Considering the ridiculous nature of the dream, she ought not to have found it so disturbing.
She pushed her heavy hair away from her face and swung her legs over the side of the bed. For the first time since adolescence she subjected her large, sturdy feet to a critical examination. Vanity was something she’d dispensed with long ago, as being of no use to a female physician in a world of men, and quite pointless in her particular case. She was not beautiful, nor of the dainty sort so many men preferred.
“You pretend to be a man,” Rolf had said, all those years past. He had not meant it as a compliment. It was one of the last things Rolf ever said to her before they formally ended their engagement.
He had found her overwhelming, unwomanly. Quentin didn’t. The fact that she was comparing the two men troubled her.
She went to the washbasin and bathed her face, neck, and arms with tepid water. A bath would be welcome this evening, if there was time. Mrs. Daugherty was off today, which meant that Johanna would be serving up the meals, conducting Irene and Lewis through their sessions, visiting with May, looking after Papa—he was very much in need of a walk outside in the fresh air—and supervising Oscar in his various activities and chores. She would spend an hour with Harper, hoping to get some further response from him. And then there was Quentin.
She stared at her face in the mirror above the basin. A plain, somewhat ruddy face with high cheekbones, full lips, a slightly snubbed nose—thoroughly Germanic. Serviceable. Honest. All she needed for her work, where trust and compassion mattered far more than beauty.
Quentin had kissed those lips. She touched her mouth. It didn’t throb anymore.
Her threadbare cotton nightgown lay against her body like a second skin. She peeled it off and studied her figure with severe objectivity.
Broad shoulders—too broad for the current taste. Full breasts. They might be considered by some to be an asset.
Her waist was small enough in proportion, but her hips more than made up for what her waist lacked in inches. Childbearer’s hips, in a woman who would almost certainly never bear a child.
Long, strong legs. Arms more like a washerwoman’s than a lady’s. Large hands.
They seemed small when she was with Quentin.
“Ha,” she scoffed, shaking her head. “Du kannst immer noch ein Dummkopf sein, Johanna.”
She dressed as efficiently as always in austere under-drawers, chemise, a single petticoat, and a mended but perfectly adequate dress several years out of date, meant to be worn with a bustle she didn’t own. Homely but sensible shoes. She put up her hair in the regular, utilitarian style, taking no more time on it than she ever did.
Oscar was already at the breakfast table, while Irene lounged at the kitchen door in her wrap, looking out at the bright morning with infinite boredom. Lewis seated himself quietly in his corner. May peeped in the window and dropped from sight.
Quentin made no appearance. Sleeping late, as he was no doubt in the habit of doing.
She realized that she’d been holding her breath, wondering if there would be a lingering awkwardness in facing him. For her own part, she had strengthened her determination to forget yesterday’s blunder.
Forget, and forgive herself.
She served up day-old bread, cheese from the pantry, Gertrude’s fresh milk, and overcooked eggs, which only Irene complained about. During breakfast, she engaged each of the patients in conversation. Irene and Lewis seemed less inclined to trade their accustomed barbs, but Oscar was his usual irrepressible self, telling of a bird’s nest he and May had found in the woods, and the big red dog he’d tried to chase up the hill.
“It was mighty purty,” he said. “And big, too. I wanted to pet it.”
“Stay away from stray dogs,” Lewis said unexpectedly. “They may bite.” He paused to divide his second egg into a precise grid of bite-sized pieces.
“Don’t you like dogs, Mr. Andersen?” Oscar asked.
“He doesn’t like anything.” Irene sniffed.
Lewis looked up, his gray eyes bitter with animosity. ” ‘Judge not lest ye be judged.'”