“A Sorry Poet” A “Randomfic” by Debbie H and Lisa Renee from the convulsive energy with which he was wielding the spade, he must have been working off on that clay-soil some of his anger against Uncle Bogg. Neil MacNeill thrust the letters into the hole he'd dug. The sound of the heavy clay hitting the crinkly paper as he filled the hole gave him a small amount of satisfaction. At least he wouldn't lose any more sleep imagining her reaction. Would she have been angry? Flattered? He thrust the shovel into the ground again. Or worse -- she could have laughed. But now it didn't matter, thanks to Uncle Bogg. "'Eyes that sparkle like a mountain stream'," he muttered. "Humph." He heaved another shovelful of earth. If only Ben Pentland hadn't been suffering from rheumatism; if only Uncle Bogg hadn't been in such a hurry to take his mail that day; if only he'd put the letters in their proper envelopes...if only. Everything had gone wrong that possibly could, and now Neil was in quite a predicament. Ida Grantland was sending him uncharacteristically friendly glances, and Christy wasn't speaking to him. "Yooo hoooo! Doctor!" "Confound it," Neil said under his breath. He thrust the spade into the dirt and wiped his brow with his sleeve. "Miss Grantland, to what do I owe this pleasure?" Ida made an awkward attempt at a smile. Neil wondered how anyone could have such difficulty expressing pleasure. "Well," Miss Ida said, clutching the edge of a covered dish until her knuckles had turned white, "I made more for supper than Miss Alice and Christy and David and I could possibly eat. I thought you might like the leftovers." Neil pondered his response. Ida Grantland was a talented cook, but by accepting her meal, would he be encouraging her in areas where he had no desire to tread? A tantalizing aroma of fried chicken and cornbread interrupted his thoughts. "It's not often I have good fried chicken, thanks." Neil accepted the food from the spinster. Miss Ida pursed her lips, but looked very pleased as she clasped her hands in front of her black taffeta skirt. Now it was Neil who gripped the edge of the dish. His visitor obviously expected him to say something, though Neil doubted they had the same thing in mind. "Miss Grantland?" "Yes, Doctor MacNeill?" Neil took a deep breath. "About that letter..." "Yes?" He cleared his throat. "There seems to have been..." There was no mistaking the hopeful look in Ida's dark eyes. This was not going to be easy. "Why don't you step onto the porch and have a seat?" "Why thank you." Ida passed the doctor stiffly and climbed the steps. She sat down in the closest rocking chair, folded her hands in her lap, and looked at Neil expectantly. Neil lingered at the foot of the porch steps, his eyes roving for something -- anything -- besides the preacher's sister. He settled his gaze on the weathered rail. He ought to paint it -- Christy'd suggested months ago he paint his cabin's trim. The Doctor's mind redirected his thoughts to the words he must find to tell Ida the truth. "This is my fault," he began, running his fingers over the porch rail. "I pride myself on being organized and conscientious... but it appears I've made a mistake." "A mistake?" Neil put his foot on the bottom step and rested his arm on his thigh. "You see, I'd been writing several letters the day Bogg took care of the mail. One was a letter to you, following up on our discussion about the nutritional needs of recovering typhoid patients. Another was one that I never actually intended to send - to anyone." Ida cleared her throat and patted her hair. "I see." She stood. Neil thought he saw her face color slightly. "And I am to assume that it was never intended for *me*?" Neil had no response but to shake his head. He felt like a brute. He deserved a good thrashing for his carelessness. Ida must feel it acutely. "Well," she said, "I'd best get back to the mission and read up about nutrition. Lord knows we have plenty of recovering typhoid patients." Turning on her heel, she said, "I'll be sure your letter makes it to Miss Huddleston." Neil cleared his throat. "Honestly, I'd prefer that you return it to me so that I can dispose of it." He glanced at the partially filled hole he'd been working on. "As I said, I never intended to actually send it." "But these are true feelings you have?" The doctor shrugged. He was unaccustomed to sharing his emotions with anyone, especially Ida Grantland. "Do you think I'd sit around writing poetry if they weren't?" "Isn't it only fair to Miss Huddleston to know of your feelings? If she didn't share them to at least some extent, she wouldn't be so angry about my receiving that letter." "Maybe she's just offended by my sad lack of poetic ability." Ida's response to the Doctor's joke was to stare down her long nose at him. Neil felt as though he were being observed under a microscope. His fingers wandered to the ends of his hair, and he asked, "How did she find out about the letter?" Ida hesitated. "A woman like me doesn't receive many love letters, Doctor. I..." she adjusted the cameo brooch at her neck. "I might have left it on my dresser where others would see it." On her dresser? How would Christy find it on Ida's dresser? She wasn't a snoop. Neil was curious about the truth, but didn't want to embarrass Ida further by pursuing it. "I am sorry about this mess," he said. The spinster headed down the stairs. "No need to be sorry. It was just a cruel twist of fate." Neil thought he saw her eyes shine with unshed tears as she passed. "I hope you enjoy your chicken." She turned to look back at him. "The letter will be waiting for you at the mission in a *sealed* envelope." With that she picked her way down the hill. Neil stood still on the porch for a moment until Ida was out of sight. His hand, which had been working through his too-long hair, dropped to his side, and he strode back to the spot where he'd been digging. ****** Christy looked out of her bedroom window and drank in her mountain vista. Even it could not bring her peace. She was still stewing about the letter that Zady had discovered in Ida's room. A love letter from Dr. MacNeill! What a fool she'd been to think he might be interested in her -- a girl more than ten years his junior. But Ida Grantland! She wasn't attractive, and her personality wasn't either. Fussy, cold, and severe, incapable of a genuine smile -- yet Ida received poetry from Dr. MacNeill. *Her* Dr. MacNeill. And being confined to her room had only aggravated her misery. Both the doctor and Miss Alice were insistent about her staying out of the classroom until she was fully recovered. All day she had nothing to occupy her mind, leaving hours for her to ponder that letter and the relationship between its sender and its recipient. It made no sense; but then she never could understand the workings of that man's mind. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a figure riding horseback down the trail toward the mission house. It was the doctor. "Probably coming to court his sweetheart," she muttered. The view out her window became positively dreary. Christy closed the curtains, climbed into bed and pulled the covers over her head. The sound of Dr. MacNeill's big boots clomping on the floorboards in the room below and the indistinct rumble of his voice were maddening. Christy burrowed under her pillow and pressed its softness against her ears. To her dismay, the Doctor's noises only grew louder, as she heard him climbing the stairs. Maybe he's going to the loft to check on the children, she thought. The footsteps stopped outside her door and were followed by a soft knock. "Christy?" For a moment she thought about not answering. Did he know she was there? The knock was firmer the second time. "Christy, please. I have to talk with you. It's important." "I'm sure Miss Ida would be more than happy to talk with you." "Only you will do. Please open the door. Please, Christy." Christy turned on her side, away from the door. "It's open." The door creaked open, and Dr. MacNeill quietly stepped into the bedroom. Neither Christy nor the Doctor spoke for what seemed like hours. It was an awkward silence, like the ones she'd hated so much when she'd first met him. "I thought you had something important to say." "I said I had something important to say, not something easy to say." He walked over to the window and pushed the curtains open. A streak of late afternoon light cut across the floor. Another interminable silence followed. Finally, Dr. MacNeill spoke. "What do you do when one of your students is caught passing a note in class?" "I take it up and throw it in the stove." Christy picked at her blankets. "Really, Doctor, I don't see what this --" "But you would never read it?" "Of course not." Christy's curiosity was piqued by Dr. MacNeill's earnest questions. He turned to face her. "It's disrespectful to pass notes." "It would be just as disrespectful for me to violate a child's privacy." "But reading Ida Grantland's mail is not disrespectful?" Christy had no response. She knew she shouldn't have read that letter when Zady brought it to her, but her curiosity couldn't keep her from it. She used her embarrassment to fuel her anger. "The letters you write and the women you court are none of my affair, Doctor, but I would appreciate your not dragging me into it." "I have to drag you into it." The Doctor said quietly. "I wish you wouldn't," Christy said, eyes smarting. "I wish you *hadn't*." She tried to keep her voice from breaking, but was unsuccessful. "So do I," Dr. MacNeill answered. "What?" Christy wrinkled her nose at his cryptic reply. "Is that all you can say for yourself?" The Doctor chuckled, and Christy felt her cheeks flush. "I don't see how you can find this amusing, Doctor." "I'm sorry, but you never cease to jump to conclusions." Christy folded her arms across her chest. "Maybe I wouldn't if you would ever say exactly what you mean." "What I mean is this." He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out some dirty, crumpled pages. Carefully he unfolded three sheets, laid them on her dresser and pressed his hand over them in an effort to smooth out the wrinkles. He hesitated before giving them to her. "If I let you read these, Christy, you have to promise me two things." Christy was not sure if she wanted to promise him anything, but she nodded. "One, that you'll never read anyone's private mail again, and two --" He rubbed the back of his neck "--that you won't laugh." Again, Christy nodded. She grabbed the pages and began scanning the first one. The doctor stood rooted to the hardwood floor, waiting for her reaction. "I don't see why you're so insistent that I read your... your *drivel* for Miss Grantland--," Her eyes fell on a phrase that made her heart pound. She read aloud, "'Children surround her like bees with their queen.'" In amazement she raised her eyes to meet his. "Is this about me?" she whispered. From the sheepish look on his face, she knew that it was. "'A spirit that soars like an eagle, A heart as large as the sky?'" "Remember Christy," he said with an embarrassed grin, "I'm a doctor, not a poet." Christy's gaze wandered back to the lines of poetry, written in Neil's small, meticulous script. "No one's ever written poetry for me before." "Well, I never intended to show it to you," Neil replied. "And I certainly didn't plan to send it to Ida." So it was an accident! Christy felt badly for the wrong conclusions she'd drawn, though her heart welled with pleasure that Neil's attempts had been for her and not Miss Ida. "How *did* she get ahold of it?" Another silence enveloped them, but this time it was an electric one. Christy felt she would be content to sit forever under Neil's steady, thoughtful gaze. His hazel eyes were warm and gentle and passionate and fathomless all at once. "I've been a little distracted lately," he said. "By what?" Neil’s face grew serious. "The memory of 'eyes that sparkle like a mountain stream'." Christy glanced down at the pages. She felt her cheeks flush. "You mean it wasn't 'a smile brighter than sunshine'?" "That, too." Neil took Christy's hands, and bent so that his face was level with hers. "And maybe the thought of 'lips sweeter than sourwood honey'." THE END!