her chin. Seeking the living among the dead? Thelma wasn’t dead yet.
“The cross ... oh, Ivy, the cross.” Thelma’s eyelids fluttered, heavier and heavier, slower and slower, and her hand relaxed in Ivy’s grip.
