Cate Campbell (18 page)

Margot pushed aside the surgery text and stood up. “I’ll have to go, Thea. She doesn’t have another doctor.”

Thea stood aside as she passed through to fetch her coat and hat. “Shall I call Blake?”

“I don’t think there’s time. I’ll walk.”

Thea didn’t ask, but Margot sensed her curiosity. As she pulled on her gloves, she said, “It’s one of my mother’s maids. She got an abortion from some backstreet quack—she was hemorrhaging. I was worried about septicemia. Unfortunately, it looks like I was right.”

“I’ll handle the office,” Thea said.

“I may not be back today.”

“You’ll need your umbrella, Dr. Benedict.”

“Right.” Margot clamped the umbrella under her arm as she hurried down Post Street, then up Madison, weaving through lunchtime crowds. As she turned on Fifth to approach the hospital, she slowed her steps, trying to catch her breath. She wanted to appear calm and professional, not race into the ward like a madwoman.

She found Leona huddled in a corner of the ward, weeping steadily into one of the hospital towels. Cardwell sat beside Loena’s bed, sponging her forehead with cool water. A student nurse was just leaving with a bundle of bloody cotton in her hands. The other beds in the ward were blessedly empty. Watery sunlight gleamed on the white iron frames and turned the bleached linens a silvery gray.

Margot washed her hands at the sink, then crossed the ward. She could see at a glance how bad Loena’s condition was, and when she lifted the sheet to examine her, she saw that the matron had washed the wound again, and re-packed it with gauze. Margot touched her hot skin with a fingertip. The white mark left behind was like an accusing finger. “She needs fluids,” Margot said.

The matron nodded. “I’ve been giving them to her, but her fever is so high.”

“Rectally?”

“I did, although she didn’t like it. Shall I do it again?”

Loena moaned, and rolled her head on her pillow. Margot took the compress from the nurse’s hands and pressed it gently to the girl’s forehead. Leona whimpered from her corner, and Margot pursed her lips. “Could you take Leona out? Send her to the canteen, or even get her to go home.”

When Cardwell had shepherded Leona out of the ward, Margot sat down beside the bed. “Loena, can you hear me?”

The girl’s eyes opened, and she fixed a glassy gaze on Margot’s face. Her lips parted, but nothing intelligible came out.

Margot took one of her hands and held it between both of hers. She said quietly, “Loena, if you’re in pain, we can give you something. We don’t want to give you too much, because—”

Loena’s fingers tightened suddenly, clutching at Margot’s hands. “He said—he said—” she whimpered. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and her voice trailed off.

“I know,” Margot said, as gently as she could. She waited to see if the girl would speak again. A moment passed, and another.

Margot was about to rise when Loena breathed, her eyes still closed, “He promised. All fixed up. He said I would be all fixed up.”

Margot freed one hand, and laid it on Loena’s hip. She could feel the fever through the sheet and thin blanket.

Hoarsely, Loena said, “I’m going to die.”

“No,” Margot said. “We’re going to do everything we can for you.”

“I can tell,” Loena said. Her dry lips worked, and her closed eyelids shivered. “I’m going to die. He killed me.”

For long seconds, Margot didn’t dare speak for sheer fury, and for the paralyzing fear that Loena was right. She drew a long breath through her nostrils to cool her temper. She could be angry later. Could deal with Preston later. “Loena,” she said tightly. “Who was it? Where did he take you?”

The girl didn’t answer.

Margot sat with her as Cardwell came and went, and the student nurse refilled the basin and brought her a fresh compress. At last the matron said, “Dr. Benedict, you need to get some rest. Leave her to us.”

Margot was about to demur, but she saw the steely expression in the nurse’s eyes. Cardwell was right. There was nothing to be done now in any case but keep Loena as comfortable as possible.

As she rose, her back ached sharply, and she looked up at the aluminum-rimmed clock on the wall. It was after four. She had been sitting in that straight, hard chair for four hours.

“Let’s give her a half grain of codeine phosphate,” she said.

“I have it right here,” the matron told her. She held up a medicine tray.

The student nurse sat down beside Loena’s bed, reaching out her hand as Margot had done, laying it softly on her body as if she would hold the girl’s spirit where it was. Margot’s voice caught in her throat as she said, “Thank you. Thank you both.”

The matron walked with her to the door of the ward. “I sent her sister home,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I told her she could come back after supper.”

“All right. I don’t want Loena to be alone.”

“She won’t be. Bailey and I will watch over her.” As Cardwell handed Margot her things, she said, “You should prepare yourself. You can’t save them all, Doctor.”

Margot turned her head to hide the sudden reddening of her eyes. “I know. Thank you, Matron.” She tried to achieve a dignified pace as she strode away from the ward.

Leonard Whitely caught her on the stairs as she was going down to the lobby. She nodded to him, and murmured a good evening, meaning to pass by without stopping.

He put his white, soft hand on her arm. “Just a minute, Doctor.”

Margot stopped where she was. “Yes, Dr. Whitely,” she said. Standing on the same step, she was half a head taller than he. He took a step back, and lifted his chin to look into her face. His face was puffy, the nose and cheeks red with broken capillaries, but there was no smell of alcohol about him today.

“Matron tells me you have an abortion case,” he said. He spoke softly, as if it were a secret.

“Yes, I do. Septicemia, I’m afraid.”

“Most unfortunate.”

“Yes. She’s very ill.”

His eyes flickered to the side, then back to her face. “I feel obliged to tell you, Dr. Benedict, though it’s distasteful to me. There are—” He cleared his throat. “There are rumors about you.”

Margot sighed. She was hungry and exhausted and worried. She was in no mood for Whitely’s maneuvering. “What do you mean, rumors?”

He shrugged a little, dismissively. “I hate to listen to gossip, of course, but . . .”

Margot set her jaw. “And yet, evidently, you
have
been.”

Whitely spoke a little louder. “I was inclined to be understanding, but with this young woman lying near death, I’m afraid steps will have to be taken.”

“Understanding?” Margot was so tired. It seemed to require the last shreds of her strength to restrain her irritation. “Dr. Whitely, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Take what steps, and why?”

“That little clinic of yours,” he said. He tipped his head to one side, and adopted a patronizing expression. “I know you see a lot of poor patients, and some of them are desperate.”

Margot snapped, “Do you think you could get to the point, Doctor?”

“I should think the point would be obvious,” he said smoothly. “A young woman physician, in a poverty-stricken area. No doubt you feel sympathetic, feel it’s all right to take the law into your own hands.”

“For God’s sake, Dr. Whitely! What is it I’m supposed to have done?”

She couldn’t mistake the light of triumph that gleamed in his eyes, quickly quenched by an avuncular look of concern. “Why, abortions, of course, Doctor. Most conveniently located, your little office, isn’t it? But we can’t have violations of that sort taking place. It reflects badly on the hospital.”

“You think
I
performed the abortion?” Margot’s voice rose, and two nurses at the bottom of the stair turned to look up at her.

“The girl works for your family. I suppose it’s logical—you hoped to avoid a scandal.”

“Dr. Whitely—” Margot struggled for words, appalled by the injustice of his accusation. “I did not—I
would
not—”

“Oh, come, Doctor. I heard just today that the word is out among women in the city,” he said. “Dr. Benedict will ‘put you straight,’ I believe is the term?”

“What term?” Margot heard her voice ring in the stairwell, but she no longer cared. “Is that the current euphemism, Doctor? And who told you this story?”

He shrugged again. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve just spoken to the directors. They’ll initiate the investigation.” He started up the stairs. “You had better hope your patient doesn’t die.”

He went through the door, letting it slam behind him, and leaving Margot shaking with unspent anger and overwhelming fatigue.

For once, Margot made no protest when Blake dropped her off in front of the house. Her medical bag felt as if it were stuffed with bricks as she dragged herself up the rain-slicked walk and into the house. She had not felt so worn out since her residency. She put her bag on the floor inside the front door, hung her coat and hat on the rack, then stood in the hallway, irresolute. She needed to eat something, and she craved sleep. But she would have to deal with her mother sooner or later. Edith should know the truth about what Preston had done, whether she liked it or not. And surely she would want to visit Loena in the hospital. Margot needed to make her understand how seriously ill the girl was. There might not, indeed, be much time.

Hattie had heard the door open and close, and she came into the hall, wiping her hands on her apron. “Miss Margot, Loena will be all right, won’t she? Leona says it’s bad.”

“Oh, Hattie.” Margot crossed to her, and patted her shoulder, a little awkwardly. She could see Hattie had been crying, and she supposed Leona had been, too. She pictured the two of them weeping at the kitchen table over a pot of coffee. She wished she could have done the same. It would be a relief to cry. Instead, she had to control her feelings, keep her voice level. Be in command. “Hattie, Loena has an infection and a high fever. We’re doing all we can, and she’s in good hands. I’ll be going back to her first thing in the morning.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Hattie said, fresh tears filling her eyes. “She won’t die, will she? Just tell me the poor little thing won’t die?”

Margot couldn’t bring herself to lie. She was trying to dredge up something safe to say when the door to the small parlor opened, and Preston emerged into the corridor. His eyes, when he saw Margot, flashed blue fire, a look of pure triumph. She recognized that look all too well, though she had not seen it for a very long time. A shudder broke through her self-control.

The look on Preston’s face melted seamlessly into one of earnest concern. “Hattie,” he said, “Mother asks if you could put dinner back half an hour? She wants some time to talk with Father when he gets home.”

Hattie sniffled, “Yes, Mr. Preston. Of course.” She dabbed at her eyes with her apron as she shuffled back to the kitchen.

Margot started past Preston, but he stopped her. “Is she going to be all right?” There was no hint of hypocrisy in his face or his voice, no violence in the fingers that barely touched her sleeve. He merely looked worried, his eyes darkening, his lips soft with sorrow.

She glared at him. “I don’t know, Preston.” She didn’t try to soften the brittle timbre of her voice, and she moved her arm away from his hand. “She has septicemia.”

“Blood poisoning?” His eyes widened. His mouth actually trembled.

“It’s a serious infection. I want the name of that butcher you turned her over to.”

His eyebrows lifted. The gleam returned to his eyes for one heartbeat before he dropped his gaze, and shook his head as if too overcome to speak.

“Other girls might die,” she snapped. “I want his name—or hers—to give to the police.”

“The thing is,” Preston said, with every indication of real misery in his voice, “I don’t know it. I asked Carter—my old batman—to find someone. He did. I took Loena to Carter, and he took care of it.”

“You’ve told Mother, I gather?”

“Of course. Clean breast, and all that.” He sighed. “I know it’s my responsibility, Margot. I’m just heartbroken.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Preston,” she said, thrusting past him. “Spare me.”

He drew a sharp breath, but she strode on down the hall, anger banishing her fatigue for the moment. Behind her she heard him bang the front door.

She didn’t realize Blake was in the hall until she put her hand on the door to the small parlor. She glanced to her right, and realized he had been standing in the back entryway, watching her exchange with Preston. She met his worried gaze, and shrugged.

Edith was seated at the writing desk beneath the side window. When Margot came in, she looked up, but she didn’t put down her pen. “Margot, good! You can tell me what to do.” She didn’t look particularly upset. Her cheeks were tinged with pink, and a few wisps of hair had come loose from her chignon, but otherwise she looked much as usual.

“What do you mean, Mother? Do about what?”

“Why, about Loena! And Leona! Loena will be discharged, naturally, but do I have to send Leona away, too? What if she wants to stay?”

Margot crossed the room and pulled a chair up across from her mother. “Mother, listen.”

Edith had been about to write something more, but she stopped with her pen poised above a sheet of monogrammed stationery. “Yes, dear?”

“Loena needs us right now, Mother. And so does Leona. The situation is grave.”

Edith laid her pen down, crossing it precisely over the corner of the sheet of paper. “Of course it is, Margot. It’s shocking. I have given your brother the scolding of his life!”

Margot sagged back in her chair. Weakly she said, “Scolding?”

Edith’s cheeks grew rosier. “Of course! Preston is far too old for such nonsense with one of the hired help, and so I told him. And Loena! I trusted those girls in my home, trained them myself! They know their place. Such a—a transgression—it’s unforgivable. Everyone will be talking about it.”

“Mother—” Margot began, but Edith interrupted her.

“Now don’t you start with any of your women’s rights prattle, Margot Benedict! I know what’s right and proper, and I expect my servants to do the same.” She picked up her pen again. “I’m just trying to decide whether to write a reference for Leona—which is only right, as
she
is not the one who got herself into trouble—and send her packing with her sister.”

“Mother, listen to yourself! You’re saying Loena got
herself
into trouble? What do you think, that she knocked Preston down and raped him?”

“Margot!” Edith pressed a hand to her throat. “How dare you speak to me that way?”

Margot made an exasperated noise. “Good God, Mother, this isn’t the eighteenth century! We don’t throw pregnant unwed girls out into the forest, and we don’t hold them responsible for their own seductions!” She folded her arms around herself, and pressed her lips together to stem the tide of angry words. It wouldn’t help to antagonize her mother.

Edith pursed her lips, and gazed at Margot for a moment. “You know, dear, you may be a doctor, but you’re very young. You have no experience of men. You don’t know how they are.”

“Oh, I think I do, Mother. I know how my brother is, in any case.”

Edith lifted her slender eyebrows. “Men have strong urges, Margot. It’s the way of the world. And girls—girls like Loena, though I was so fond of her—know how to take advantage of that.” Margot started to speak again, but Edith put up a hand. “No, it’s true. I’ve heard a dozen stories just like this, of maids in well-to-do homes seducing the sons of their employers. No doubt they think they will improve their station. I imagine that when Loena discovered it would do her no good, she demanded Preston’s help. She brought all of this upon herself.”

Margot gazed at her mother in helpless frustration. Edith was wearing a pastel dress of silk voile, which no doubt cost months’ worth of Loena’s salary. Her hair had been dressed. She wore a delicate face powder that Margot had heard her say was imported from Paris. Her eyes, the same clear blue as Preston’s, were untroubled by the slightest self-doubt.

Edith went on, “Preston is properly ashamed of himself, of course. And he will never do such a thing again, not under my roof. I hardly want my first grandchild born to a housemaid! But I won’t have such a girl in my employ, and that’s all there is to it.”

Margot, weary beyond belief, could think of no fresh argument. In a flat tone she said, “Well, Mother. You may not need to discharge Loena in any case. She is very ill. It will be a great surprise if she survives.”

Edith folded her hands in her lap. “Well. That’s very sad, I’m sure. We will all pray it doesn’t come to that.”

Margot stood up, and restored her chair to its original position. “You do that. Sit here in your fashionable parlor and pray for Loena while she burns up with fever in a hospital bed. And try to remember, if you can, that Preston put her there.” She turned away. Edith uttered a mild protest, but Margot’s patience was at an end. She strode out of the parlor and up the stairs to her room, where she stripped off her clothes, drew the blinds, and fell into her bed with the intent of sleeping twelve solid hours. She tossed on her pillow for a time, restless and angry. She couldn’t stop the impressions spinning through her mind: Loena’s pale misery, Hattie grieving, Blake’s worry, her mother’s bland cruelty.

And why had Frank Parrish been at the front door yesterday, as she went out with Loena? Had those been flowers in his hand?

When lightning began to flash through the blinds, and thunder to roll over the Cascades to the east, Margot closed her eyes. The storm comforted her, somehow. It symbolized her torment, seemed to lift it out of her, externalize it, expend its energy into the stormy night. She was grateful, and as branches of the camellia whipped her window, and rain spattered the roof above her head, she slept at last.

 

Frank stood by the window of his room on Cherry Street and watched the storm approach. He imagined it pouring down from the mountains, sweeping across Lake Washington, roiling up over the hill and down into the city. Lightning flashed, and thunder rattled the windows.

He had no whisky tonight. He had come straight from Bill Boeing’s office to this room, to stand here—cold sober—and try to think things through.

It had all been done with such deft and artful malice. He would not have guessed Preston Benedict capable of such subtlety.

Boeing had been reluctant, he could see. He had said, “I’m sorry about this, Parrish. Really sorry. But I’m under a lot of pressure from Mayor Caldwell and the city council. I need their cooperation for our seaplanes to use Lake Union. We dropped one in the lake, you know, and a lot of the council are afraid we’re going to crash one onto someone’s house. I’ve had to fight to hold on to our privileges.”

Frank had been seated across from him in his paneled office. He rose, and stood with his hat in his hand dangling beside his thigh. “Sir, it wasn’t like—like the column says.”

Boeing stood up, too. “Look, you’ve done good work for me. I appreciate it. It’s just that the Benedicts have a lot of influence in this city. Maybe when this blows over . . .”

Frank’s lips had felt stiff, his mouth unbearably dry. “If I could explain, Mr. Boeing.”

Boeing looked as unhappy as a man could. He shook his head. “I can imagine how it was. I was young once, too, Frank.”

“You don’t understand, sir. I—Benedict and I just—” He couldn’t think how to explain it. He had shoved Preston into the gutter, it was true. But if he could somehow make clear what had provoked him, why he had lost his temper—

“It’s not fair, Parrish, that’s obvious. I’m not happy about it, but I’m in a corner here.”

Frank wanted to protest, to beg for another chance. Pride forestalled him. It was, he supposed, the same pride that had given him the urge to shake Preston Benedict the way a terrier shakes a rat.

He swallowed, put his hat on, and extended his hand to Bill Boeing. “Thanks for the opportunity, sir. I’m more sorry than I can say.”

Boeing shook his hand. “So am I, son. So am I.”

Frank reflected now that though Boeing’s regret had appeared genuine, it hadn’t helped. He had been let go. Preston Benedict had succeeded in getting him fired.

His hand itched with the need to strike something. It was as well, he thought, that Preston Benedict was not standing in front of him at this moment. He had nothing much left to lose. He would probably throw away what little remained for the satisfaction of battering an apology out of him, for this and for insulting Margot.

 

Blake finished his evening cup of hot chocolate, rinsed out the cup and the saucepan, and set both in the strainer beside the sink. He was already in his dressing gown, and when he went into his bedroom he didn’t bother to turn on the single bulb that hung from the ceiling. He opened the curtains to watch lightning flicker across the sky. Across the yard the windows were all dark, including Margot’s. He hoped she would get a good night’s sleep. He feared she would need all her strength for what the morning would bring.

He turned toward his bed, but a flash of lightning brought him back to the window. Thunder rumbled in the east, and he waited a moment to see if there would be more.

When another flash came, it illuminated the yard and the house in a burst of light. More thunder cracked and grumbled, closer this time, but Blake paid no attention. He had seen someone in the yard, someone lurking beneath the kitchen window, near the screen door. A tall man, bulky, wearing a workingman’s cap.

Blake hurried into the kitchenette, and seized his canvas jacket from its peg. He pulled it on, and took up his marble-topped cane before he hurried down the stairs and out into the storm. He saw the man plainly, standing between the garage and the house, looking up at the second-floor windows. Rain pelted the grass, and the noise of it covered Blake’s approach. When he put his hand on the man’s shoulder, the stranger yelped, and whirled, hands up to defend himself.

Blake let him back away. He had seen this man before.

“It’s you!” Carter shouted over the sounds of the storm. “No need to get the wind up, mate. I need to see Benedict.”

Blake glared at him. “Keep your voice down. I don’t want the family disturbed.”

Carter bristled as before. “You can’t talk to me like that. A guest.” He was unsteady on his feet, and Blake could smell, even through the rain, the sour tinge of alcohol.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Blake said with careful dignity, though rain soaked his hair and ran down his face. “I could call the police and report an intruder.”